I stepped off the bus to a swarm of figures too inebriated to open their eyes. Young and old they dotted the floors, adorning the walls like grotesque white and red Christmas ornaments; their limbs falling in every direction imaginable. Stepping over their limp bodies I searched for a spot to purchase a red pañuelo so my thumb wouldn’t be too sore. Once adorned in the traditional red and white festival uniform I set forth into the summer sun.
The pick-up location to the bus was around the corner and through a hallway with no sign, and then just take a left and up the stairs: right where one would look for it, and perfectly Spanish. Many people were already lounging on the cold concrete waiting for the bus, their once-white shirts now a dulled pink. I motioned to the twenty-something next to me to inquire. With both eyes looking in different directions he responded.
- ‘We were just in the town square, part of the Sangria showers. Why weren’t you there? It was incredible.’
Truthfully, I didn’t know about the party in the square with the amazing Sangria fight and the thousands of Christmas ornaments crammed into a tight space.
- ‘I’ve just arrived and couldn’t get a bus in time,’ I replied. I couldn’t have the twenty-something with his eyes in either direction seeing straight through me.
- ‘Benzi,’ he stated offering his hand in acceptance. ‘Where are you from?’
- ‘Canada’
- ‘Canada? I love Canada.’
Most people do.
Maybe once he could see straight again we could talk more; or maybe he planned on staying drunk for the entire seven day festival.
The bus arrived. I made a move to enter, but a hand drew quickly in front of me. The monstrous man with bleating eyes and shaved head gave me a quizzical look. His Fanatics shirt echoed the same dulled pink as the others. He looked worn.
- ‘Where is your bracelet? This is only a bus for the Fanatics.’
- ‘I don’t have a bracelet, I just arrived ten minutes ago. Would you mind if I hitched a ride to the campsite?’
- ‘Give it a minute. I can’t have you stealing a seat from a Fanatic.’
I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. I could be fanatical if it got me on this bus, because hell if I knew another way to get to this campsite twenty minutes’ drive outside of town.
- ‘Come on mate, just let him on. He’s from Canada,’ Benzi shouted from behind.
- ‘Alright - Fook it, get on the fookin’ bus.’
I think he could tell I was proper Canadian thankful because he gave me a smile and a slap on the back as I sauntered up the steps. I took a seat in the front of the bus and Benzi filed in behind me so we could talk more about the Raptors and the NBA championship. Benzi introduced me to his travel mates - Corbin and Will. Will and Benzi lived together in a flat in London; Corbin was the younger brother of their good friend. He lived in Belfast but regularly made the trip to London to get ‘on the piss’ with the fellas. They were all originally from New Zealand.
- ‘Glad to meet you,’ I said. And I truly was.
The next morning I awoke early and took the bus in at 7am to watch the first day running with the bulls in San Fermin. Benzi, Will and Corbin were still trying to get their eyes looking forward, so I met an English girl Sam on the bus who walked me to the stadium. The crowd multiplied as we drew nearer; little ants all filing in line to our hill. The wooden barricades were already lined 3-deep with spectators, so there was no chance I would be watching the run from the street itself. Spotting a scalper, I stopped to buy a ticket to watch the run from the Stadium.
- ‘Fifteen Euro, my friend!’
I reached for my wallet, Canadian innocence in hand. Sam quickly pressed my arm away, and turned to the scalper.
- ‘I just got mine for ten, from that guy, which is where we were headed right now if you don’t give it to me for that price.’
- ‘Okay, Okay. I do favour for ten.’ The scalper handed me the ticket and laughed at his three Euro profit. I didn’t care, I was too excited to live out my Hemingway fantasy.
We entered through the main gate. Rising three stories, the stadium stood stoic, firm and daunting in front of me. An authority issued from the stone structure – speaking in its smoothed edges, rounded over endless seasons of heartbreak; measuring time in years, not minutes; judging through strength of character, not romantic idealism. I approached in placation.
Losing Sam in the shuffle of entering the stadium, I managed to squirm my way to a vendor. 7:30am isn’t too early for my first beer, so I paid the vendor and made my way to the upper level of the stadium. It was already busy. No one sat in their assigned seat, with many defaulting to sitting on the steps themselves. I walked up a few more and pointed to an opening where three young girls nodded I could sit down beside them. They giggled at me as I slid past, feeling my face flush red as I did. If only I could speak a word of Spanish, maybe then I wouldn’t feel so hopelessly inadequate in these situations. Maybe then I could hold a conversation with the cute girls sitting next to me instead of turning red as they giggled at my sheepish smile.
I glanced around the stadium. Everyone was already drunk and I wondered whether they had started at six or forgot to finish from the night before. The stadium brimmed with rambunctious excitement as a band played tunes in the middle. The crowd cheered and hollered and sang alongside the band. The tawny and groomed sand gave an evidence of order, where in fifteen minutes a sea of people and bulls would chaotically stream through the entrance. There was a large clock on the stadium screens displaying a countdown to 8am when the bulls would be released. The crowd clapped as each of the bulls were introduced, none weighing less than a half-ton. A smile traced across my face as I looked around in wonder. The stadium shook as voices grew in fervour. Everyone now up dancing, singing and waving their hands wildly, downing the last drops of their beer, quickly pulling another from the concrete below. The girls to my right had lost interest in the foreigner who was too shy to communicate and were now taking selfies in their San Fermin attire. With five minutes to spare the band quickly packed up, and at 7:57 people started running into the stadium. The crowd jeered and whistled at them for their cowardice. One man did a summersault on the sand as cups were hurled in his direction, landing in the groomed sand below.
The first cannon fired right at 8am and was deafening from 800m away. We watched from the stadium screens as the men and women dashed up the narrow streets, attempting to dodge the perilous horns of trailing bulls. They charged along the 800m track. Through the cobbled San Fermin streets, the swarm dodged and danced into the stadium one by one. The run took no more than four minutes altogether.
Once the bulls had been corralled, they let each steer out individually for those who made it into the stadium to play with. Many of the mozos were very brave and jumped over the steers. This drew cheers from the crowd, but mostly they cheered when a steer got the jump and threw the mozos in the air. It was exciting to watch the men and women dodge and taunt.
After five minutes they released a bull to gather the steer. The mozos immediately dispersed around the bull, many jumping out of the stadium ring entirely. I didn’t blame them. The imposing trunks protruded forward grotesquely from either temple. Resembling twisted lances, they would easily tear through skin as if a linen sheet. Even seeing them from a distance, I wanted nothing to do with the possibility of that travelling effortlessly through my side. In fact, I couldn’t think of a worse way to die.
The man in the middle of the arena did not see the bull. It trotted lazily around the ring to retrieve the steer. The crowd gasped. The man dropped. The sand grew red. It flowed a rich mahogany from the source, running as rampant as the hooves storming those cobblestoned streets only moments before. Writhing in pain, the man began to squirm and convulse. He clutched desperately at his neck, as two paramedics rushed out to the pitch to retrieve the tourist who didn’t see it coming. They carted him off the stadium floor, and footsteps soon spread the mahogany back to its original tawny colour. No longer visible. No longer remembered. And so the festival continued. The mozos continued to dodge. The crowd continued to cheer. And drink. And cheer some more.
I arrived back at the campsite at 12:00pm to find Benzi and co. nursing the hangover from the previous day. Thankfully they all remembered me. I had joined them in a few the night before, but managed to keep my eyes seeing relatively straight. We decided to take the bus in at 3pm to watch the Matadors fight the bulls of the morning, as well as walk down the streets they would be running up the following day.
In town the party continued. The streets around the stadium bustled with activity; the bars were full, and bands played in the plazas. Others marched through the alleyways as pied pipers of the drunk. The energy was intoxicating. It was 4:00pm so we figured we might as well settle in and have a few beers while walking the cobbled streets. They were one Euro each, so we took turns buying Estrella for the group, and pushing our way through the seas of white. Bodega. Cervesa. Walk. Bodgea. Cerevesa. Walk: until there was as little left of our sobriety as the track. We reached the end and hopped atop the stone wall to finish the final few beers before the matador fights.
- ‘I wish we had come in to watch the running this morning.’ Will stated
- ‘It was a great event,’ I replied, ‘just watch for when they release the bull tomorrow in the stadium to retrieve the steer. I wouldn’t want you to be gored and die tomorrow, so keep your head on a swivel.’
- ‘No sense dying over it,’ Benzi nodded in agreement.
He was still very much on the fence about running the next day. Will and Corbin were agreeably nervous as well, but had made up their minds to run. I hadn’t come to San Fermin with the intention of running, but Will and Corbin were attempting to convince me to run alongside them the following morning. No way in hell I was running, but I figured to let them try their best. After all, I am notoriously difficult to convince. Steel trap.
- ‘You running tomorrow?’ Will asked.
Not a chance, I thought, but I had to save face in front of these new friends who had enough confidence to be sure they were running.
- ‘I’m not sure, I watched today and it’s pretty intense,’ I replied.
- ‘You should, you can’t come to the festival and not run.’
They raised a good point, at least after four beers my somewhat foggy head agreed. However, I felt like I had enough confidence in my masculinity without the necessity of proving it through an outlandish and outdated ritual.
- ‘We’ll all be there with you. We’ll ride the bus in tomorrow’ Will stated assuredly.
- ‘I wasn’t plan…’
- ‘plans change mate’ Corbin interrupted, ‘just think what it would feel like to run into that stadium tomorrow’
For a moment my mind drifted to the morning events. It might be nice to witness the view from down below. The crowd spilling forth on top of me as I rushed in the entrance. The celebratory cries of the señioritas, with their devilish eyes and heartbreak smiles. Maybe then I might muster the courage to say more than disculpe when sneaking past them in the stands.
Will could sense a break in my resolve.
- ‘do it,’ he protested, ‘and then we can all celebrate together afterwards’
A smile flashed across Corbin’s face. Benzi placed a hand on my shoulder and shook me in anticipation of the response. Will leaned in a little closer, mouth agape.
– ‘I’m in.’
Like I said. Steel trap.
With four thirst-quenching beers underneath the scorching afternoon sun, and feeling good about my decision, we walked back up to the stadium where the Matadors were about to face off with their adversaries.
As we filtered in with the rest of the crowd I bought another round of beers to keep my mind sharp. The old men in front of us had their wineskin filled with Sangria and passed it around to us all, and when we handed the skin back to them they opened the cap and told me to open my mouth so they could fill it with more. My mouth was so full when I tried to close it a bit spilled on the crotch of my pants. The old men laughed, and I laughed, and Corbin and Will laughed, and Benzi took another mouthful as well. So now I had the pink stain on my clothing, and people couldn’t ask why I wasn’t at the opening Sangria showers because it looked like I was. The old men high-fived me and we all laughed, and I offered them some beer which they drank, and the bands played around the stadium to the rambunctious crowd, and the people danced in the stands, and the matadors entered the main stage to a round of applause.
I wish I knew their names; those matadors adorned in their tight-fitting sequined suits. Gold trim hung from their exotic turquoise and pink outfits. The colourful silk glistened tight against their squared shoulders. Capes hung from each of their necks, emblazoned with gold flowers, crowns, or both. My mind traced back to the morning where I couldn’t even muster the strength to speak with those Spanish women. Meanwhile, these men loomed larger than the stadium itself. They paraded around the ring with a confidence so true they believed it themselves. Their bravado ushered forward, sending the masses into hysterics at the wave of their Montera.
What a pathetic man I am. Might as well have another beer to mend my sorrows, and another squeeze of the sangria to keep my mind sharp enough that I tell people I’m running with the bulls tomorrow so I don’t back out.
The third matador was a step above the others, and he wanted the crowd to know it. He dragged his muleta across the ground, tracing it inches from his body as the horns of the bull followed his arch. Down on one knee he taunted, as the pointed horns drew level with his head. He was in as much control as the bull was confusion. Each time the bull missed he would usher to the crowd; stamp his feet on the stadium floor and throw his head back for all to admire - the crowd returning his efforts with cries of applause. His curly blonde hair sparkled in the sun underneath his black Montera, and he continued to dazzle them with his elegant dance. Trading the muleta from right hand to left, he played the bull behind his back and dragged the cape over top of its withers - each time curling effortlessly from danger. His sequins shimmered in the half-light of the stadium. They flitted as stars in the night, glistening in and out of frame. And yet it was his star that gleamed most bright of all.
It was as eloquent a dance as I have witnessed. The dance between this man and himself. And when the final blow came it was no surprise. The blade stuck deep to the hilt, and the Bull dropped listlessly to the ground. A perfect finish to his perfect theatre. The horses entered the stadium to drag the bull away. Benzi and I traded a furtive glance. The crowd erupted and as the band began to play and the man gave an approving nod. We had witnessed art.
I only hope one day I might be that impressive.
PART 2
I awoke the next morning to thunder clapping, and the cheers of rain at 5am. There was not a chance in hell that I was running with the bulls in this weather. But the thunder continued its impossible groans and the rain continued to patter upon my tent making it impossible to fall back asleep.
At 5:45am everything stopped.
I composed my thoughts, drew my white-stained pants up my legs and walked out of the tent down to the bus leaving at 6:00am for the run. The ride was a pit of black, but as we arrived the clouds began to separate. We walked along the darkened streets to the opening of the track - the same streets we walked the day before. Many had now been closed off, and wooden posts had been secured into place - leaving an 800m trail with the stadium as the only exit. The shops of the previous night were now boarded up with wood, or barricaded with metal; what have I got myself into? I wonder if Benzi, Will and Corbin decided to run…
- ‘Well shit you made it!’ Corbin laughed, eyes tired from the night before.
Amongst the crowd of hundreds of men and women, all clad in their fine white attire, they had all but walked into me.
- ‘Yes I did, and I’m glad I decided to.’ And I truly was.
After all, what is life without excitement and risk, other than safe. I’m not a big fan of safe. Safe is dull. Safe doesn’t enthrall the human spirit. It doesn’t drive us forward in the pursuance of greatness. And it certainly doesn’t stick in your memories as noteworthy. I love noteworthy; at least until a bull sticks his horn three feet through my side and carries me along the street as a skewer.
- ‘Benzi is still on the fence.’
- ‘No I’m not. I’m in here aren’t I?’ He mumbled, sitting on the fence lining the track.
- ‘Ya but we had to drag your ass in.’ Will chortled.
- ‘I’m here. I’m nervous as shit but I’m ready to run. Man, I’m nervous. How much time do we have?’
- ‘It’s 6:45. We have over an hour.’
- ‘I need something to do. What time is it?’
- ‘6:45 man. I just told you’
- ‘Maybe I should warm up. What time did you say?’ His nerves showed clearly on his face.
But then 7am hit, Benzi stopped talking and his face turned a pale white. He sat on the wooden slat that closed in the track, placed his head in his hands and seemingly began to focus on his task. His was not the only worried face. A tension cut, knife sharp, through the crowd as the clock tower at city hall crossed from six to seven. It’s an odd feeling, knowing that there is a possibility your life might end in an hour and three minutes.
– ‘Where are you from?’ I turned around, finding a bright-faced, teenage-looking Spaniard with unkept hair as the identity of the voice.
– ‘Canada’
– ‘Canada? I love Canada!’
– It seems everyone does.
– ‘Did you run yesterday?’
– ‘No, this morning is my first try. Yourself?’
– ‘I have been running for about five years now, I run everyday of the festival.’
– Incredible.
And it truly was. This mopped-hair 120lbs boy with the bright and cheerful disposition was certainly an unexpected surprise. It seemed impossible, but I was inclined to believe his assertions.
I could not have asked for a better person to run into prior to the run. His enthusiasm was infectious, and he had a light-hearted aura amongst the tension. He gave me the helpful tip to start just before dead man’s corner that way you could get around it before the bulls arrived.
– ‘Sounds like I want to be as far away from dead man’s corner as possible if the bulls are there,’ I said.
– ‘No, No! Wait until you see them, then get around the corner. There must be some risk,’ he said gayly.
You know what’s noteworthy? Having the corner of a track called dead man’s corner. Maybe I actually hate noteworthy.
I took his willing advice and spoke with him for another minute or two. We shook his hands, he wished me luck and then turned away up the street. I didn’t have the courage to ask him why he only had one arm.
The clock tower read 7:30am as tension continued to grow. People around me began to jump up and down, and talk excitedly to their friends. I too felt a nervous excitement grow within me. The gate had been locked up long ago, so there was no way to escape besides running. The focus became survival.
Benzi was looking in much better shape as he joined Will, Corbin and myself in our own version of who can talk the fastest with the smallest pause in conversation. Glancing amongst the crowd, we weren’t winning; but we also weren’t the guy lazily smoking a cigarette and reading the newspaper while leaning on the wooden barricade. I considered offering to set a table down in the middle of the track so he could properly enjoy his espresso.
7:40…
7:45…
7:50…
7:57…
BOOM. I felt the first cannon travel from the cobblestone into the depths of my soul. BOOM. Second cannon, the bulls were on their way. The adrenaline coursed through my veins, my eyes widened and I looked to my left waiting for the moment that first horn would skirt around the corner. I gave one final assessment of my surroundings, having placed myself about 300m up the track. Benzi was on my left, Will and Corbin to my right - there we stood at the end of Calle Mercaderes. It felt like an eternity, waiting patiently for those twelve bulls to arrive. Darted eyes surrounded me, glancing left and right; everyone making sure they were in position.
You could feel their hooves digging into the cobblestone, the unsteady rhythms of their footsteps approaching. A few mozos decided to run. As a man of action, I motioned to start running, but the calm head of Benzi prevailed. Wait, he said placing his hand on my chest, we are in perfect position. Wait. Wait.
The balconies began to rumble with excitement. I glanced upwards to a sea of white shirts and waving red scarves. The rumble rose to a cheer, the cheer to a deafening roar. Screams filled the high boarded streets of Calle Estafeta. Thousands of people in deafening unison. For a moment I was lost in their screams, in where I was in this scene. Mesmerized, my eyes followed from the balconies above, down the narrow street to where the stadium stood 500 metres away. More individuals started to take off, hurriedly they scrambled past us, not waiting for the bulls to arrive.
WAIT.
Four bulls, two astride one another and jockeying for position entered my periphery. They were upon us in a flash. The bulls determined faces undulating up and down, and side to side as they sprinted up the street. I began to gather speed in the hopes of avoiding their twisted horns. Glancing backwards, I could see they were mere feet from my position. Donning their arrows of bone; razor sharp at the point, and growing outwards like the main arteries of a tree. Thick and bulbous they shot from the skull. Twisting crookedly forward they gleamed in the sun, hunting towards an end destination.
Chaos. Unknown hands tore at my shirt. An immense pressure pushed upon me. A shoulder forced me to stumble as the crowd grew. Wide eyes. Panic-stricken faces. Flailing appendages everywhere. My eyes darted from side to side as I tried to track the approaching bulls, but they were too elusive. I strafed against the wall, quickly realizing I had lost Benzi amongst the rest. People began to sprint alongside me. I overtook them in my own hurried excitement. We jostled for position along the side of the street, only daring to stray into the middle for a moment or two when passing a fellow mozos. A dozen people piled down in front of me, creating a mound of writhing arms and legs. Some attempted to get back up while others cowered in the fetal position, covering their heads. Glancing back at the horn no more than three feet from my body left me no choice but to step right on top of the pile. I felt a head squish under my foot as I hurdled over the strewn pile of bodies. Screams jumped from the pile as I bounded across. The pack of people began to recede, and I found some open space to run. A few steers passed to the left of me. Looking ahead I viewed two people in fisticuffs, directly in my path. A quick glance to my left indicated that unless I wanted a trampling I would have to get through them. So I barred down and using my momentum burst through their punches, elbows high and covering my face. I don’t know what resulted, but I do know my feet remained travelling forward.
They say that in order to be considered a man you cannot enter the stadium before the first bull, and must arrive prior to the last bull. I came in between bull four and five, thankful that no bull was in sight as I sprinted through the narrowed stadium entrance. The doors opened up into the same scene for which I sat in the stands the day prior. The crowd was dancing, music was blasting, and a quick look around revealed Benzi and Will entering the stadium seconds or so after me. We gave a quick hug, but our momentary celebration was cut short by the entrance of a bull, sprinting full-tilt towards its pen. The final bull came in thirty seconds after, and the doors shut on those who weren’t fast enough to make it inside.
It was on the stadium floor that I truly recognized the power in point of view. With the seas of white to the front and sides, there was no spotting where or when a steer might arrive to knock at my door, or ring my bell, if that’s what he preferred. I survived the first two steers without much hassle. A casual jaunt left or right, and a quick juke was all I needed to stay free of harm. I respected the mozos who taunted the steers; waving their little red scarves in front of their face. They worked together in unison to confuse the steer every which way, and if I entered their little dance I was sure to mess up the steps. My mother always said I danced like a bull in a China shop, if only she were right - then I might have a fighting chance.
I wasn’t quite sure which steer we were on when Moses parted the seas of white, and two horns travelled directly towards me. But I do remember the look in its eyes as it raced in my direction.
Focused and unrelenting it barreled toward my position. I was pinned against the stadium half wall with only the choice of left or right, and my legs told me right. The bull followed and gained as the man in front of me slowed my progress. I pushed him forward, only to see him lumber over the half-wall and drop onto the hard concrete below. The bull now trailing by mere inches, I had no choice but to jump…
Truth lies in the breath between fear and courage. Only a fool would not fear impending tragedy. It is far more honourable to concede to fear; accept its loving embrace - study its intricacies and how they move within in you; how they limit you; how they control you. And only then, when you truly understand, are you able to overcome them. Only then can you see your merit. Your courage. Your truth.
The spectators caught me in their arms, and for the briefest of moments I felt like a Rockstar diving into his mosh pit.
- ‘Thanks,’ I said, really got me out of that bind. And they truly did.
They laughed, said ‘no problem,’ and put me down on my feet. I remained a respectful spectator after that. I was not dancing with anymore bulls today; I still had six more weeks in Spain.
- ‘Well that was exciting,’ I exclaimed.
Will, Corbin, Benzi and I met outside the stadium by the Hemingway statue, and I was feeling pretty good about myself. Then I saw the kid with the tousled hair, and the one arm. He smiled at me from twenty feet away.
- ‘Glad to see you survived,’ he shouted and waved. ‘I will see you tomorrow?’
Ya kid, tomorrow. I’ll see you tomorrow. Or maybe again in ten years.
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