Encierro - Running with the Bulls in Pamplona

Far better writers than I have attempted to put into words how it feels to run with the bulls on the streets of Pamplona. They all have failed. As will I. There is simply no way to translate the experience into print on a page.

The air in the streets during the long moments before the bulls are released is alive. It ripples with machismo, arrogance and ignorance. Yet, if one cares to find it, there is beauty, tradition, honor and respect. But also fear.

Mostly fear.

Many of the drunks and tourists try to hide it with bravado, but it’s there. The locals and experienced runners who know that it is justified may feel it even more. In these early mornings on the streets of Pamplona during Fiesta de San Fermin, serious injury or death can come in a shockingly quick moment, straight down the street, head first and horns out. And when that moment comes there is nothing to do but face it.

I weave through the crowds on the morning of July 10, dodging drunks reeling from the previous night’s debauchery, passing the street cleaners, delivery drivers and early risers in line for churros on Calle Manueta. Reaching the barriers on Santa Domingo at Calle Marcado I crawl through, step onto the street and begin the long wait for the release of the bulls at 8 a.m.

During the previous two mornings I experienced a small amount of the danger that the run holds and learned how quickly it all unfolds. Despite this, or maybe because of it, I feel much more fear today.

My first run found me facedown on Calle Estafeta near the funnel into the bullring as the bulls thundered by and a crush of humanity swarmed over and around me. I slid toward the barriers and was pulled to safety by an alert medic.

On the second day I jumped into the street as the bulls approached. They were alongside me in an instant and gone in another. I ran behind them and entered the bullring. I stayed with the crowd on the sand of the ring and dodged the blunted horns of the young bulls released for the entertainment of the runners and the thousands of spectators in the stands.

This morning, waiting to run for the third time, the fear is palpable and growing. I wonder if I should trust my senses and leave the street. But I stay, standing in the same doorway on Calle Estafeta that I occupied yesterday. The countless bars on the street are shuttered tight. The shops that just a short time before supplied an endless supply of trinkets, T-shirts and sandwiches to the throngs have disappeared as if a figment of the imagination. There is nothing here now but the runners and the waiting.

I stretch my legs and back. Retie my shoes and check my watch every few seconds. The nervous rolling in my stomach turns into a solid knot of dread stretching from my gut to my throat. My mouth is dry and I’m afraid I may wet my pants.

The rocket indicating the bulls have been released startles me with its finality and decisiveness. As the bulls approach, the faces of the runners change from nervous to panicked. Many are fighting to get away, others struggling just as hard to get in close. It’s a beautiful chaos in a cloud of dust that at last begins to wipe away the fear.

I pick my moment, jump into the street and work my way toward the middle, knowing that the bulls will soon be there. I look over my shoulder to see a steer followed closely by a black bull. I step to the left, and then back in front of the bull. He draws near and I move aside to let him pass just inches away. I’m bumped briefly by another runner and to keep my balance reach out and touch the bull with my right hand and the rolled up newspaper I carry.

I continue to run at a full sprint. Within moments I’m in front of a brown bull and watch as he tramples a fallen runner. My mind registers danger. A suelto, a lone bull separated from the herd, is extremely dangerous. I move aside as the horns draws close and he brushes along my side as he goes by. I slow from a sprint to an easy jog and watch him turn at the top of Estafeta and pass the gate that prevents the bulls from returning down the course. I pace excitedly on the safe side of the temporary wall. My heart pounds a staccato rhythm in my chest and my mind swims with visions of the bulls at my fingertips.

The screams of spectators just a few feet away on the other side of the wall are shrill and terror filled, but I think little of them. I practically dance on the street, wearing an idiot’s grin of euphoria as the gate opens to allow the cleanup crew of cabestros to pass.

I leave the course and retire to the statue of Hemingway outside the bullring to wait for my wife who has purchased a seat in the ring to watch the arrival of the bulls. I replay the run over and over again, my joy showing no signs of receding. Workers begin removing barricades and the cleaners tackle the impossible job of clearing debris from the streets. I notice a young man and woman embracing tightly with tears streaming down their faces. Another man ties a red scarf to one of the barricades remaining on the street. The medics remaining on the street are sober faced and exchange strange, knowing glances.

My heart soars and my mind reels; my body is ready to drink and dance and celebrate on the streets. I am so alive and high on the experience of the morning’s run that it’s impossible to imagine anything that might have happened to darken the mood.

As the day goes on I catch hints of what has happened. The word “muerte” overheard several times in the Plaza as I sip coffee and dodge vendors selling sunglasses and watches; a glimpse of a newspaper article over the shoulder of a local; a photographer shooting pictures of the bandana draped barricade on Telefonica. I know what has happened, but I am in denial, refusing to allow this reality to intrude on my experience. Only late that night do I learn the truth. The brown bull I had run with on Estafeta continued down the street, became more confused and agitated and with a horn to the neck killed a young man from Madrid.

On learning this I am less surprised by the death than the apparent lack of response or reaction to it. I learn later of many impromptu memorials and formal ceremonies in the young man’s honor. I hear of toasts made in his memory, of city leaders hastily bringing the family to town and of the matador holding his hat toward the sky, dedicating the death of the brown bull to the spirit of Daniel Romero who died on its horns that morning. And I realize these things went unnoticed because of my own willingness to overlook and ignore the tragedy — to keep it at arms length.

As an American raised on the belief that tragedy deserves hand wringing, finger pointing and official solutions (as if death is a problem to be solved). I fail to notice those who recognized the tragedy, felt it deeply and personally, and then returned full speed to the celebration of life taking place in the streets — the most appropriate response.

And as I stumble to bed late at night, ready to return tomorrow for one last run with the bulls, the bedlam in the streets reaches a new level and I am caught between emotions. I am filled with joy from the morning’s run and the moments I spent with the bulls. I’m sad for the family of the young man who died on the street in front of me. And though I knew nothing of Daniel Romero I feel some guilt for spending the day celebrating and reliving the same moment that took his life.

On my final morning in Pamplona I dress more carefully and slowly, aware now for certain of the danger of the encierro. My bags are packed and a plane waits at the airport to take me to Madrid and then Paris, far from the chaos of a fiesta weekend in Pamplona.

The streets reek of vomit, urine and refuse mingled with the odor of the thousands still partying on the streets at daybreak. I weave through this madness, enter the street, purchase a paper and coffee and will the time to pass. As the hour approaches, a small, informal parade works its way through the thickening crowd on Santa Domingo. A few runners clear a path for an elderly woman carrying flowers, a couple men with a small ladder and a woman carrying the statue of Saint Fermin, the patron saint of Pamplona in whose honor this festival takes place. I follow the lead of a those few runners who reach to touch the statue out of respect and in prayer for a few moments of grace on the streets.

The police line holding the crowd moves away and many of the drunks and those in funny hats and matching shirts move through the streets cheering themselves for their bravery, patting themselves on the back for something they’ve not yet done. They take pictures, high five one another, and ask questions of each other that boggle the mind: “Which direction do they come from? How many bulls are there?” and many other things that should have been learned well before this moment.

I take my spot in the same doorway on Estafeta. Next to me this morning is a beautiful, older Navarran man. He is handsome, distinguished and stately, dressed impeccably in white with the traditional red scarf around his neck and sash around his waste. We don’t speak. I do not wish to intrude, but take comfort in his presence and appreciate that he seems to not be offended by mine.

The first rocket ignites and the fear begins moving. I look toward La Curva, straining to catch a glimpse of the bulls. As I do this the man near me calmly removes three small photos from his wallet and respectfully kisses each in turn. I see them clearly: the saint, the virgin, and what I assume is his mother. He carefully puts them back in his wallet and looks down the street.

The bulls draw close. The street clears a bit as those so bravely parading around all morning have done everything they can to be as far from this moment as possible. Some fall from the simple act of trying to move. A young Spanish man delivers a well placed and well-deserved punch to the ribs of one of these drunks, ensuring he gets out of the way and doesn’t ruin his run before it even begins.

I watch the drunks scamper and cower and see a few tumble to the cobblestones. I move from my doorway and take a couple steps hoping to get in front of the bulls. I’m blocked by a young man running wildly down the street neither watching the crowd in front of him nor looking for bulls behind. He pays attention only to a camera held high above his head, determined to prove his bravery and stupidity on Youtube. I feel guilty that as a tourist on the street this morning I am surely classified with this idiot.

I stop and move back to the wall and watch as the bulls race by just a foot or two away. The Navarran man next to me makes the sign of the cross and takes off down the street behind the bulls, disappearing into the mass of white and red, at one with the bulls and the crowd. It is a moment of beauty that had been lacking this morning and that I nearly missed.

Watching him run as I stood at a respectful distance is the perfect epilogue to the previous three days. I learn in that moment that the run has nothing to do with me or what I can accomplish. It is not about my bravery or my stupidity. It has nothing to do with me at all. The run and the fiesta itself exist for those who live here and I have been fortunate to share the streets with them for a few brief moments to experience how they celebrate life for all its beauty and sorrow.

Though I hadn’t known it until now, my presence on the street this morning, just minutes before I would leave the city, was a final thank you and a nod of respect. Both to Daniel Romero, who died as I stood just feet away giddy with excitement and high on adrenaline, and to the Navaranns who allowed me to share their festival and embraced me as I danced on their streets, drank their wine, laughed with their children and pondered the indescribable beauty of their land and life.

I am grateful beyond words and vow, as many others have done, to return.