Running of the Bulls and the Fifa World Cup Finals

I wasn´t going to go to Pamplona last Sunday. The night before I had gone out dancing until the wee hours of the morning and had only gotten about one or two hours of sleep. To say the least, I was a wreck. I had a friend who was coming down from France with her brother and his friends and who had invited me to go to Pamplona with them. That Sunday morning she had come round to my work and asked if I was still up to going, at which I had at first responded, `no.´ After a morning of cleaning bathrooms and changing beds I lay down in my own bed for a short siesta. As I lay there I came to the realization that it would be completely idiotic to give up such an opportunity. There would always be other times to sleep.

Quickly, I rounded up as much white clothing as I could find, a few cans of red bull and was out the door to find my friend and go to Pamplona. I found them slowly moving around their camper van, looking just as rough as I did. From that moment on I knew it was going to be an interesting day.

We arrived in Pamplona at around 3pm and everywhere I looked there were people wearing white shirts and pants with red bandanas around their necks and sashes around their waists. People driving in cars, people at work, tourists; everybody was wearing the traditional clothing and everybody was in the festive mood. I felt quite out of place with my jeans and white tank top and so was determined to go and buy some white pants and a red sash, knowing full well that in a couple of hours they would be stained red with sangria.

As we walked towards the center of town and the main streets of the fiesta we saw people sleeping everywhere: on the grass in the parks, on benches, in the bus stops and stations, absolutely everywhere. As we got closer we could hear music coming from every direction, and as we entered the center 2, 3, 4 bands came out of nowhere, walking through the streets with banners held high, playing music. Alongside them people were dancing, drinking, and overall loving life.

So as not to look out of place we quickly got ourselves some cheap champagne and beers and joined in the festivities. We followed the bands up and down the streets until we found ourselves in the main plaza where we settled down, with some local cider, to wait for the World Cup Finals to begin.

A huge screen was set up at the front of the plaza and in a short while it was packed with hundreds, perhaps a thousand, people, all in white and red and all having drunk a bit too much. The guys that I was with started to get rowdier and rowdier and sangria, beer, and cider started spray to everywhere; so much for my white clothes.

The game dragged on and on with no score. When Spain finally scored the crowd went bezerk; shouting, singing, and dancing! It was an amazing sight to see. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't sitting back watching the whole thing take place, I was right in there with the rest, singing and dancing with whomever was nearby.

The night didn't end there, it was filled with dancing salsa, merangue, and who knows what else, with my new found friend and dance partner, all over the streets. There were still bands playing in the small side streets at 3-4am which provided the perfect atmosphere. I finally crashed at around 5am and was able to sleep for 2 hours in the park, at which point I went off to watch a friend participate in the Running of the Bulls.

This in itself was intense to watch. 6 large bulls and 6 smaller ones raced through the streets after a large number of people; mainly men as it is culturally inappropriate for women to run. People struggled to get past each other and out of the way of the bulls as they tore through the narrow streets and into the arena.

Once in the arena all but one bull was guided out and into a holding pen. The one that remained was taunted and provoked by the men waving red bandanas, until they got it running around the arena chasing whatever red it could see. Everybody wanted to touch the bull and everybody wanted it to chase them. Men went flying in the air everywhere as the bull picked them up and threw them aside. It sounds dangerous and as though it would hurt, but after being hit the men just picked themselves up again and bowed to the crowd, proud to have been the one hurtled into the air.

What was amazing was the respect that the locals had for the bull. No one could hold onto its horns, head, tail, etc. or else they would recieve a full-on thwack to the head and a earful of profanities from the other runners and the crowd.

In the evening a number of the bulls are put in the arena once again, but this time with a matador whose sole job is to spear the bull and do his best not to get gored himself. It is said that the bulls that get killed by the matador (which I believe they always do) are slaughtered and the meat given to a local charity for the homeless.

I didn't stay to see the bull fight but headed back to San Sebastian to relax and sleep. As I walked through the streets back to my apartment I felt myself fill with an amazing sense of satisfaction and excitment, one that arose from having been able to have experienced not only the Running of the Bulls but the win for Spain in the World Cup Finals. I was glad that I had made the decision not to pass up this opportunity for a few lousy hours of sleep, and now I know that if such an event occurs again I am more than able to run on 4 hours of sleep in 48 hours.