The Other Running of the Bulls
Pamplona, Navarra, Spain 15 July, 1995
Naked PETA supporters aside, there is a lot more to the San Fermín Festival week that you may have already discovered. Many things happen to be as memorable and as part of the festivities as the ‘Txupinazo’. And that is the rocket that initiates, officially, the overtaking of the city by Bacchus and his 40,000 closest thieves. My favourite will always be the “other” run of the bulls, the Villavesa run.
Bárbara and I came across the now more ideologist custom running of the 15th of July almost half a lifetime ago. We were stumbling on our way back to sleep up Santo Domingo Street, which is the beginning of the usual bulls run. I will not embellish our state, we had been partying 4 days straight and reality was hitting us as hard as the mid July sun.
I have never been that tired ever again and she, as the older and most responsible adult, had joined the Sisters of Merry of our Pain Order, praying for her already setting hangover not to kill her. We came to a halt and watched in giggles the scene that was developing in slow motion before our eyes.
7.45 a.m. and a group of about 20 dirty and smelly boys were singing the “Pobre de mí”, a welfare song to the week of festivities, for the hundredth time. They had not been home yet either and were full of bright ideas. After climbing the wall on top of each other to reach for the by then empty stone niche that hosts the saint patron for the days of the festival, they placed a few bottles of the remaining ‘Kalimotxo’. This teenagers’ poison of choice is a mix of the cheapest red wine you can find and coca-cola in equal measures, sugar added to taste, simply vile.
Homilies aside, the show was moving. Drunken, unstable on their feet and as miserable looking as teenagers can get, they all engaged into a tender group hug and together walked to the starting mark.
Bárbara and I looked at each other in amazement, were they really that intoxicated to not be aware that the bulls had run for the last time that year the previous morning? Our amazement turned to panic, were we that off the mark that we had found ourselves in the middle of the street and over a dozen beasts were going to stampede taking us with them?! We were 18 after all, none of the above would have come as a surprise.
I climbed on a leftover halved fence, the bull pen was not there anymore and it was business as usual in the city, albeit the sight of the many few hotel-less scattered in gardens, under benches, trees and lampposts being soaked by the water pumping Ministry of Sanitation, without even waking up.
And as any other week day until the next San Fermines, the local bus appeared in the distance on its morning service. Our unsung heroes hugged once more and us girls refused to believe what was about to happen.
The bus was now approaching, roaring, magnificent, its metal shinning under the 8 a.m. sun. It was fresh from the depot and ready for its descent into the centre of the town.After its week of sedentary life, the bus descended almighty and implacable. Majestic. Fearless.
And in 3rd gear.
The boys held themselves for as long as possible and as the bus horned gutturally and driver shouted unbiblical quotes, they took off speeding in front of it.
Don’t be mistaken for a minute, the bus was not going to ever get tired, or sympathetic for that matter. We heard the jolly screams and the disturbing singing all the way down, and let’s not forget the drivers cursing.
By this point, my best friend and I had fallen off the fence, incapable of holding it together. The undeterred, ceremonial expression in their faces, looking ahead, focusing on the pebbled street that needed to be conquered had been what had me almost holding my breath. The camaraderie of a bunch of drunken die-hards in white-ish and red, piously committed to their Saint Patron, with the rolled morning paper as an unswerving weapon and enough courage to defend Iruñea’s bastion, that image, will be with me forever.
I even forgot about the ‘Pan de Talo con chorizo’ that was now squashed in between my fingers, dripping down my hand. My friend was placidly finishing hers, trying to persuade me about taking on the boys’ earlier offer regarding joining them back at the main square.
I wasn’t that keen but a fresh ‘Talo con chorizo’ at 8.10 a.m. of a body hangover morning would have moved me to the centre of the Earth.
I needed not to worry; the entertainment was still high in value. Another 20 random shipwrecked cowboys had joined the original horde - albeit a slightly wounded bunch - and were jovially jumping in front of the amused water pumpers sliding all the way up to the stone walls.
Self inflicted bruising or otherwise didn’t seem to bother any of them. I sat in peace across them on a bench already dried from the sun, fresh ‘talo’ in hand and away from the water battles.
It may have been early in the morning and after an overlooked political incorrectness of a week long non stop partying, but I was still not going to downgrade my table manners. Napkin on stride and this time dedicating my full attention to the task in hand, I inspected the perfectly amassed corn flour, the secret behind it being the addition of warm water little by little to the flour and once mixed letting the mass breathe on a damp cloth for half an hour. I loved preparing them with my cousin in our Nan’s kitchen; we were the ones in charge of pinching the dough and making little balls with it. Our ‘amoma’ would then regain control of her kitchen and flatten them in circles starting from the outside until they were fine and somehow perfectly rounded.
A good bite of ‘talo’ bread and slowly grilled ‘chorizo’, tenderised and marinated in cider is usually delighted with a chilled glass of ‘txakolina’, and not teenage offering a magically produced icy cold beer was going to change that institution.
The old lady in the Bakery was fierce and not “punkies” were allowed in her shop so, as I was not particularly happy about having to share my bite with the animals, I felt compelled to provide for them.
As the clock gave us 9 bells, we ate and they drank in the most complete silence, appeased and tranquil, sun on our backs, rounded up in a pebbled prairie, happy and serene… finally subdued.
‘Good to be a girl’ I remember thinking, ‘no need for bull runs… and you would never be turned away at breakfast’.
Rhea Nielsen (c) 2008