Originally founded as a camp around 75 B.C. by Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus and developed over the following centuries to become a Roman town, Pamplona now appears as a medieval city with only murmurs to suggest that it is a hybrid of what were once three distinct townships. It is also hard to detect any trace of Roman architecture, though a published guide tells us that Abd ar-Rahman III destroyed the city in 924, reducing it for some decades to little more than the sort of minor agricultural settlement found all over Europe at that time. The territory surrounding the capital is, like much of Spain, dry and dead, but areas of the city are lush and green. In short, it is a place with a history of conflict.
Pamplona is also host to the most famous of all encierro, the running of the bulls, which can be seen all over Spain during the fiesta season. In Pamplona it is part of the Fiesta de San FermÃn, San FermÃn being a Saint who was martyred by being dragged by a bull through the streets of Pamplona. As I walked the streets in the days prior to the event areas of the city were being barricaded and thus a route was formed. The barricades generally consisted of railings with gaps between them that are large enough for competidores to join or leave the race but narrow enough to block a charging bull. I garnered this via a conversation in broken Spanish with a man with pure white whiskers, impressively olive skin and a manner which made me suspect that he was drunk. When he left the bar to use the excusado I walked out, I needed air and I didn’t want him to regale me with tales of heroism and humiliation regarding past encierros.
I tried to smoke a cigarette as I walked along the stretch that had been enclosed for the race. Even though it was evening it was too hot out of the shadows so I stubbed the cigarette on the cobbles. It slipped into the crack between two stones and I couldn’t just leave it there smoking so I tried to fish it out, burning the end of my index finger in the process. I cursed, sucking my finger ferociously. It bore little mark, though I knew that it would blister within hours. I pressed hard on the spot where a blister would form despite knowing that this would hinder my body’s own healing technique. This self-flagellation was designed to temporarily numb the sore spot in the hope that by the time the nerves were back to normal my attention would be distracted and I would no longer feel the pain. I winced and the tendon in my elbow twitched but I was soon rewarded with a transformation of the pain to a series of tiny pin pricks, a dotted line, la lÃnea punteada.
There is a saying popular among people from the south East of England when on holiday in Spain. To the foreigner it appears that what is being said is “idz doo fakkin o’hâ€. It is. Even at night when I sleep, or at least lie in the shadows trying not to think. I have to soak towels in the sink and drape them over myself just to be able to keep still for long enough to get some rest. I keep a set of ice-cube trays permanently stocked with frozen ingots that I munch on.
The gathered crowd twitched in unison as they heard the crack of the firework. The starting area became a throng, the runners taking up positions and looking over their shoulders, the no-competidores scrambling for exits, dragging themselves over and through barriers or being pulled up to first floor balconies. Their terror and frantic movements acted as a prelude to the race itself, which began almost immediately. At least 14 people have died due to participating in this custom in the last century, the most recent being in 1995 when an American man was gored to death, which perhaps explains the presence of several dozen Policemen and Civil Protection Agents spread along the course. Almost immediately one man, dressed in the traditional all white, was slow to get off the mark and one bull crashed into him with its flank, tossing him against the barricades. Another man was pierced in the buttock, he yelped and clutched at himself as his white trousers turned scarlet to match his neckerchief.
The first 4 of the sirs thundered on, away down the course past where I could see. A few runners who’d been pushed aside by the crowd of runners or the bulls took up positions near the 2 bulls that had lagged, possibly aware that death awaited them at the end of the run. The man with the blood now leaking down the back of his leg dragged himself up to his feet and tried to jog down the road. He soon collapsed and was nervously rescued by two CPAs who kept glancing down the street. One of the bulls approached a man who’d dropped down from a balcony to begin the run and bucked its head. The beast thrust forward and pinned the man against the wall, its horns slashing through his shirt and into the stone. It backed off then charged a group of onlookers behind a barricade, smashing against the wood. The crowd backed off then pressed forward again, jeering at the animal.
