Pamploneses, Pamploneses. Vive San Fermin. Gora San Fermin.
The first fire cracker whistled threw the air, ending in a quick short pop. Five more minutes. The policias flushed out all unprepared peoples; those in sandals, drunk, pregnant. Ironic concern for the visitors of their town propelled their actions. Concern for their own bodies and souls moved them rapidly behind the sturdy wooden partitions. Spaniards, Aussies, Americans shuffled uncomfortably. New comers asked questions of seasoned veterans; where to run, how to run, what to do if you get in trouble. Nervous energy spreads like yeast through the hundreds of soon to be world class sprinters. Stretch. Tighten shoe strings. Pray.
The second fire cracker rent the tension. The first of the 8 motivators had cleared the gate. An audible release of the tension crackled from the first runners to meet it to the end of the track, through the bystanders, into the arena. Loosening muscles new worlders and old worlders alike pogoed on their own feet. Preparing for the first sound of the bells, hooves, and snorting. A nervous American startles like a horse and runs a few feet and stops. Some began walking casually, attempting to hide their fear.
The third fuego artificial; all creatures had left their holding pin. Past the two 90 degree turns known as dead man’s corner for the tendency of bottle necks, the first intimations of cow bell and stampede are heard. Joggers gather speed. Sprinters accelerate. Pulses race. The first bull is seen by witnesses in balconies overlooking the corridor and they alert all to its presence. Toro, toro! Hay toros!
The worst thing possible that could happen during the encierro, they had said, was for one of the bulls to turn around. A nearly 2000 pound, scared animal turning upon the crush of several hundred runners which had already been outstripped by the bull. Any number of things could cause the bull to turn, anything could frighten it. That morning the worst happened. All other bulls and steers had made it through the gate into the arena and to safety. Spooked, he turned and ran directly for the oncoming crash of humanity. Fear screams through the runners as they turn to run away and find themselves between a raging bull and near riot conditions. Some stumble and fall, roll out from under the partitions. A man is gored. Another man feels lucky it was not him. As soon as the rogue is past many sprint the next 30 or 40 feet into the arena and into a frying pan. For, after the bulls to be fought later in the evening are safely in their holding pins in the arena, released into the crowd are 4 relatively harmless young bulls with padded horns. They only weigh 1000 pounds.
Thus begins the final day of La Fiesta de San Fermin, in Pamplona Spain. Thousands of old worlders and new worlders have been partying for 7 days. The party goers will be bidding farewell to the giants; 30 feet tall images of royalty from Asia, Europe, Africa and the Americas, hundreds of years old that spun and danced to raucous music in the streets. Also the Kilikis and Zaldikos, men and women dressed as fat heads, or horses who run around and hit children and adults alike with foam maces, would be hanging up the costumes for another year. The Penas, or drinking clubs made their last parade through the city with banners held high and flapping in the wind. The folk dances, however, gorgeous folk dances, would continue, they worked themselves deep in the culture of the Basque region. Those would be there the next day.
Noon came about, providing the first food to sop up the already prodigious amounts of Sangria consumed by the locals. The sun was high and hot. The fiestas counterpart and necessary nemesis siesta was in full lull until 3 o’clock. Pamplona’s every green space, every inch of shade, filled with exhausted party goers, sleeping the heat and drink off. The spirit slept. But only for an afternoon.
“It’s in the spirit of fiesta.” The New Yorkers said, “Take ‘em. There yours for free as long as you promise to use ‘em.”
“Are you sure? We can pay you for them. How much?’ asked the American college students, traipsing through the ancestral lands for the summer.
“Nothin’. The Spriti of Fiesta has been good to us, too good, and we want to spread the good. So please, take these bull fight tickets. There in the upper heavens, with the Penas, you will get messy. But they’s good people up there. Just love people and you’ll be fine. They’ll feed you. That is where the spirit of fiesta is the strongest.”
The four exchanged the tickets with assurances to use them and much thanks. The final night of bull fights, reserved for the best of the best. World class bull fighters. World class bulls.
The arena, sand filled bottom, two large red circles, one inside the other marks the demarcate the progression of the bull fight. To finish the bull in the center of the rings was desired. Red and white, and red and white, and red and white through-out the entire arena, all were in their festival clothing. The introduction of the matadors and toreadors, the celebrities of Spain, set the mood. The Penas, in the nose bleed section sat reverently for the first bull fight. A calm before the storm.
The air was sucked out of the arena by the collective gasps as a bull charges the toreador on horse-back. He skillfully moves the horse, which is well padded and sturdy to receive the brunt of the charge. His long spear punctures the side of the bull. The slaughter has begun. The bulls chargers again, a fudged spearing sends the horse to its side. Well trained, both man and horse remain absolutely still. The bull distracted by a cape ignores the fallen horse. Man and horse rise unharmed. The four horse-men leave the arena while the matador wets the end of his cape to make it heavy in the wind prepares to finish the bull.
The crowd cries “Olay” in unison with every pass of the bull. The matador is tiring the bull. The Bull tires his challenger. The matador remains as tall and straight as he can, inviting the horns of the bull to pass within inches of his torso. The bulls tongue lulls out from exhaustion. The matador looks un-phased by this fight. Surely this is not a fair fight, but that is part of the show, the matador doesn’t let on that he is terrified. The time has come.
On the next path, the matador plunges a colorful, frilly spear of two feet long into the back of the bull as it passes. He has four to do this with. The second glances of the bull, the crowd boos. He finishes quickly after this. The final charge is dramatically staged, smack center of the arena. In the bulls eye. The Matador points his rapier at the bull. Yells at the bull. The bull stamps, and snorts. Blood drips from his mouth. The matador has abandoned his cape, he is the only target now. Bull, man and steel. The bull charges, the matador drives his sword deep into the heart of the beast and moves aside as the bull falls dead behind him. The crowds cheer, the toreadors on horse drag the defeated bull around the arena; blood trails it.
The penas true vocation takes over. Vats of home-made Sangria are dipped into. Celebration of a valiant fight by both man and beast is started. The matador did well. Sangria is splashed, and thrown and spit over everyone. Pure white clothing stained red by the spirit of fiesta. The remaining three fights are all but ignored by the penas who are drunk on Sangria and blood.
The arena empties quickly after the last bull is drug out. The arena expels its occupants into the night streets of Pamplona. Dinner is eaten. Stories of the fight are talked about and talked about. The best fights of the festival.
The final display of fireworks of seven, each one hailing from a different Spanish city paints the sky brilliant colors over the foundation of the old castle. The closing ceremony starts at midnight.
Hundreds press into a square at midnight where the mayor presides. Candles held in mourners hands light the cramped square. The closing dirge is sung.
“Pobre de mi, Pobre de mi. Que se han acabado las Fiestas de San Fermin.”
Poor me, poor me. That finished is the festival of San Fermin.
