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2021 Running of the Bulls cancelled in Pamplona

 

My Week in Pamplona

 

 

For the second year in a row, Pamplona has cancelled the Festival of San Fermin. What follows is a recounting of my experience at the festival fifty years ago.

 

For years, going to Pamplona and photographing the Running of the Bulls had been on my ‘need to experience’ list. In the late 1960’s I decided not only to go but to film it with my new Bolex 16mm movie camera. To accompany the camera,

I bought a Uher portable tape recorder on the advice of a friend, the whiz sound technician, Bruce Kirby with the intention of making a film about bull-fighting; its barbarity and why it should stop.

 

As with so many other things, one changes their conceptions as one actually learns about the subject. I changed my opinion as I became somewhat immersed and conversant in the bull fighting culture and traditions during that week in Pamplona. 

 

The great, well-known  Toreros - Antonio Ordonez, Paco Camino, El Cordobés and perhaps Curro Romero were some I remember being on the afternoon cards. When I arrived in Pamplona, I knew nothing about bull fighting but I did learn some things in attending 5-6 bull fights. The extent of my knowledge was to try to get seats in the sombra, or at least sol y sombra.  However, I learned the most from talking with aficionados from all over the world while sitting in the cafes, bars and restaurants that week.

 

Those were magical days for me. We sat at tables, altogether; mainly young people, mostly men from England, Sweden, America and of course, a few from Spain. After a few days, we were regulars and I was recognized loaded down with my ubiquitous equipment. Because of the equipment, I think I might have had a caché that was entirely unearned, but I took advantage of it and conducted many recorded interviews while at a cafe drinking wine.

 

Everyone seemed drunk most of the time; especially the Scandinavians. Later that summer, when we went to Sweden to visit people met in Pamplona, I could understand the allure of Pamplona to the Swedes… music, bulls, hot sun and cheap wine and food. Luckily for me, they all spoke English and I could talk, interview and learn about Spain and bull fighting history and its traditions.

 

I did speak enough Spanish so that I could interview some Spaniards in a simple way and everyone seemed interested in explaining the importance that the Corrida has played in the life of the Spanish for many years. No one suggested a change. No one wanted the bull fights to stop. Every one of the Spaniards was serious and grave when describing its significance. I began the interviews opposed to the whole bull fighting culture but I gradually changed my opinion as I came to realize that I was not a part of the culture and had little right to criticize

 

There was a Hemingway impersonator; he was tall with a white beard, a tan fisherman's vest, white shirt and khaki pants making all of the cafe rounds, always in public and even signing autographs! 

 

The bulls for the days' Corrida were held in a pen at the foot of the narrow street down by the river.  The narrow, cobbled street began at a low point by the river and was inclined upward leading to the bullring. I had to find my spot to stand early in the morning because the cannon was shot off announcing the start of the Encierro (Running of the Bulls) at 7 in the morning. 

 

I always tried to find a spot in a doorway that was recessed about a foot in order to have some protection from the bulls raging by. The problem with the doorway idea, I heard later from some Swedes, was that if the bull stopped in front of you, you were trapped and unable to escape. Luckily, that didn't happen but I did see an occasional young man get gored or bashed by a bull while he stood helplessly standing in a doorway.

 

The Festival of San Fermin lasted seven days and each day began to take on a familiar rhythm. Wake up early and find a spot along the street, wait in the early coolness for the canon boom and then I could hear faint shouts near the holding pen as the runners saw and began to run ahead of and with the bulls. My heart started pounding a minute later as the rumbling of hooves on cobblestones, shouts and terrified screams got louder...so loud that I couldn't hear or feel my pounding heart any longer.

 

On the first morning I was starting to think that this was the stupidest thing I'd ever done. I was opening myself up to being gored in the doorway or chased by a bull while I carried my precious camera and tape recorder. I had no idea of what to do, how to avoid a charging 1000 pound frightened animal with razor-sharp horns striking out at anything that was in his path.

 

As the days passed and after talking with many Encierro 'pros' from northern European countries, I began to get an idea of what to do in various bull vs man scenarios. If you fall, lie still on the ground and cover your head and neck with your hands and arms and stay down, if a bull breaks from the pack, watch out, he's dangerous! Sometimes there's a straggler and watch out for that one too. All of these warnings and more probably were of little use to me with all of the equipment I had with me anyway.

After the six bulls (plus there were a couple of oxen with bells) passed, it was generally safe to start walking to the arena...just watch out for a bull that has turned around and is deciding which of us to attack.

 

The arena was filled with people in the stands and the runners, in their white pants, shirts and red sashes, were all in a big mash up with the confused and frightened bulls at the narrow entrance. I was in the stands for one run and could see that the entrance was all clogged up with red and white clothed bodies many of whom were piled up on the ground as bulls leaped or ran over them.

 

After the Encierro, it was time for a coffee and roll at a cafe and lots of talk about the mornings' events. In the morning, after the Encierro, it was easy to meet and talk with people from all over Europe because there was a commonality, a kinship of just having been through an epic event. For some, who ran just in front of or touched the bulls, it was very possibly a transformative event.

 

I was eager to hear all of the dope I could on where to stand, the customs and history, methods of running as well as where to get the best Paella and wine. For me, I went around photographing, then lunch and a siesta before the bullfights in the evening. I even picked out my favorite bull of the week. His name was Pensativo (Thoughtful) and I was sad to think as I watched him in the bullring meet his death, that if I were to eat Estufado de Toros for dinner that week, it may be that Pensativo is on my plate!

 

Before the Corrida began, everyone would gather in the bars and cafes and talk about the bulls and matadors on the card that day. We talked about all sorts of things such as the breeds, the owners, bloodlines, weights and tendencies of the bull’s movements. We also discussed and debated the matadors' abilities mostly by people much more knowledgeable than me.

 

After good talk, some drinks and tapas we walked over to the arena with tickets and cameras. Six fights later and it was time to have dinner. We found a restaurant, the Maitena the first night and thought the Paella was so good, the atmosphere and ambience so perfect that we found our way back for 3-4 more dinners.

 

When we finally left Pamplona for our next destination with a back pack full of 16mm color film and reels of recordings which I carried around Europe for three months, little did I know that after returning to Ranch Mirage, a ‘Hundred Year’ flood would destroy it all + my camera a short time after returning home.

así es la vida