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
