A load of Bull

By KARL GARDNER

My body was smeared with dirt and sand, I was scrambling sideways on all fours, there was excrement between my fingers, my heart was pounding, I couldn't suppress the laughter and two 800-kilo snorting beasts with huge horns were bearing down on me.

I had come to a - some may say quaint, I wouldn't - little town in north-central Spain called Pamplona to join in the Fiestas San Fermin and the running of the bulls.

Fiestas San Fermin began in early 300AD as a celebration of San (saint) Fermin, the patron saint of bakers, wine and wineskins, who is celebrated for bringing Christianity to the area and was beheaded in France in 303AD.

The El Enciero or bull running began in 1591. The bulls were originally driven from Santo Domingo street to the Plaza del Toros (bullring) out of necessity.

In 1600, some young Spanish madcaps began running in front of the bulls to prove their machismo.

The tradition stuck and the two events were eventually combined into what is celebrated today.

Like many other antipodeans we made our way to Pamplona as part of a backpackers' bus trip from London and stayed on the El Molino campsite.

This sits beneath the Spanish village of Mendigorria, which is so picturesque it looks like something out of Hollywood.

Traditionally, Fiestas San Fermin begins on July 6 with an opening ceremony kicked off by the Mayor firing a rocket into the air.

The streets leading to the town hall are lined with makeshift stalls and marquees selling cheap bottles of champagne and sangria. Everywhere dealers are selling red bandannas and other trappings. The streets are brimming with singing, dancing Spaniards dressed in traditional white, with red sash and necktie. The foreigners are clearly identifiable.

When the first rocket goes off at noon all hell breaks lose. Champagne and sangria rain from the sky. An egg war breaks out between two opposing teams on either side of a small street.

Flour bombs are lobbed into the crowd. Tomato sauce and mustard stains are treated like medals; the bigger and shinier, the better. The town ignites.

The bars are filling up fast but for the antipodean crowd there is another attraction: a 10m statue for some reason dubbed the mussel bar. It stands in the centre of a cobbled square enclosed by bars, and for several years there has been a tradition of mad New Zealanders and Aussies lining up to leap from the top into the waiting arms of catchers below.

This is not a recommended activity and the Spanish discourage it by hurling eggs, potatoes and other projectiles at the participants. Those who find the idea appealing should keep in mind that more people have died jumping from the mussel bar than in all the years of the bull running. Regardless, flags fly from the top, and lunatics dive.

Festivities continue through the night and stragglers are cleared from the streets before sunrise the next day.

On the seventh day of the seventh month each year the first running of the bulls, El Enciero, takes place.

Runners clutch newspapers in accordance with traditions which foreigners have come under fire for breaking.

It is, for instance, forbidden to touch the bulls, which are revered and it is not uncommon to see an offender - and they aren't always foreigners - beaten by offended Spaniards.

As we wait, crammed in with the mob packing the streets that weave the 800m from Santo Domingo to the Plaza del Toros, songs praising San Fermin rise from the crowd.

Stomachs are obviously tightening and every way I turn I'm confronted by nervous questioning eyes.

Wooden fences bar the streets and rows of people jostle for good viewing positions. Others spray water from the tiny balconies overlooking the course.

My heart is already pumping as I jump on the spot, rubbing my tingling fingers between my hands. Those in front of me start to run, casting panicky glances over their shoulders, but there are no bulls to be seen.

The crowd comes to a twitchy halt with people tripping over each other in their excitement.

To the side of the crowd veteran runners are not moving. "Too many people. They like to move them forward before they release the bulls," says an old Spaniard.

There's another nervous surge forward, then a rocket fires and the Spaniard cocks his head in its direction indicating the bulls have now been released. The frantic crowd trips and stumbles off down the cobbled street.

A second rocket explodes, signalling that all the bulls are in the street. I can find none of my friends. "Wait, wait," says the old Spaniard, with a raised hand, stopping my advance.

I stand to the side and wait uneasily, testing my bravado. Within seconds the bulk of the crowd has gone and my anxiety increases. Staring at the old Spaniard bending down to pull up his socks I decide to leg it.

I'm running slowly, often looking over my shoulder, until a manic American thunders past me and screams, "Run". My heart jumps a hundred beats and I start racing.

Tearing past the on-looking hoards, I hear the cheers and jeers resounding behind me, telling me the bulls can't be far behind. But, looking over my shoulder as the bull ring comes into view, I still can't see the bulls.

The doors of the ring are just in front of me when I hear the scary sound of hooves scratching the cobblestones. I evaluate my speed, estimate the bulls' distance and speed, and bottle out.

Six or seven of us jump for the same section of fence simultaneously coming to a jarring stop. I cling to the wooden posts, white knuckled and fearful, as the bulls tear past behind me into the arena.

The American guy jumps from the fence and grabs me by the shirt, "Hurry or we won't get in," he says. They close the doors just behind us in the faces of yelling runners desperate to get in.

Those who made it inside are milling around catching their breath and joyfully reuniting with friends. Suddenly someone screams, "Bull!"

Through the swarming crowd I can see a heaving, pitch black bulk, ploughing through ignorant and crazy runners alike.

A crescendo of boos rises from the crowd as a madman tackles the bull by its horns wrestling it to the ground, turning to cheers as enraged Spaniards set to him with boots and sticks.

Scores of courageous runners are smacking the bull, testing/proving their courage and I feel the urge welling inside. I have to.

The bull ploughs into a young runner sending him sprawling across the dirty sand. Spurred by the excitement, I join others in charging to his aid in distracting the bull.

Coming up behind the beast I glance over my shoulder to check on my retreat then take a swish, but the bull has moved his tail and, slap, I have a hand covered in dung.

"That's not how you're supposed do it," yells the American, nearly doubling over in hysterics as I gawk at my defecated hand.

There's no time for laughter though. From the corner of my left eye I see the crowd scattering. Another bull has been let into the ring.

I turn and not a single human shield separates us. I start to the right but barrel straight into the path of the first bull returning to salvage his dignity.

I attempt a speedy sidestep to the left but my feet tangle and I trip.

Scrambling sideways on all fours, excrement between my fingers, my heart is pounding, I can't suppress the laughter as the two 800-kilo snorting beasts bear down on me.

The bulls narrowly career past me as I sit helpless in the dirt and the American helps me to my feet.

There is a crowd forming in front of the gates to the bull pens and the American motions to me with raised eyebrows and a devilish grin. "Come on," he yells. Crouched at the back of the crowd I'm still not sure what's going on.

The American, who has clearly been here before, is nodding his head. "Yes, yes, watch this," he says with clenched fists, savouring the event about to unfold. Then I see it, another bull, charging up the ramp with rage in its eyes.

Everyone braces defiantly. The bull charges straight forward and just as it leaps some psycho to the left stands straight up, hands raised, and meets the bull mid air. Miraculously he appears unharmed. The bull charges on into the field of would-be matadors.

These clashes continue for about 45 minutes.

Beside the walls of the arena the less daring are standing, leaping in and out as the bulls draw near, though some are forced back out by spectators and endure fearful moments they were not planning for.

I see my brother and race over, ranting hysterically, as I try to explain what has just happened to me. The look in his face says he understands it all, but how could he, I wonder, how could he really have captured what I had, while he was standing aside?

Back at the campsite I see one of the bull wrestlers. Bandaged and bleeding, he beamed and said "I had to do it".

Bullshit still on my hand and a smile still on my face I understand. I hadn't wrestled a bull to the ground, others hadn't touched one, and still others hadn't even seen a bull the whole run. That didn't matter though.

Each man had his limits and each had them pushed to the point of exhilaration. When you're there it just has to be done.

The official Fiestas San Fermin website offers an English translation, the history of the festival and the programme.

Getting there

You've left it too late to go to Pamplona this year, because the festival starts today, and accommodation is usually booked out months in advance.

But if you want to go to Pamplona later in the year to see where it all happens, Flight Centre is offering a return fare to Madrid for $2199 (plus airport taxes and fuel surcharges) and domestic flights to Pamplona start from $550 return depending on availability.

United Travel says its customers mostly prefer to go to Pamplona via Barcelona and it can offer a package of $3054 a person including air fare (plus those extra charges), return rail transport to Pamplona and three nights accommodation at Ciudadela Hotel.

House of Travel suggests a good way to see Pamplona, and the rest of Europe, is a Youth Rail pass for from $360.