Steven Paulson Running With The Bulls in Pamplona
By Steven K. Paulson
Aspiring reporters often feel an urge to follow in the steps of their predecessors. Cover a war, get documents from sources to expose corruption, grill politicians. For foreign correspondents, one of the holy grails is the running of the bulls in Pamplona, Spain, every year. Ernest Hemingway did it, James Michener did it, and I had to try it to verify my bona fides as a young reporter for the Orlando Sentinel. I did it nine times, including one week I when I brought my wife, Torrey, to see what the fuss was about. I gave her my press pass that allowed her to sit on the fence with my camera, screaming as the bulls charged at me and the fence. Fortunately she held on as the bulls crashed in front of her. Afterwards, we went to the famous Bar Txoco in the town square and had a lot of sangria.
Torrey Drinking Sangria After The Bull Run
One bull run became known as one of the most famous encierros, or running of the bulls, in Pamplona history. The rules were simple. Buy a red beret and a red bandana, drink lots of wine and stand in the street waiting for a herd of stampeding bulls to run a mile from the river to the bull ring. The bulls can do it in two minutes. Do the math. The nine-minute encierro was different. A cannon was fired precisely at 7 a.m. signaling the bulls were out of the pen, running up the streets. A second cannon was fired when they were all on the run. A veteran of three or four bull runs, I knew the drill. Let the scattered, scared drunk crowd of runners go past, wait for the bulls, run with them for 100 feet and bow out.
There are four stages of the bull run. The Santo Domingo is the first street and most dangerous, because experienced runners have to run at the bulls, then turn around and run up the street to start the bull run after a cannon sounds. A second cannon sounds when the bulls are all out of the pen. The second stage is Mercaderes, or Town Hall, where the bulls swing left in front of Town Hall, then swing right, where bulls often trample runners as they crash into the fence. Then they turn up Estafeta, the second-most dangerous part of the bull run because it is a narrow canyon that goes for blocks. Many runners climb drain pipes to escape the bulls. As the bulls approach the bull ring, they make a turn at a building called Telefonos, the former telephone exchange, then they swing right into the bull ring where they are corralled until the bullfights in the afternoon. I ran them all.
Runners who tried to climb over the wooden fences before the first cannon sounded got beaten and thrown back into the streets with the bulls. “You want to run, run,” police yelled, barring them from crawling back under the barricades. This wasn’t a photo op where you could jump in and jump out and get your picture taken before the bulls came storming up the street. On this day, I ran with the bulls a short distance. As the bulls neared the bull ring running up the cobbled streets, someone peeked out from behind a door on the street where the bulls were completing their journey. A bull got distracted, charged the door and got it stuck on the horns.
Confused, the bull turned around and began running back towards the river where the race began, mowing down runners who thought they were done for the day.
The bull got halfway back before some brave soul knocked the door off the horns and got it turned around. There is nothing worse than a lone bull, especially a lone bull in a crowd. It was one of the longest nine minutes of my life. Fortunately, no one died that day.
Later in the day, matadors fight the bulls that ran in the streets. The fights are usually lackluster because the animals are tired after their morning run, but I once saw a two ears and a tail bullfight. One ear is awarded for a good bull fight, two ears for a great bullfight, and two ears and a tail for a spectacular bull fight. The fight began slowly, with the matador stalking the bull with pics, little spears that are stuck in the bull’s back. It progressed to the cape, and just before it ended, the matador stared the bull into a trance, forced it to its knees, and stuck his head in the middle of the bull’s horns. One shake of the bull’s head and the matador would have been dead. He kept it there for about 10 seconds. The crowd went wild.
Before anyone runs with the bulls, they need to know the protocol. Carry a rolled-up newspaper and it might save your life. If a bull gets separated it becomes dangerous. Running with the bulls is not as hard as it looks. Wait for the bulls as the crowd surges ahead, run into the herd and after a short way, drop back. If a bull gets distracted by some idiot and goes rogue, you are on your own.
If a bull gets separated, snap the newspaper open, throw it in front of the bull and bury your body in a gutter until the danger is past. But don’t get carried away. I once followed the bulls into the ring, the gate got slammed behind me and I heaved a sigh of relief as the bulls were herded into the chutes. For the uninformed like me, the fun was just beginning. Small bulls with leather sheaths on their horns are released into the crowd after the main event and the animals chase the runners around the ring, scraping them off the walls. The more experienced runners form a pile in front of the bullpens and let the young bulls slam into them full-speed as the crowd roars. It can be a shock for runners like me who thought the thousands of people in the stands were cheering because we finished our run in the bullring.
Time To Celebrate In The Town Square Before The Bull Fight In The Afternoon
The story that ran July 28, 1974, in the Orlando Sentinel:
By Steven K. Paulson
Orlando Sentinel
PAMPLONA, Spain _ To students, it’s a party, to author James Michener, it’s the hell raising capital of the world, to Ernest Hemingway, the Fiesta San Fermin was simply a “damn fine fiesta.’’
Eighty-thousand people showed up for the 365th running of the bulls, a nine-day celebration.
The Encierro (Running of the Bulls) begins at 8 a.m. each of the festival days. Thousands of spectators mill about to watch as men risk their lives to run with the bulls in the streets.
The run begins near the River Arga where a cannon sounds, scaring the bulls out of their pens. The bulls dash up the Calle Santo Domingo, weave in front of the mayor’s house on the Calle Merdaderes and up the Estafeta into the ring.
The bulls that run through the streets in the morning are later fought in the bull ring in the afternoon. They are admittedly bad because they are tired from the morning run.
During the run, the cards are stacked in favor of the bulls, not the runners. A runner must not call the bulls’ attention, run against the direction of the bulls, interfere with other runners by grabbing or pushing them and most important, not grab or strike the bulls. The bulls have no rules. You can read my diary account in my blog on this page.
Running the Estafeta
Steven Paulson Celebrating After Surviving the Bull Run
Death in the Afternoon
Here is my full diary report on running with the bulls in Pamplona.
July 6
“In San Sebastian on the Spanish coast, I got up at 7 a.m. and left a campground in the rain and hitchhiked into town. Got to the train station, bought a pair of sandals nearby and took a First Class express to Pamplona because that was all they had. Got to Pamplona in the afternoon and Terry, a girl I met in Copenhagen, went downtown, saw the city walls, then drank some wine and I was gone for the afternoon. We saw the bull run venue, then checked into a hostel, then went downtown for supper. Went back to the hostel, got in late and had to be let in.
To get Terry into the hostel I had to give her my ID card. He noticed the same names, so she told him we were married. She forgot that I had my birth date on both cards. It really broke him up. The festival had already started at the hostel, but I had to sleep. I’d slept on a mountain in San Sebastian the night before.
July 7
Got up at 7 a.m., stored my baggage at the bus station. Went to Castillo Square for the firecracker parade _ fantastic. (It was a paper mache bull wrapped in firecrackers and rushed through the streets of the actual bull run.) The Spanish people really know how to party. Walked the route of the bulls _ Santo Domingo, Mercaderes and Estafeta. Lost the girls so I went to the Tourist Bureau for a map, met up with an American guy. Drank too much sangria and was gone again. We stayed up all night in one of the largest drinking parties I have ever seen.
July 8
Stayed up all night, got our places to watch the bull run set, and then the police made us move. I went to get a Municipal Police Press Card, but could not get one so I went to the place where the runners started, flashed my American press card and got by. At 7 a.m. sharp all hell broke loose as the bulls and runners came by. People running, bulls crashing through, shouting, then a span of time, and more bulls. I jumped in with my camera and ran after them up to the fence, only to find to my horror that one of the bulls got turned around and was charging back at me. Everyone was trying to jump the fence. I knew this was a special bull run.
Later I heard that one of the bulls had crashed into a door, taken the door with him and really raised some hell. The trouble was that there was that there was a guy behind the door, and he immediately climbed the nearest drainpipe. I asked one of the Spaniards what kind of run hit had been, and you know what he said? It was Nada _ nothing. Tomorrow I will run with the bulls, and who knows. Maybe I’ll run the Estafeta.
July 8-16 (It was all a blur)
Lost the girls, so I went for some sangria with a friend I met in the Plaza Castillo. There I met Chuck, a guy I met previously traveling with the girls. Drank sangria, then went downtown to walk the route of the bulls. There I met Shorty who took us bar hopping.
Shorty and the Gang Outside the Bar Photo by Steven K. Paulson
Shorty took us to a bar where he bought a drink, then started slipping us tapas out the door, small bites of food, because we were starving. It took six of us in a chain to pass the food out of the restaurant. We never got caught.
We partied until late at night, then we made our decision to run with the bulls again. Stayed in a pensione.
July 8
Got up at 5:30 a.m. to the banging of drums, known as the Pamplona Alarm Clock. We dressed without talking in traditional Basque garb of red sashes and red hats, and at 6:15 a.m. we took up our places at town hall, newspapers rolled up in our hands, smoking a cigarette like mad (I don’t usually smoke). A tip for runners: This is the easiest place to run on Mercaderes in front of the town hall, because it’s wide open, you can dash down the right side while the bulls swing to the left, then duck down while gravity forces the bulls to the other side).
At 6:30 a.m. we started walking down the Mercaderes past the (Town Hall) plaza at the beginning of the Estafeta. At 7 a.m. the cannon went off (Signaling that the bulls were out of the pen) and the second cannon (signaling the last bull was out) and the second cannon was late so we knew we had a struggle. When we saw the bulls, we ran like hell, finally ducking into a doorway.
Just as I got out of the way, a guy in front of me got gored. I got so excited I ran into the street, waving my newspaper, and when I heard the screams behind me, I knew I had made a bad mistake. I looked for some place to go, but all of the places were taken. Runners were climbing the drain pipes. I rounded a corner near the end of the plaza and pressed myself against a wall. After the bulls ran past and the last cannon sounded, signaling that the bull run was over, I ran several blocks into the bull ring where 30,000 people were gathered. I thought they were there to welcome us, so I stood in the middle of the ring as they cheered, until this 500 pound bull came charging into the middle. I ran like hell for the nearest wall. This went on for an hour and a half, and I was more scared than when running with the bulls. That afternoon, there was singing and dancing. That night, fireworks and the parade of the giants celebrating Basque history.
Steven Drinking Wine
A Basque Alarm Clock
Dancing the Basque Jota
July 9
Got up at 6 a.m., dressed and headed downtown, only this time we took up places on the Santo Domingo. I was nervous because for people killed in the encierro (bull run), most of them killed in the encierro were killed here. A Spanish guy, who knew I was a journalist, invited me to run with them at the bulls, but I said next year.
At 7 a.m., the cannon went off and it was 30 seconds before the second cannon went off. We waited this time until we saw the bulls, then ran a short ways and hid in a doorway as they scraped past. I got so excited again that I forgot my lesson from the day before and I dashed into the street. I had scarcely gone 100 yards before I saw another bull behind me charging like a freight train. In pure panic this time I tried to get to cover, but one of the other runners panicked and tripped me. I didn’t even think, I just rolled into the gutter, clinging to the pavement with my fingers. At the last second, when it looked like I might be trampled, I grabbed a guy’s pants leg and pulled myself out of the way. The guy in front of me wasn’t so lucky. Rescuers picked him up with blood pouring out of his head and rushed him into the military hospital across the street. He survived.
After the run, we skipped the bull ring and went to the Gaucho Bar for whiskey for breakfast. Chuck left for San Sebastian.
I walked around town and read some on Pamplona from James Michener’s “The Drifters.’’ (It was the Bible for backpackers through Europe at the time.)
Then I took the 2 p.m. train to Madrid and left Pamplona.