Bilbao, Pamplona and a few bulls

After carrying two packs for what seemed like an eternity, we arrived at the bus station in San Sebastian. Leaving Jen to do the ticket buying with her proficient Spanish, Hugo and I sat on the ground, waited and drank two cups of coffee each.

We were on the bus to Bilbao in 30 minutes and arrived there an hour after that. When booking accomodation in Bilbao, we quickly realised that there were in fact no hostels. Consequently, we ended up splitting a hotel room which only cost us 25 euro each. After the less than favourable hostel in San Sebastian, the hotel felt like extreme luxury. A proper shower was great but the highlight was definitely the fresh towels.
"Oh man, they're so smooth"
"Dude...smell them!"

Hunger overcame the initial euphoria of fresh towels and we decided it was time to find a supermercado. After an hour of walking, ten different sets of directions and a bit of complaining, we found one. I stuck with what I knew and opted for chorizo and a baguette. Chorizo never seems to disappoint. A week straight chorizo diet and I was nowhere near sick of it.

Hugo, Jen and I spent the night in the hotel room discussing the comfort of our beds and then watching the football. We decided to crash early as the next day meant taking Hugo to the hospital to get his knee checked which did in fact prove to be exhausting. Without Jen's Spanish, I think we may have still been at that hospital in Bilbao. It took us an hour to get there, followed by an hour of waiting, and then an hour of consultation which at one stage involved 6 medical personnel (why? I'm not too sure...)

Following the hospital visit it was time to investigate Frank Gehry's architectural masterpiece, the Guggenheim Bilbao Museoa. In truth, it was the only reason we went to Bilbao and honestly, it was worth it. The Guggenheim's interior architecture is as spectacular as the exterior, if not more so. As we walked through the entrance, an employee of the Museum asked Hugo if he required a wheelchair. "Really?" replied Hugo. Meanwhile, his face changed to an expression that seemed to suggest all his dreams had come true.

We spent the next few hours visiting the various exhibitions throughout the museum although I took a particular interest in two. The first involved a series of elliptical and spirally installations made of steel, in a room that must have been 200m long. It was a truly strange feeling as you walk through the spiral and your brain starts playing tricks on you. Sometimes you would begin to feel that the ground was tilting, sometimes it would give the impression that the walls were closing in. The audio guide which had an explanation from the artist (whose name evades me) informed me that through a complex methd of positioning of the steel, it can produce certain effects for anyone who walks through it. I left that exhibition with a mild headache, but there were more brain tricks to come.

The second exhibition I took particular interest in was by an Indian guy named Anish Kapoor. He made a diverse range of sculptures but a few stood out in my mind. One involved a half-spherical ball, probably 2 metres in diameter. It was painted dark blue but depending on where you looked at it from would alter your perception of it. If you walked towards it, it gave the feeling that there was a black hole that would engulf you. My brain was starting to freak and my headache got worse. Next up was a room of mirrors. The audio guide explained what to do at each mirror to provide a truly surreal effect. Hugo and I must have spent 30 mins in that room testing out all the different things to do in front of different mirrors. We were bummed when 8pm came. Hugo was even more bummed because he had to swap the wheelchair back for his walking stick.

8pm also meant it was 30 mins till the kick off of the World Cup semi-final between Spain and Germany. Once again, in Spain. After a delicious 4 euro kebab, we went on a search for a bar to watch the game in. Eventually we found the "Galleon Bar" and got involved in the cheering when Spain scored and consequently won. Then the search for a taxi began. Hugo was not going to walk 2km home. Among the cluster of cars constantly honking their horns and waving their Spanish flags, we found a vacant taxi and attempted to hail it down, to no avail. After the 4th vacant taxi drove past, we were beginning to wonder if we looked like murderers or something. Eventually we managed to coerce one into stopping and giving us a ride home.

The next day we arrived at the bus station in hope of catching a bus to Pamplona, which for a week in July every year plays host to the festival of San Fermin (commonly known for the Running of the Bulls). Initially, it seemed as though there would be no buses that day. A part of my mind told me I should be relieved. Soon after we managed to get a bus. The ticket came with a complimentary red scarf (part of the traditional attire for the festival, along with white clothes.) On the bus, I made sure I had my headphones loud enough as to not hear any of the stories of misadventures at San Fermin. I had already heard my fair share. As the bus drove into the city, I was greeted by a sea of red and white. There is no other way to describe it. EVERYONE wears red and white. A red scarf around the waist or neck and white pants with a white shirt. (Although at least 50% of shirts had turned an off red from nights spent with too much red wine) I also quickly discovered that San Fermin was the biggest party I had ever seen. I would challenge anyone to find a place where there is a majority in sober people. I would also set this challenge at any time of day. Since the bulls are run at 8am people who were sober do not stay sober.

Hugo and I had a challenge of our own, getting to the campsite 5km out of Pamplona. After 3 hours of waiting for buses in four seperate locations, we finally managed to get the right bus. It dropped us in the middle of nowhere but luckily some Spanish guys were able to vaguely direct us to the campsite. Arriving at the campsite, I was greeted by a horrific eyesore. The Fanatics were here. For those who don't know, Fanatics is an organisation that runs package deals for well known events such as San Fermin, La Tomatina and Palio to name a few. Fanatics also seems to appeal predominantly to the bogan population of Australia, which seems to be increasing by the day. Upon hearing stories from other travellers and locals, it seems that the Fanatics and similar groups seem to be diminishing the reputation of Aussie travellers. After seeing them out in force, I can understand why.

We payed our 5 euros for the campsite and spent the last hours of sunlight relaxing. I was not going to exhaust myself in any way. The morning brought with it the certainty that I was running with 6 bulls, each weighing around 500kg. I say certainty because I knew that I did not go to all the effort to get to Pamplona and not run. The question you are asked during San Fermin is not "Did you run?" but "When did you run?" or "How many times have you run?" Mum's advice upon mentioning that I may be going to Pamplona was that I was not covered by travel insurance...

I was adamant on getting a good night's sleep but I was admittedly a little sick with a sore throat and a cold. Hugo and I were also sleeping on the ground while Jen and her friend slept in a tent. A combination of these factors - plus the fact that I had to get up at 5.45am to get the bus into town - meant that I got, at most, 2 hours sleep. In my opinion, not the best preparation for what would be the scariest hour of my life.

I got up, decked myself out with a white shirt, grey pants and a red scarf tied around my neck. I tied my shoelaces three (maybe four?) times. It was time to go. Hugo had to stay behind as his knee would not let him run. I reminded him it was not called "Hobbling of the Bulls"
"Good luck man..."
"Yeah. I'll see you in a few hours...hopefully"
The nervous energy on that bus was blatant. You could hear people feebly attempting to make jokes, others just sat quietly. I chose to use my logic to keep calm
"You have way more chance of dying in car crash, it's rare that people die during San Fermin"
I soon found out that someone had in fact died the day before. Logic was out the window.

The bus arrived in town. During the walk to the start of the run, I met an Australia guy named Joe. We tried to psych each other up for what was to come. This was a bad choice in hindsight. The reason for this is the following; we arrived at the course at 6.45. The bulls didn't run till 8am. It would turn out to be one of the longer hours I have experienced. At the offer of a coffee, i quickly accepted as I was still fatigued from very little sleep. I chugged down the coffee and devoured a croissant in record time. This was, in hindsight, a bad choice. All of our heart rates spiked with the hit of caffeine. Great!

While we waited, we began talking to two guys from Philadelphia. It soon became apparent that this was their 39th run. 39th!! They must have been at least 45. We fed off every tip they gave us, none of which were reassuring. These are the few I can remember:
1) If someone grabs onto you, slap that hand away and DO NOT let them drag you down
2) If you do fall, DO NOT get up. Adopt the foetal position until someone tells you its ok to get up.
3)Do not be near "Dead Man's Corner" when the bulls come.
4) If you hear "swelto" , get the f**k out of there (swelto means a bull has become disoriented and turned around and begun to run the opposite way)

The waiting game ensued. I feebly attempted streches in an attempt to kill some time. At 7.45am, the first gun goes off and everyone begins a slow walk. Thankfully, we passed dead man's corner on the walk and began up the 300m straight. We stopped about 70m from the entrance to the stadium. I will explain now that when the 6 bulls have run the course, this is by no means the end. Anyone who makes it into the stadium before the gates close have to then evade 6 small bulls, which are released one-by-one. NB. The "small" bulls weigh around 300kg

I checked my watch 100 times and sure enough at 8am the gun went off. According to our friends from Philadelphia, the first bull runs the 825m course in around one minute and twenty seconds. For that minute, my brain was having a really hard time telling my feet to stay still as I waited till I could see the bull. You know the bull is coming before it gets there. The crowd of people changes from a whole lot of faces looking back for the bulls to a whole lot of faces that have a look of terror on their faces. They do not look back again. I caught sight of the bull in the distance and began my 70m sprint. If I remember correctly, I think I had tunnel vision. All I could see was the entrance to that stadium. I snuck a look back and discovered the first bull was at most a metre diagonally back from me. Thankfully it was looking straight ahead.

I entered the stadium and peeled right, and hopefully away from the bull. I couldn't afford another look. The rest of the bulls ran through the stadium and out the exit on the other side. The gates were closed and the roar in the stadium was deafening. The sea of red and white chanted as we waited for the first bull. The bulls in the stadium are small and have capped horns but in my opinion they are no less menacing. The aim is to tap a bull on the bum. I decided that as soon as I managed to do that I would call it quits. It didn't start well, as within minutes a bull seemed to pick me out and my only option was to attempt a superman jump over the fence. Luckily someone caught me.

As if the bulls aren't enough of a worry, you have to keep your eye out for the locals who try and hold tourists back as they run for the comparitive safety of the edge of the ring. The other "problem" is, as the bull is much lower than the crowd of people, it is at times hard to know where it is. By the fourth bull I was beginning to wonder if I was going to be able to touch the bum. As luck would have it, the opportunity arose and I tapped it and got the hell out of the ring to be a spectator for the last two bulls. By then, I was also quite exhausted. I quickly learnt that where I sat to watch was right near where the medics are based. As a result I saw some pretty bad injuries. One girl copped a hoof to the eye and was not in a good way. I began to realise how insane the whole thing is. Luckily I realised it after I did it...

The only word I could use to describe the feeling after the bull run was euphoria. I accompanied Joe and a few others for a beer to calm our nerves. I think it's the earliest beer I have ever had at 9am, but it tasted great! I returned to the campsite to inform Hugo that I had survived. Then I called Mum... "I'm glad you called me after and not before"

I spent the rest of the day enjoying the feeling of relief, drank some Don Simon (Sangria) and later on spent a few hours trying to book transport to Barcelona. Since San Fermin is one of the biggest festivals ever, it is no surprise that trying to book a train or bus for the next day is not particularly easy. Nevertheless, it gave me the chance to check out a bit of the old quarter of the town and investigate the track when six 500kg bulls are not charging down it.

Hugo and I slept well that night and got the non-direct bus to Barcelona the next day. The World Cup Final was the following night and would hopefully prove to be the exclamation mark on an eventful week for me. I am actually writing this on my 3rd day in Barcelona, but I will save that blog until my final day tomorrow in Barca as I don't think I can write anymore right now. I wonder if I deterred anyone from choosing to partake in the Running of the Bulls? Or the opposite?If I did, let me know! Ha. Thanks for reading...