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It's a question of ethics and where to draw the line. The four of us sit in a bar in Pamplona, and debate the festival of San Fermin aka Running of the Bulls. Time for a little controversy.
Mark and I had earlier refused to attend a bullfight in Madrid. We are on the same page that 'Tradition' is not enough to justify what occurs in that ring (and some parts of Spain, such as Barcelona, agree and have banned it). I'm certainly not a vegetarian, I believe in the "Circle of Life" (Mufasa et al. 1994) and I love a good steak - but I like to think that the animal is killed humanely, quickly and for a reasonable purpose.
In Spanish bullfighting, it is not a fair fight, it is not a quick death, and the primary purpose is for entertainment. I find nothing entertaining in watching a bull lanced in the neck and back by men on horses, pre-fight, so that he can no longer lift his head and is bleeding and weakened, or in seeing his ears and tongue cut off as trophies whilst still alive, or in being taunted for another 10 minutes before finally being put out of its misery by the matador - one clean stab if it's lucky, several if the matador is unskilled.
We wondered why so many tourists attend the fights despite knowing this reality, and often leave the fight horrified and disgusted but finding some sort of justification or feeling glad to have experienced 'Spanish culture'.
One opinion that another Busabouter had put to Gem was that the Bulls led a privileged life, respected by their owners and fed like kings. Yet, does this justify a horrific death? Or another - it's going to happen whether I go or not, so may as well check it out. The friendly Spaniard at our hotel reception admitted that he hates the fight but loves the party, so he goes along and just turns his back to drink with his friends. But, in buying a ticket are you not supporting the continuation of this tradition?
That said, I watched the bulls run the streets of Pamplona amongst hundreds of similarly terrified/adrenalin charged humans (including Mark and Ben on our third day). The bulls were unharmed, although I can't say the same for a few of the people. I knew the bulls were being led to their death at the evening bullfights, but still I really enjoyed the run. Out of sight, out of mind?
I also watched as they released several young bulls into the ring, one at a time, amongst the throng of runners. The bull ran around and took a little revenge with its taped up horns - the amateur 'bullfighters' are flung in the air, dragged across the ring, headbutted and trampled, while the bull is probably a little scared but unharmed. In fact, should anyone grab it's horns or attempt to hurt it, the crowd turns on them and they are beaten up - sticks, bottles, fists; they're fair game. After a few minutes Papa Bull trots out, clearing the crowd pretty effectively, and leads bub out of the ring looking non plussed.
The nature of this is not too much different from the Rodeo really, and while I stressed a little for the bull and a lot for Mark and Ben, it was good fun.
I suppose everyone has different views, and will draw different lines in the sand. The bullfights are a definite no for me, but overall I really enjoyed the bull run and San Fermin.
As the beers flow, our debate moves on to topics like Australian economics and Socialism vs Capitalism, before digressing to topics like Nachos vs Noodles for dinner. We head into town to simply enjoy San Fermin for the party that it is.
The 8 day festival of San Fermin is so much more than just the bull runs, or the bull fights. It's a celebration of the cities patron Saint Fermin (a martyr who is said to have met his end by being dragged through the streets by a bull, hence the focus). There are bands, street parties, carnival rides and stands, and every night the most incredible fireworks that any of us have ever seen. No noise restrictions here, they are LOUD. The fireworks kick off the party at 11pm, which carries through the night until the bull run at 8am.
After arriving a little too late the first morning and sitting in the arena instead of along the run, our tactic for the second night was to sleep until 2am, then party through and claim a good spot on the fences. Grandpa Ben failed to wake on this occassion, but Mark, Gem and I trudged in and quickly woke up as we hit the town and the sangria.
Brass bands marched through the urine drenched, streamer lined streets, leading a procession of sangria-soaked revellers. Music blared from packed out pubs, while a surprisingly Spaniard-dominated crowd danced in the street, or passed out on benches.
We sat in a large square near the arena and got chatting to a couple of Spaniards and a French Canadian who were living out of their 2 door car for the festival. They asked about Aussie life and our strange hero worship of criminals e.g Ned Kelly and Chopper Reid..these guys had lived with an Aussie and were well versed in Aussie film, and the Triple J hottest 100.
Another Spaniard weaved over to bat his eyelashes at Gem and I, promptly popping us on the phone to his mother who didn't speak a word of English, before asking us for a photo for Facebook to make his girlfriend jealous, then telling me my eyes are so blue (ahem, they're green, actually)...oh well they are so pretty that I just want to lick them.
Huh? I think you mean look into them.
No, no I mean lick. Like an icecream.
....
Oooooookay...
We claimed an awesome spot on the fence and sat for 2 hours, to watch 15 seconds of the run. Worth it, but the arena seats were definitely better.
The following night Gem and I popped out again and teenybopped to a Spanish boy band, while our own boys slept and prepped for the big run tomorrow. At 7:30am Gem and I hauled ourselves out of bed and raced to the arena, stopping to buy a big dirty bucket of mayo drenched chips. The next few minutes were the some of the most anxious of our lives as we listened to the song of prayer and then watched the run on the big screen and tried to make out the faces of those surrounded by medics.
We didn't spot the boys in the run itself, but meeting them afterwards, Mark's eyes were bright with adrenalin as he described the anxious wait for the starting canon, and the scariest moment where a pile up of scampering runners appeared in front of him and he had to scramble over them, all the while conscious of the thundering hooves of the bulls and the grave risk that his raised buttocks ran at that moment.
As the first few runners spilled into the ring well before the bulls, eggs and flour and tomatoes rained down on them (for shame, for shame you cowards). The bulls ran in, and we breathed a sigh of relief when we finally spotted Mark and Ben both safe and sound in the arena, only to spend another nail biting 20 minutes watching the young bulls charge at them.
Finding the boys afterwards, I clung to Mark as we wandered home, and said a little thanks to Saint Fermin - thanks for not mauling my man, and thanks for a great couple of days - you and your Spaniards sure know how to throw a party!
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Pambo I WANT MORE!!! Love reading your blogs Liss!