Luckily,
in this day and age, I don't have to actually go to Pamplona. The
interwebs have provided ways for me to take in the the fiesta and
still be there for my shift at my day job. I am a Walter Mitty of the
Information Age.
PETA's pre-fiesta protests were disappointing again. Gone are the days when
they were like the climax to surrealistic, sadomasochistic spaghetti
westerns. They brought back exposed breasts, but kept the black
loincloths. And I noticed fewer participants. I would be sad if this
tradition faded away.
Crowds
getting out of control caused the Riau-Riau, a march of Pamplona city
officials, to be canceled due to a near riot triggered by orgiastic
behavior – women riding on men's shoulders, breasts shown and
touched – after the opening Tuxpinazo rocket launch: the Tuxpinazo
begins a high that for many people will last the whole week,
according to SanFermin.com.
Attempts to ban fountain jumping did not curtail the dangerous activity. Some
traditions can't be stopped.
In
the first encierro, a bull hooked a man's shirt and bandana, dragging
him for 39 meters. It was like an old-fashioned men's adventure
magazine story.
On
the second day the bulls from Miura – infamous for killing
matadors (one killed Manolete) – did a badass run, though there were
no injuries. There were injuries during other encierros.
There
were runners with cameras strapped to their heads, though I haven't
seen any of their videos online yet. More women are running. And
people of color. Also folks with gray and while hair. One guy had a
red turban.
More
and more, I see the aspects of a religious ritual: Some runners jump
up and down like pogoing punk rockers while waiting for the bulls,
while others sing to the effigy of Saint Fermin. There is a strong
compulsion to touch the bulls, and run with a hand on the bulls back or holding a horn. Pagan bull worship is alive and well.
Some
people cower in the awesome presence of the bulls. At the beginning
of the encierro, you see them, hesitating, deciding not to run, or
letting the bulls pass and running behind them. One guy with a camera
strapped to his head froze, his mouth open, hands shaking beside his
face as a horn cut by him. Others fell and curled into fetal
position. Another crawled and tried to hide behind the legs of people
who were frozen with terror, leaning against a wall.
I
don't think any less of these folks. Here in the artificial
environments of 21st
century civilization, we lose touch with nature, forget what it can
be like and how powerful it is. These people may have gotten scared,
but they got face-to-face with the Beast. I congratulate them.
The
final day was dominated by Juan José Padilla, back from having lost
an eye when he was gored in the face. Now he wears an eyepatch. El
Ciclón de Jerez now flies the skull and crossbones. He kills
magnificently without binocular vision. The crowds treat him like a
saint who was resurrected from the dead.
Gracias,
San Fermín. I am inspired. The sci-fi/dystopian ideas are raging
across my synapses.
It's
all about crowd control. Which is mind control writ large. Which is
what religion is all about. Politics, too.
That's
dangerous territory. And that's where I need to be.
