It's not often in life you get an opportunity to experience the
extremes of another nations' culture. Think of an Italian at a 5
day test match, barmy army and all and you'll get what I mean. But
on my recent bog standard 'Costa…' holiday in Spain I took the
opportunity to go bull running. Not without a great deal
trepidation and hand-wringing. Firstly I had to persuade the family
(wife, 3 kids) I would be careful, whatever that means at a bull
run. Then I had to square my conscience, they don't actually kill
the bull by slow torture do they?, it's part of their culture etc
etc. Then I had to steel myself for a late night, it doesn't start
until 12.30am and finishes around 4.00am (way past my bedtime and I
wanted to stay sober so it was a long evening). As we walked up to
old town Calpe we decided there were no downsides, even getting
gorged would in time become a scar and a terrific story you could
dine out on for years, death - a rarity - would become a story for
the wife and kids to relay.
The experience was absolutely mind-blowing. 3,000 people (pretty
much all Spanish), small kids, mothers, grandmas and granddads,
young Spanish lads trying to make a name for themselves and vetran
bull runners with the scars to match. Non-existent Health and
Safety, no police, marshalls or stewards, one ambulance…! The
smallest village fete in the UK would have all this and more. Over
4 hours 6 bulls were let loose into one street, 150 yards long sort
of fenced off either side with prison cell cages with bars just
wide enough for a relatively slim man to slip through unhindered,
and that's about it. The whole audience just taunts, goads and
generally try to wind-up each bull, even the little kids have their
toys dangling from the end of poles trying to whack the bull as it
goes past. Bottles, glasses, sticks are thrown at the bull, blokes
hit them with long sticks and everyone dances about in front of the
bull trying to get it to charge. When it does everyone rushes to
the nearest cage and jumps through the bars to relative safety, the
bull still butts the cage repeatedly (and they've got long horns),
the bravest few never go into the cages and dance around dodging
the bull until it gives up and moves on to easier targets. We
started of like wuss's but by the end of the night high on
adrenalin and a Spanish sized brandy we were going for it side by
side with the locals (still with an eye on the cage of course). Oh
by the way, the final bull was bought out and had fireworks
attached to its' horns, now that made it very very angry and me a
little bit sick and ashamed for being there.
We saw a gorging and a few flippings which are unbelievable to
witness live.
I've surfed some pretty big waves, walked about Moss Side at the
wrong time of night, had some running battles with various football
hooligans over the years, but the adrenalin rush, fear, excitement,
disgust of your first bull run tops them all.
As an experience of culture there's nothing so un-British.
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