San Fermín

I didn't hear anything. Not the cheers, not the shouts: nothing. The bullring was in mute. I remember the day was clear with perfect lighting. Inside the arena there was a white and red wave of people that swirled with the temper of the bull. We were running forming an outer circle one moment; we would be sequestered center stage the next. It was every man for himself when the bull fired at us. I didn't hear anything but I was just as awake as any other time of the day. There were no sounds only blurry, frozen images stamped in my brain. I knew what I was doing. I knew the danger I was putting myself in. I had seen it hundreds of times. I knew what the outcome would be if I was not careful enough. If I flinched or hesitated for a second I would pay the consequences. I din't want to land in the hospital or, worse, I didn't want to lose my camera trampled by a brute. I had taken the necessary precautions: I went to bed early and had little alcohol the night before. I was eager and ready since 6:30 am. Now I just needed my photographs and come out of this unharmed, again. That morning I felt fearless. In my head I went over the pictures that I needed to complete my photographic series. I needed to be more daring than the days before. It was 7:30 am and the bullring was already overcrowded. At 7:50 am the music band played it's last song "Madrid se quema" (Madrid is burning) and my spirits caught fire. I was ready to go into action. Like an athlete before his big game I was focused on the images I needed to get, on the spins and turns of the ravaging bull and on the pushing and shoving of the panicked runners who tried to escape. I waited patiently seated inside the bullring with my camera next to me. That morning I would not be running with the bulls. I ran the year before and I didn't enjoyed it as I hoped. I preferred running around in the arena with young bulls, people going wild and taking pictures in the disarray. That morning the running with the bulls went out smoothly. There were no major injuries and no deaths. A couple of minutes after the race began the bulls arrived at the arena full speed only to disappear complete. The race was finished. The arena became swarmed with euphoric runners catching their breath and congratulating themselves. From the bullpen, outside the arena, and through a long and somber corridor the young bull flew into the bullring like an animal possessed. His dark skin was shining and his eyes had the look of hell as he approached the calm sea of bodies that awaited for him. With their eyes shut and holding tight to the back of the heads it looked as if they were doing a ritual of respect. But just inches before the brute crushed into their heads the 600 pound bull thew himself into the air. His feat was filled with grace. But his weight soon betrayed him and his heavy legs fell on the backs of those who came late. Still going at full speed he soon realized he was trapped, he felt cornered and, without delay, using his corked horns as a shovel he racked up all the bodies that stood in his way. Fear spread among the runners as the wild bull ran amok. The first few minutes that the young bull enters the arena are the most challenging to take his picture. There is no protection to the speed and violence with which he defends himself. At this point is impossible to guess which direction he is going to take. Even though is rare for bulls to turn or cut corners they are swift and lightning quick when they have to rotate. I waited an extra minute before getting in. I love to get into the arena to chase the bull, dodge the bull and get my picture. My adrenaline rush is at an all time high. I feel fine and safe because my life is not on the line. It's not like the running with the bulls. Inside the arena the knocks can be violent, the blows a bit harsh, I have seen people lose consciousness but nobody dies. The fear, the atmosphere and my camera motive me. With one hand holding my camera and the other safeguarding it from the sporadic blows that come my way I am at a disadvantage. But my pictures are worth it. If I get my great images I feel great if I don't is not the same. It was risky, and that morning I would be risking even more. So, when one of quintessence photos that I was looking for presented itself I didn't think twice before getting on my knees. It was careless. I played a hard daredevil and it cost me my camera. All the runners had fled to the sides except for one man. He stood in the center upright like a lighthouse looking at the sea. The bull was 20 feet in front of him. The picture seemed perfect. The epitome of what this sport was about: man versus beast. The animal was calm. I was too calm. I took several quick shots. But none of them worked. The angle was wrong. I got down in one knee and took more shots. I wasn't done taking pictures. I hand't event taken the camera from my face when the bull suddenly decided to take charge at the him. He just stepped to the side. The bull came directly at me and I didn't have time to respond. I threw myself to the ground. Laying face down with my camera under my chest and my hands covering the back of my head the bull stomped over me. It was too quick to feel anything. I was fine. I wanted to get up it felt eternal to play dead but the bull just hoovers over me. I could hear everything. There were voices all around. They told me not to get up. There was more confusion and I heard clearly all the sounds of the arena. Then the bull decided to step over me, again. I don't know when the bull stepped on my camera. I had a sore back, scrapes on my cheekbones and my arms and pieces of my camera laid on the ground. It must have been the second time right before I wanted to get up. I must have let it out from under me. I didn't feel as much pain for myself as I did for losing my camera. But the pictures were intact. More than half of the pictures in this books are from that week in Pamplona. The others I took them two years later when I decided that it was time for me to go back and have more fun.