The Adventures of a Wandering Kiwi

It’s 7:55am.

My fatigued feet are suffering from pains brought on by uneven cobblestones and a night-long effort to dodge mysterious puddles and the spontaneous moshing of drunken strangers. My body has moved well past the ska-dancing, street-skipping stage of just a few hours ago and after over twenty-four hours of being awake is pleading for a bed. Any will do. My head, clouded by tiredness and the final residue of cheap red wine would by sheer weakness give in if it weren’t for that stubborn streak of mine. I didn’t make it through the night for nothing.

My companions, seven Catalan guys, one fellow kiwi and I, the only girl, are not yet ready to take that shame-walk back to our make-shift campsite on grassy council land.

We started out pristine in red and white, the posterboys (and girl) of the San Fermin revolution. Now we are kalimotxo-spotted rascals with kalimotxo breath.

Us nine form part of a greater party, speckled with the sins of a night’s revelry. We have gathered with rising of the sun and watched as beer-goggles and darkness have given way to the critical light of morning. I will not judge you for your beer-stained shirt if you do not judge me for my wine-stained lips.

We hold fast to our positions at this sturdy metal gate which separates us from there below; a narrow cobbled street, recently cleaned, and waiting.

There are those who sway to the memory of last night’s song, sipping back that last cubata. And there are others who take advantage of tight quarters to get friendly with dread-locked beauties and pierced princesses who have fought through the ranks to get to the first row.

Us females are few. We are drowned out by the bitter odour of sweat, urine and booze; the testosterone-saturated scent of the San Fermin fiesta.

It’s 8:00am.

The air amongst us intensifies. We lean forward, eyes forced open, feet planted firm. A universal inhaling of breath. And we see them, the red and white uniforms of the brave and the foolish storming past. We shout. We applaud. We rock. We sway. We stay ever attentive for the big moment, stretching, contorting, reaching with our eyes. Frantic hooves thunder. Betrayed by my height I am caught in a battle between bandannas and beer-stains. By the time I emerge the bulls have gone.

¿Los has visto? ¿Los has visto? Did you see them? They ask.

No, I reply.

What I don’t add is that I didn’t need to.