Alexander Fiske-Harrison: Writer, Bull-Runner and Chronicler of the Bulls
Alexander Fiske-Harrison is a British author, journalist, conservationist, bull-runner and former amateur bull-fighter. Raised in England, he relocated to Spain in his thirties. He studied large mammal zoology and animal behaviour at the University of Oxford, then pursued foundations of biology and animal consciousness as a postgraduate at the University of London.
While researching a book, he trained as a bullfighter in Andalusia alongside matadors such as Juan José Padilla, Cayetano Rivera Ordóñez and Eduardo Dávila Miura. That book, Into The Arena: The World Of The Spanish Bullfight, was shortlisted for the William Hill Sports Book Of The Year Award 2011. His tale of 1950s Paris and Pamplona, Les Invincibles, was shortlisted for The Hemingway Prize 2016 in France. In Spain he has spoken at the Foundation of Taurine Studies, at the University of Seville and for the Ambassador of Spain to the United Kingdom.
Writing and Commentary on the World of the Bulls
His work on the bullfighting world has appeared in national and international media, including The Times, The New York Times, Newsweek, GQ magazine, the BBC, CNN and the Discovery Channel. He first ran with the bulls in Pamplona in 2009 and, apart from 2010 — when he was bullfighting in Andalusia — has run every year since in the encierros of San Fermín, as well as in other Spanish towns such as San Sebastián de los Reyes (Madrid), Cuéllar (Castile and León), Tafalla and Falces (Navarre).
El Toro Bravo: A Living Myth
“It’s when the dreams start, the nightmares, the ones with black shadows, the ones with horns. That’s when you know it’s coming; that’s when you know it’s really begun.” Bull-runners murmur these words to one another — in restaurants, in bars, in letters, emails and social media groups. The chatter goes on all year, yet a chill of anxiety, trepidation and dread creeps into our voices as the spring sun rises. Deep in the unconscious, the vernal equinox stirs dark things: memories, fears, the ghosts of bulls we have run with and nearly died with.
Every day I have run in Pamplona — the greatest and most famous encierro of them all — my fears for myself have been matched by fears for others. Hence the need for this book. At each of those forty-odd San Fermín encierros (as of 2016) I have been struck by how many newcomers seem to believe these animals are somehow not dangerous, even tame — otherwise, how would the event be allowed? Who would let unwitting tourists loose in a street with half-ton horned animals that have never seen a man on the ground before? The answer, to paraphrase The Go-Between, is that Spain is a foreign country; they do things differently there.
Lessons from the Encierro
In my fourth encierro, in Pamplona in 2011, I found myself wedged against the fence by a panicked press of bodies, unable to move as a four-year-old, 585kg (1,290lbs/92 stone) Spanish fighting bull bore down on me. That day the bull, Empleado, from the notoriously dangerous Cebado Gago ranch, chose the man beside me instead. He ended up in hospital while I ended up in Bar Txoko — and it was the bull that decided who went where. That day made me as a bull-runner, and I have not run the same since.
Which is why in 2015 in Cuéllar — the Old Castile town hosting the most ancient encierro in the world — I kept a healthy distance from a bull whose left horn was coated with the blood of a man he had just killed. On video it looks like a glancing blow: the bull runs past and nods its head as though bowing in respect, yet in a movement too fast for the human eye it punched its horn up under the man’s ribs and burst his heart within his chest. In total, fifteen people died in bull-running events across Spain that year.
From Street to Plaza: The History of the Run
In an encierro the streets themselves become a plaza de toros. In days gone by the bull-run and the bullfight were almost indistinguishable: the encierro often ended in the town square, which was closed off with wagons or makeshift barricades, and a capea — an informal bullfight — would begin. In Pamplona, where emergency services are primed and medical expertise is that of a major city rather than a village, there have been only fifteen deaths since records began in the 1920s.
This is why, unless you know what you are doing — and especially what to do when things go wrong — you needlessly and massively increase your risk of leaving on a stretcher if you are lucky, and in a body-bag if you are not.
Fatalities and Risk in Pamplona
The first recorded death was Esteban Domeño Laborra, from Sangüesa (which also holds an encierro), in 1924 — an account appears in The Sun Also Rises, as Hemingway was there that year. The most recent was Daniel Jimeno Romero, from Alcalá de Henares (which also holds an encierro), in 2009 — an account appears in Into The Arena, as I was there that year.
These days between fifteen hundred and three thousand people run in each of the eight daily encierros, and with only two fatalities this century the Pamplona fatality rate is around 1 in 150,000 runs. That is roughly the same as the fatality rate for jumping out of an aeroplane: according to the United States Parachute Association, out of 3.5 million jumps in 2015 there were 21 fatal accidents. Yet there is one great difference between skydiving and bull-running: before their first parachute jump, people are invariably taught…
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