The Burning Bus

I was reminded of a memorable moment from my past when I was recently tagged in this old photo on Facebook. I was travelling with the ACT representative team to the Australian Country Football Championships in Bendigo in 1998 when everyone on board started to smell a smokey/burning smell. One of the guys looked sheepishly around and took the batteries out of his Gameboy because he thought they were overheating. All of sudden there was a load bang which shook the entire bus, and which I initially thought could only be a cow or very large kangaroo hitting the front of the vehicle.

The bus pulled over and we were all bundled off because there was a lot of smoke coming out from under the rear left tyres. Soon it became clear that the tyre was on fire and it wasn't going to be a trivial task to put it out. Whilst the bus driver tried in vain, ferrying small buckets of water from a nearby stream, we began unloading the luggage ‘just in case.’

The funniest quote of the day (in hindsight) came from the bus driver who, as the fire began to gain in strength and start to burn the body of the bus, exclaimed “Oh no, not the paint.” You can see why this is so funny by just looking at the picture.

Traffic on the Hume Highway was stopped in both directions as the fire developed into an inferno. Meanwhile we took the opportunity to have a kick around in the middle of the highway. Within half an hour the bus had been reduced to nothing but a carcass. A replacement was ordered and we eventually made it to Bendigo, but you have to feel for the coach driver who was on his first gig!

Worst Film Ever

The film Happy-Go-Lucky was playing in the background on the television last night whilst Em and I chatted to Fran. We had unfortunately wasted an evening seeing Happy-Go-Lucky a couple of years back whilst holidaying in Biarritz. Fran hadn't seen it so we proceeded to slate it in front of her, and I was reminded that I (and my mate Tom) actually made the effort to review the film on TimeOut:

I have never felt strongly enough about a film, whether good or bad, to make the effort and write a review; I never actually visit any film review sites. But on this occasion I just had to find somewhere to vent my... disbelief. Disbelief that things like this are allowed to be produced - it is horrible. Forcing reviewers to give one star is just plain wrong, as something that is as painful to watch as this should get nothing but warnings - a pirate symbol would be appropriate. Being a social moron is not the same as being happy go lucky...

Tom responded with his own review:

I was in France, and don't speak french, this was the only film playing in english on a rainy night. I think in hindsight i would have prefered to stand out in the rain. The characters were not real, the script so blatant and obvious they each spoke over the last words of each others sentences, and what the hell was the go with the homeless bloke? social commentary......hmmm,

And another one that we liked:

Never trust a film that has been praised at some European film festival (Berlin in this case). I only gave this film one star, as this site does not do minus stars. The worst film I have ever seen. I could only stand one hour of it - and only stayed this long in the vague hope that the moronic, irritating lead would meet an untimely end. It looked like the result of giving some no-hoper meeja-studies students a camera and telling them to amuse themselves for a bit. Mike Leigh, a producer? Best oxymoron of the year!

About That Bull Run

As I said in my previous post, the Spaniards I had met since arriving here had indicated that running with the bulls on the weekend was not considered something an intelligent person would do. 'The people, not the bulls, became the danger; 'people' meaning the thousands upon thousands of drunken Australians and Kiwis on 3 day organised tours or discount RyanAir flights from London'. Our first lot of friends arrived on Friday night - Australians on cheap EasyJet flights from London intent on getting drunk and running with the bulls...

At 6.30am on Saturday morning we began the 20 minute stroll from our apartment intent on getting good positioning in the run, and for the girls, a decent spot to watch. We joked and laughed on the way, discussing running techniques, the state of our side steps and fend offs, as if we'd actually utilize them if we did happen to get into any trouble. To be honest, despite being nervous about the bulls, we were also nervous about our recently untried hamstrings on our not so limber 29 year old bodies - if one of those was to go whilst in the path of the bulls it would make for painful, although quite funny YouTube video.

The story of the previous night's festivites was painted on the streets, in the parks and on park benches, in the doorways and sidewalks. People were everywhere, some of them still partying and showing no signs of slowing, others having ground to a halt some hours before, unable to make it all the way home, if indeed they actually did have a home for the weekend. Small cleaning trucks, the ones with the large rotating brushes on the underside, did their best to rid the streets of the stench of urine and trash, which in the confines of the small streets was at times overpowering.

We found our way to an entrance on the run, and said our goodbyes to our respective girlfriends. The girls looked more nervous than we were, but by that stage the adrenaline had started to churn through our bodies, whereas concern was all that was running through theirs.

Did You Run With the Bulls?

Each morning of the San Fermin festival, after thousands had partied through the night up in the Old Town, I found myself still lying in bed, silently... listening. Outside my bedroom window, everything sounded just like any other morning before work; calm and quiet. Peaceful. But as I lay sprawled out from a solid night's sleep avoiding another opportunity to run with the bulls, the seconds ticked down towards 8am - Pamplona was about to explode. Thousands readied themselves for the 20 or so horns backed by 6-7,000 kilograms about to charge at and through them. The first rocket, to indicate the bulls had been released, would break the silence and echo around the mountains surrounding Pamplona. From my bed I could faintly hear the excitement and the noise that that first rocket generates amongst the crowd lining the run. I could only imagine the fear that it triggers in the runners. I would lay quietly for the next 15-30 seconds, listening intently, waiting for the second rocket to explode...

After that second rocket, as hundreds ran frenzied through the miniscule, cobble-stoned streets with 12 monstrous bulls, not 2km from my bedroom window, I would pull myself out of bed and stumble into the shower with a heavy weight on my mind, and a queasy feeling in my stomach. Another morning of San Fermin had gone by, another encierro (running of the bulls) was unfolding... and I was yet to run.

El Chupinazo - 24 Hours Before The First Bull Run

For years I have been boasting about making it to the running of the bulls, or what the Spanish call San Fermin, in Pamplona, Spain. It was one of the first festivals that a mate and I had included on our 'I Dare You' world tour - a brainwave idea I had when I was about 21, to travel to the most remote areas of the globe, partaking in the most dangerous activities and festivals and capturing it all on film. We were certain we would become rich and revered. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on one's perspective, the I Dare You quest never made it past the echoes of our words in half empty pint glasses throughout the years.

I have managed to make it to San Fermin, albeit in slightly different circumstances than I had anticipated all those years ago. Having moved to Pamplona 5 months ago I have had the opportunity to talk to a lot of people that have lived and breathed San Fermin for one week every year of their lives... Although I'm not sure it has done much else but give us a comfortable place to stay, as well as making us a little more aware of what goes on, and what it takes.