Picture it. A medium sized monument in a Pamplona plaza. Crowds of Aussies, Kiwis and South Africans soaking up the Spanish sun and the sangria. One by one they climb to the top of the statue and dive into a human stretcher of hands. And it’s all done for kicks. Leaping off the statue is as big a tradition in Pamplona as running with the bulls. And, like running with the bulls, it helps if you are a little bit crazy. Monument jumping fever starts on July 6, the first day of the festival. After the champagne has stopped flowing for the opening ceremony in the main square everyone heads for the Mussell Bar to continue the party before the bulls begin running the following day.

A triangular plaza surrounded by Spanish pubs, the Mussell Bar is the Aussie/Kiwi/South African hangout. And in the middle of this plaza stands the 20 foot high monument. But, why on earth would anyone want to hurl themselves off a monument?

Isn’t running with the bulls enough of a death wish for some people? “I’ve got no brains,” laughs Wanderer’s World agent, “Roach”. “You see the first guy jump and think hey, that’s me, I’m on, I’m going.” Smiling from ear to ear, he says, it’s great to walk through the streets and have all the girls recognise you as the hero who jumped the monument and ran with the bulls. Ten minutes of fame is great for a few kisses. “Of course its dangerous,” says Roach. “Or else what’s the point?

“I was second off the ledge last year and first off the top of the monument. If you’re going to do it, you might as well do it properly. But it gets a bit dull after a while, you have to do something different. So I jumped off naked.”

Kevin, an engineer from Zimbabwe, also jumped last year and said he was “scared shitless”. “You get to the top and it’s a lot higher than it looks.” So why jump? “Well — everyone else was doing it.” “Bomber” Dale from PP Travel agrees with the power of peer group pressure and warned people to be careful. “You just get sucked in, hypnotised by the carefree party atmosphere. But it’s the most stupid thing you can ever do,” he says. “You could be maimed for life and it’s just not worth it.” The ground is hard cobblestones and littered with broken glass, so any injury is likely to be serious.

Jo, a travel agent with Spearhead, has been to the Mussell Bar several times. “It’s the dumbest thing anyone can ever do” was her immediate response to monument jumping, before quickly adding: “Yes, I did it”. Jo jumped in 1990, the year they took the monument off the pedestal. To make up for it people climbed up the pedestal and then on to someone’s shoulders, to reach roughly the same height as the monument before diving off. “I got really hurt,” Jo said. “I was bruised from my neck to my knees. Never again.” Spanish authorities have given up trying to stop jumpers. Accidents are frequent and people regularly walk into nearby bars and ask for an ambulance.

Ruth, from Top Deck, saw an awful accident last year: “One guy climbed up, took his trousers off, pissed on the crowd, dived, and wondered why no one caught him. The last anyone saw of him he was being carried off on a stretcher.” Perhaps more dangerous than running with the bulls, jumping off Mussell Bar monument has been dubbed great, stupid, a must do, and terminally irresponsible. Party in Pamps and see for yourself.

Each year, Pamplona figures highly on the list of European “musts” for many Aussies, Kiwis and South Africans. But what does Pamps have that other destinations don't? Sienna in Italy hosts the twice-yearly Palio, an equally spectacular pageant, but doesn't attract anywhere near as many travellers. Is it just the mad Spanish cow experience of running in a human stampede ahead of a pack of bulls that turns us on, or is there more than that?
“It’s the best party atmosphere, much better than Oktoberfest because of the weather, and you can mix with the locals,” says Kelly Walker of Wanderers. Colin “Bomber” Dale of PP Travel describes Pamplona as the “essential party of the European summer” and that’s why so many people flock to the, otherwise little visited, capital of Navarra in the Spanish Pyrenees.

It seems the tenet of many on the trips is solely to have a good time. Sleep isn't a high priority. “As tour leaders we're generally first to rise and last to fall and last year I reckon I had 10 hours sleep max in seven days,” says Dale.
“From the moment the buses leave people are up for the fun of it,” says Rod Neiss at Bacpacker Co. “Bomber” adds: “It's a non-stop party aboard the bus to the Channel, on the ferry crossing and the long drive through France. Basically the bus is a roving brewery on wheels, although each bus is different.” The fiesta officially kicks off at midday, July 6 with a champagne reception and continues 24 hours a day for six days. “It's an intoxicating atmosphere,” says David McKivett at Tracks Travel. Alcohol clearly plays an integral role in procedings and the sangria, a fierce Spanish concoction of fermented red wine, spirits and fruits often leaves visitors "enjoying" altogether less than religious experiences.

“Driving into town each morning, one can be forgiven for thinking it had snowed overnight as there is a veritable sea of bodies, dressed in the traditional white running outfit, in various states of consciousness lying over any piece of fauna onto which they could collapse,” says Peter Ellis of Top Deck. To emphasise what Pamps has come to symbolise for Australasians, let us relate the tale of one of PP's road crew. He has now been to Pamplona for July's fiesta seven times, yet saw his first bull last year.

It seems, too, that not everybody is burnt out in time for the return. “Some get a second wind on the way back and don't metaphorically die until the adrenalin stops pumping back in London.” Talking of adrenalin and bulls. Remember, the bulls? They are, in theory, what Pamplona is about. The runnings take place daily at 8am just as many finish the "night shift" and are the real difference between Pamps and such places as Sienna. Let Kelly Walker of Wanderers explain the emotions you'll experience on the run. “It's shit scary — the old heart's beating, the adrenalin's pumping — especially for the first timer.” And he added some helpful advice for those about to run. “Go left or right of the tunnel into the arena because the bulls go through the tunnel.” “Turistos” have, however, been unfortunate in the past — “Bomber” related a tale of an Aussie gored in the elbow on day one. He spent the next three days in hospital before being picked up at outpatients by a returning bus. Furthermore, the bulls don't know your arse from your elbow, as PP guide Shane Baisden discovered last year — he got his name in the local press after a bull gored 10cm into his backside. The Running of The Bulls is obviously dangerous, but associated with the party, it makes for an incredible occasion.

Around 3000 Antipodeans visit Pamps each year on tours. With further individual travellers and vannies attending the Australasian presence is around 5000 making for a home away from home. The fiesta only regains its Spanish feel after the third or fourth day when the tourists seemingly leave en masse, the tours either leaving direct for London or heading for a day's relaxation and recouperation by the beach. Depending which tour you've booked, you may even

At the turn of the century the butcher-boys of Pamplona took to running in front of the bulls as they were driven from the railport to the Plaza de Toros. It was simple, if they did not run no self-respecting Pamplona girl would marry them.

Today, more than 2000 people take part in the Encierro (the running of the bulls) during the Feria of San Fermin, when the city gives in to nine days and nights of celebration, euphoria and mayhem. The Encierro starts at 8am every day when six raging bulls, to be fought that afternoon, make their journey to the bullring through the cordoned off streets.  The 1200m path cuts through the old city, from the steep hill of Santo Domingo, across the town hall square into Calle Mercaderes. From there through the curve of Estafeta to Telefonos, where they run through a tunnel into the bullring. This is a male domain and few women take part. Ostensibly they protest that the run is too physical for women. But, what is really at stake, is the honour of machismo. My father has always said that without women the Feria would be nothing, after all, women are the reason the Encierro began. It is the women who keep the festival on it's feet, they prevent it sliding into alcoholic oblivion and make it a festive celebration. Most men do not approve of women running the bulls. “They should be in the kitchen backing us up”, joked one of the runners. But, women at the Feria are a force to be reckoned with, and unlike me, are usually too busy having a good time to do something as mad as run.

Last year I ran, as a Valiente, one of the so called “heroes”, who run 200 metres ahead of the bulls. The Valientes are much maligned as the cause of Montones (pile ups) and for cheapening the event, in a seen it, done it, read the book sort of way. Injuries are more likely to be caused by the sheer volume of runners than by the bulls themselves, but fatalities do occur. Last year an American was killed by swerving into a bulls horn as they turned at top of Santo Domingo and tore up Estafeta. Traditionally, every veteran runner has a story to tell about a near fatal scrape with the bulls.

At the Feria last year, one of the women suggested we run the Encierro the following morning. The pact was made and we danced through the night, becoming wilder and more reckless. Hell, tomorrow we were running the bulls.

All too quickly the foolhardy night became a cold, cowardly dawn. The brass bands reduced us to goosebumps with their eerie wake up tunes and soon we revellers were silent. Mechanically we went to buy the obligatory newspaper, carried rolled up, to fend off the bulls, our nervousness turned to fear as we walked towards Estafeta. The ground seemed hot and slippery, as I checked my shoelaces. Soon crowds were thronging around us, some young boys cheekily suggested we might not make it. Just then I was more concerned about the giant men pressing in on us. The wait was unbearable. By now we weren’t even at the front, suddenly this was a really bad idea. All too soon the first rocket boomed. The bulls were released and even though they were still faraway, with a rising metallic taste in my mouth, I realised that it would not do to hang around. I ran, I was in a sheer panic, with a voice so shrill I turned around to see who was speaking.

I was worried that my legs didn’t seem to be working. My friend could not speak, her saliva had gone. I mouthed something daft like, is there a way out? The second rocket boomed, the bulls were on the street. Shoals of Valientes somehow escaped from the route like darting fish. I trundled on, breathless and toiling. I saw red, red from the thousand of panuelas above on the balconies, red because my heart was in my mouth. A man fell in front of me as we headed up Estafeta, I had to jump over him. Another man elbowed past me, nastily, I thought.

My body chugged along despite the inner protest. Was I losing it? Flap, flap, flap, went my arms. I could hear my denim-clad legs swoosh in an amplified rhythm. Then I was alone with my fear and I heard no noise, only dark thoughts of the huge mass of bull which were somewhere behind me. As I passed Telefonos I felt certain my friend was still behind, but I could not look back because I was a blizzard of arms and legs.

I plunged through the tunnel into the bullring and towards what seemed like daylight. A blur of red, yellow, then orange as I hurtled faster to the edge of the ring and safety. I was pulled behind the barriers by the ushers, still there was wave of panic. I saw my brother as he hurled the barrier. The bulls entered and it was finished for me, all I could do was quiver behind the barrier, a true hero.

The Spaniard that I was talking to at the start asked: “Did your friend make it as well?” She did make it and afterwards we rewarded ourselves with Brandy Alexandas. The emotion made us all fingers and thumbs. When we got back to the flat, a heap of veteran American runners were having a party. “We ran” we screamed, “Where from?” one of them boomed. “From the front, of course,” another added. Of course. We were only Valientes, worse still, we were girls. See you there.

Fact File

ACCOMMODATION: The population trebles during the Feria, if you scout around you can find rooms in private houses even at the last minute. You will need someone who speaks good Spanish. Look around the bus station area. The campsite at Ezcuba (Tel 948/330315), is 7km out of town, good security, but basic facilities. There are two free campsites during the fiesta, one by the river and another nearer the centre of town, check with Tourismo on C/Duque De Ahumada, just near the main Plaza dell Castillo, open 10am-7pm.

Eating/Drinking: Check out the Tapas, especially the Croquetas de Pescado or Pimiento, as for "un racion" (Fish or red pepper croquettes) you can get a plateful. Drinks double in price if you sit in the main Plaza del Castillo. Beer or "Cana" costs around 250 pesetas per plastic cup. Wine, un tinto or un roado is cheaper still. Bars worth going to are: Meson del Caballo Blanco, on the city ramparts, Bar La Roja, off C/San Nicholas and the Casino bar on Plaza Castillo, packed to the gills with Young Pamplonicos.

Needless to Say: Security can be a problem, especially if you are sleeping rough. Plenty of people loose passports and money on their first night. It is a long trip to San Sebastian to have it renewed. After three days and nights the town can feel scummy and filthy, this is a good time to leave. Visit the swimming pool outside the city walls below the Portal de Zumalacarregui or try some of the surrounding villages, like Estella or Tudela.