La Tomatina de Buñol

What a crazy thing. It doesn't get much more authentic than the tomatina. We got up around 6 am to get to the estaciòn valencia nord, where we already saw many fellow tomatidors. white clothing and goggles is how you could pick them out. And that most of them were speaking english - lots of australians...

Anyway, we got our ticket (only 4.15 €!) To buñol and back. The trip consisted of a metro with a connection to a medium distance train that took about 30 minutes or so. It took us to Buñol, a village tucked away in some hills. When we got there, the first thing we passed as we got off the train was a tent selling alcohol. Okay, we see how you guys do this thing. We got monster cups of sangria, probably around a half liter, maybe more. Declicious.

We met some New Zealanders who we stuck with for the first half of the festivities: the ham up the greasy pole. This is insane. The have a telephone pole, 20 ft. tall or so, with an inch thick of lard smeared up and down the thing, and everyone tries to climb the pole to get a ham down which is tied to the top. Ridiculous. We pushed our way right to the action. I was one of the privelaged couple dozen to be close enough to touch the pole. People climbing on you, inadvertant elbows to the face, slippery shoes decking you in the forehead, who wouldn't want to be there?

At first, people were trying to get the ham for themselves, and everyone was trying to pull down the guy in front of them so they could climb it themselves. We soon realized, however, that it wasn't going to happen without some serious cooperation. The strategy was to press in tight around the outside of the pole, like a rugby scrum, and let a few people step on you to get a little higher, let a few people climb on those people, etc. Even after we brushed the layer of lard of the pole, it was still so so so slippery. Don't think we got the ham down until after tomatoes began to fly. And oh did they fly.

When the first truck rolled lazily down the street at the speed of a walking man pushing his way through the crowd, the cheers were deafening. I donned my goggles and prepared for chaos. For one hour, trucks rolled through the streets, which were packed with people when a truck wasn't around and way more packed when one was passing by, and the people in the back of the trucks threw handfuls of squishy tomatoes over the edges. Then people picked them up off the ground and began slinging them everywhere.

I have never been so dirty. I have never done anything so crazy. It was completely insane. But I'm glad I did it! Near the end, the street was literally ankle deep with chunky bright red tomato sauce made in a unique way. And apparently this was still suitable to throw around, or dump on someone's head. The nice residents of Buñol had also been showering us with ice cold water from their hoses and buckets the whole time. To keep us clean. (Yeah right).

At long last, there was an air raid siren type deal, and the announcement boomed across the town. First in spanish, then in english: "Please. Stop throwing tomatoes." That didn't stop some of us, but the over-eager Protectiòn Civil officers were happy to stop anyone who was still celebrating in that way.

I'm glad I read about the rules of this thing beforehand, because a lot of people didn't know that you had to be relatively clean and with a shirt to board the train back to Valencia. Although mine had been ripped from my body relatively early on, I had kept a hand on it and managed to tie it in a toga-like fashion around my body, which apparently was good enough. Some very disappointed English men were trying to reason with the police, who would not let them through to the train because of their lack of shirts.

After the fight, the festival continued as it had all week. There was lots of drinking and dancing. For us though, it was back to Valencia. As soon as we made it back, we got clean and took a nap. What a crazy thing. Nothing like it. Like I said though, I'm really glad I did it.