El Fight de Tomatoes

When I found out the dates that Ashley wanted to come visit, I realized they coincided with La Tomatina, an annual, internationally-known tomato fight held in Buñol (near Valencia) every year.  Luckily, it was on Ashley's List of Things To Do Before I Die, so when I suggested we go, she was all for it.  I also invited my good friend Eric, who, if he had known what would happen at the end of the trip, probably would have stayed home and watched it on TV instead.

First things first, we prepared ourselves with goggles, waterproof cameras, and 2-euro tank tops painted for the occasion:

Given the choice of staying in the only hostel still available, with reviews like "there was a strange smell coming out of the ventilation," or taking the train to Valencia the night before and staying up until the morning, we chose the latter.  Eric and I have a habit of hanging out with large groups of Brazilians wherever we go, and that night was no exception.  We randomly met this group of people from Brasil, living in Madrid, and ended up spending the night with them.  At 6 am or so, the majority of them returned to their hotel to change clothes, and promised to meet us there.  Later on, we found out that they ended up falling asleep and missing the whole thing.  Four of us made it to the train station, but we got split up even more when the rush of people were boarding the train.  So unfortunately, I didn't get to nail Ashley or Eric with a handful of mashed up tomato.  But I had a new friend (and bodyguard) in Fanderson, one of the Brazilians, and after a short nap on the street we headed towards the center.  

Before the fight starts, there's entertainment in the form of "Ham Up a Greasy Pole," which is exactly what it sounds like.  Brave (or drunk) party-goers try to scramble up this crisco-ed pole to try to grab the chunk of ham taunting them at the top, and the fight starts as soon as someone gets it down.  Meanwhile, townspeople stand at their windows with hoses or with big tubs of water, throwing it onto the cheering rowd while overzealous boys throw their wet tshirts around like in a mosh pit.

This year, despite a valiant attempt by chickens and bare-assed men alike, no one was able to get a hold of the prize.  Luckily, they decided to start the fight anyway, as to prevent a riot.  Even though, that's kind of the point...

Bring on the trucks!  After the horn sounds, trucks come down the street every few minutes for a hour, with people flattening themselves up against the walls to avoid being run over.  The men and women inside get the crowd going crazy, then start throwing tomatoes over.  The trucks stop and the back lifts up slowly, letting the avalanche of tomatoes pour out onto the street.  They're scooped up and thrown around before they even get near the ground.

It didn't take long for me to have tomato in my ears, mouth, hair... and dripping down my arms.  Everyone was picking tomatoes up off the ground, scraping it off the walls, wherever they could get it to chuck it at loved ones and strangers.  By the time the horn sounds to signify the end of the fight, everyone is covered.

Somehow, my flipflops managed to survive.  

Afterwards, we followed the parade of people alternating between picking tomato out of their hair and splashing in the tomato soupy mess that flowed down the streets. On the way to the outdoor showers, people hung out the window with hoses, and grateful tourists hosed off. Since you can't get back on the train to Valencia without a shirt, the boys who earlier thought it was fun to throw around their soaking wet t-shirts now were searching through the muck to put on anything they could find. Fanderson and I found our way back to the street where a nice lady had offered to hold our things in her apartment, and after we yelled to her window from the street, she threw down my tomato-free bag. Still unable to find Ashley or Eric, we headed back to Valenica and got some Paella, since that's where it originates.




Later on, I headed to the bus station, hoping to find Ashley and Eric there before we were all supposed to head back at 8 pm. Instead of finding them together, I found a horrified Ashley talking to a Romanian man who had stopped to help her. When I asked where Eric was, she told me that while they were sitting and talking at the bus station, the police singled him out and asked to see his passport. Ashley didn't have hers since it was in my bag, but that didn't matter because she's blonde and had an American driver's license. When they saw that Eric had overstayed his welcome by a few months, they hauled him off and shrugged off his pleas to help Ashley since she doesn't speak Spanish. After she told me, we were both in shock, and it was a very solemn ride home. We had no way of reaching him, and didn't hear from him until the next night while I was trying to call his work to tell them he couldn't come in. I was convinced he was on a plane back to Mexico and was planning on going to his apartment the next day to talk to his roommates and get his things together. Apparently, the way it works is if they find you've overstayed your visa, you have 6 months to get everything together before you have to leave, and that's only if they follow through with the paperwork (otherwise you're off the hook). So he'll be here at least until February. What saddened me almost as much as the thought of losing one of my best friends here is the blatant racism involved (they gave Ashley no problem even though she didn't even have her passport, and treated him like a criminal from the start because they could tell he wasn't Spanish).

But despite the dramatic end, we all had an incredible time during the fight. Eric's back, and the only lasting problem was that we couldn't eat tomatoes for a week. I'm glad to say I participated in the tradition, and Ashley has one more thing crossed off her list.

*The illustration is "Immigration Barriers" by my lovely and talented sister. More can be found at www.steviefrench.com
Shameless plug.