La Tomatina August 27th 2008

I was first introduced to Fanatics through Rob’s friend Lynn. I had wanted to do La Tomatina, but had done little to organise it, so she gave me their web address and I looked them up.

Fanatics are an Australian tour group based in London and I figured they would be a good way to meet people when travelling alone for the Spanish fiesta – La Tomatina.

I farewelled Barcelona and made my way to Valencia, the Spanish city renowned for its succulent oranges. Close by is Buñol, whose notoriety for produce comes not from eating it but from the locals’ habit of wearing it. Each year, on the last Wednesday of every August this small town hosts La Tomatina, the world’s largest food fight.

The fight takes place during a weeklong celebration filled with on-going festivities and with even greater anticipation for the mammoth tomato battle that serves as the zenith of the week’s events.

No one knows for sure where La Tomatina originates from, but it is said that it began with a laugh. During the forties, in Buñol’s main town square, a number of friends started a tomato fight. It’s unclear whether the initial volley was aimed at city officials or simply pedestrians unlucky enough to be in the line of fire. Soon enough, however, with their rowdy hooliganism drawing passers-by into the fray, everyone was having a great time. They had so much fun, in fact, that from that day forward, the fiesta has been celebrated annually and has grown ever bigger each year.

I arrived at campsite II, just on the outskirts of Valencia on the 25th of August. In total there were over 1300 people dispersed around 2 hotels, 2 hostels and 2 campsites – the numbers were chiefly made up of Australians, but Kiwis, Poms and South Africans also contributed to the numbers.

Having always made friendships with boys far more easily than girls, I was immediately inducted into a group and spent the remainder of the tour with some very loud, but very fun Australian guys.

Come nightfall any modesty shown earlier went out the window with the first litre of sangria.

At about 11p.m on our first night a rather boisterous crew of about 100 headed down to the beach and within 5 minutes the Mediterranean Sea was swimming with nudity.

One boy thought it would be clever to hide his passport in the sand, to avoid theft.  Come the time to get dressed and leave, he couldn’t remember where he had buried it and spent the remainder of his tour chasing up a new passport at the Australian embassy.

The following day was spent on the beach, sweating out the toxins from the night before, getting ready for another night of abuse.

At around 6pm, campsite II took a bus into town to meet up with the other groups. Hundreds flocked from the buses into the piazza and instantly dominated the square with our eminent yellow shirts.

The 27th brought with it great excitement. While Fanatics awoke, still quite drunk from the night before, dressing into ready-to-bin clothing and boarding the bus, shopkeepers and business owners along the Plaza in Bunol set about covering windows and doors in preparation for the messy onslaught.

From where the bus dropped us off, we were about a half hour walk into the centre of the town. We stopped to buy beers and sangria at every bar we came across and by the end of the walk, we were a barrel short of a brewery.

Within an hour, my white shirt was soaked with wine, beer and sangria, spat straight from the mouths of passers-by.

We made our way into the square where 20,000 revellers eagerly awaited the capture of the ham.

The throwing of the tomatoes starts once the ham has been retrieved from the top of a greased up pole, which stands at around 12 foot.

Once the ham has been retrieved, large trucks rumble up through the cobblestone streets, arriving in the square and, from the back of the huge trucks, firm, squishy and sloppy tomatoes are ceremoniously pelted into the crowd.

Girls have their shirts ripped off by destructive Spaniards, and by the end, nobody is wearing shoes, lost in the knee-deep pool of tomato puree.

Thankfully, a friend of mine who went to the fight last year advised me that I wear goggles. Since you can’t escape the crowd to use the toilets, everyone goes where they are standing.

Like all good battles, the assault is over in less than half an hour. Everyone then reconciles with their former targets and fellow warriors and heads down to the river to remove the saucy mess from hair and body.

We arrived back at the campsite mid afternoon and hit the sangria again.

The next day everyone packed up to leave. Having not booked accommodation or a way into town, I sat around unsure as to what we should do with 2 other lads from South Australia.

Karen, another member of the tour, also had no plans and suggested the four of us share a hotel room.

Arriving into town, we found a hostel for 35 euro each a night. We found it to be a tad expensive, but saw no other option. For laughs, we thought we’d try the hotel next door, never thinking we could afford it. However, for only an extra 2 euros each, we took the 4 star option and treated ourselves to a night of luxury.

We showered and preened, paying special attention to our noses, tear ducts, ears, scalps, belly buttons and under our nails, which were caked with dried tomato.

We took a light dinner, steering clear of the marinara pasta and headed home to rest.