Tomatoes, tomatoes and more tomatoes
Trip Start
Apr 15, 2007
1
23
39
Trip End
Oct 25, 2007
Bunol,
Spain
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
All three of us fell asleep on the train and were shocked to find it didn't arrive in Bunol until 8.45am. We grabbed something to eat, had a wander around the town and went back to the train station to wait for Joe and the girls he was travelling with. Even the area around the train station was pumping and filled with people. Little stands selling overpriced beers and baguettes lined the carpark, where parked cars blasted dance music. If it weren't for the town's appearance, I may have thought I was back in Australia; there were Aussies everywhere and the sound of our accent practically reverberated around the streets. One train arrived between ours and Joe's and off it poured thousands more people who added to the already enormous crowd. Plenty of people were already drunk at that time in the morning- I don't know if they were still going from the night before or had just started exceptionally early.
Joe's train finally arrived and we met Nadya, Lian, Claire, Mish, and Caroline. The nine of us following the crowd as it poured down the roads to a lower part of the town, where we assumed the fight must be taking place. We were swept up in the crowd as the thousands upon thousands of people built and built.
When we finally reached the street upon which the fight takes place, I couldn't believe my eyes. There must have been 40,000 people packed into a narrow street - and that's narrow by European standards and not Australian standards! Everyone was jostling, yelling and singing 'Ole, Ole' beers in hand, goggles on head. We pushed our way into the center of the street, about halfway down the road. Here, it was a real effort to stay upright with people pushing at you from all directions. Either side of the street was lined with two story buildings. Some of which were covered in newspaper and plastic. The majority of them had balconies, from which smiling locals were throwing buckets of water on the crowds below. Some locals had pressure hoses and were squirting blasts of water at the crowd who cheered in response and raised their hands to be sprayed again and thus recieve some relief from the building heat. Other locals had video cameras in hand and were simply standing and filming the craziness that was taking place beneath them.
I had had no idea what to expect, but it was definetely not what I was experiencing. I couldn't comprehend the huge numbers of people and the atmosphere was unreal. Suspense lingerered in the air; you could feel and see it. Everyone was incredibly rowdy, loud and pushy - the Spaniards and foreigners alike. Already people were searching for anything to throw; shoes, wet t-shirts rolled into tight bundles, empty beer cups. People were pushing us aside in an effort to get to a position from which they could see the pole and the ham. Every crowding around me were at least a head taller than me and consequently I could only see a sea of sweaty chests. Sweat or water? Or Sangria or beer? It was impossible to tell where one ended and the others began. Everyone was drenched already. My t-shirt was stretched as people grabbed it in an effort to steady themselves or remain upright as others elbowed their way past. I recieved a few blows to the head and back, and i wouldve recieved more had it not been for Joe standing behind me.
Finally Joe - at 6.4ft - tells us shorties that he can see a truck. 'What? Coming this way?' we ask. In my mind, there is no way a truck could fit down this street - the street was narrow enough as it was yet people were packed into it like sardines. There was barely enough room to breath, let alone for a truck to pass through! But- 'Yep, it's coming this way', Joe responds. And in a second his remark was confirmed by a wave of people in front of us pushing back in an effort to clear a path for the truck. As if I needed more confirmation, the familiar smell of tomatoes washed our way, flooding our nostrils as it filled the atmosphere.
As the truck came slowly closer, I saw what was happening. Two Spanish men were walking in front of it pushing people back and to the sides. People were squeezing down along the sides of the truck and spilling out behind it to join the mayhem that was the tomato fight. It reminded me of a large object being sucked up by a vacuum cleaner, squeezed down the pipe and spat out at the other end. And it felt like that too as we were pushed down one side of the truck, pushing against and away from it in an effort to not get run over. We fell out behind the truck gasping for air but we were offered no relief as tomatoes hurled through the air all around us, pumpelling into us from every direction. People were shoulder to shoulder - I couldnt move an arm in order to throw a tomato myself but yet I was still getting covered in them. I almost fell over countless times as my feet were trod on and I was pushed simultaneously. I was only kept up by Joe or the endless people pushing at me from the opposite directions. At one point the people pushing on either side of me caused me to be lifted off the ground momentarily. I lost my shoes in such a circumstance. It was pure craziness.
Time for Truck #2. This time I was one of the last people to be pushed to the side of the truck. Consequently, there was noone between me and the truck as it rolled by. I was pushing with all my might against it in an effort to prevent my feet from going under the enormous wheels. Unfortunately I was considerably shorter than the people on either side of me who could reach the panels of the truck. I was only just reaching the metal wheel guard which didn't provide a very good surface for me to push against. With people behind me pushing forward, my left foot was slowly sliding in front of the oncoming back wheel, and I was pushing back with no avail. Just as I thought my foot was about to be crushed, the tall boy to the right of me put his left arm around me and hoisted me off the ground, lifting my foot away from the path of the wheel just in time. 'Thanks' I gasped, before finding Joe again whose hand had been cut quite badly by the same useless metal wheel guards. Seeking refuge, Joe and I followed the spaces left in the wake of the truck to a part of the street where there were less people. The people that were here were considerably cleaner than us, as the tomatoes were all getting thrown out of the trucks well before they reached this part of the street. Even more alarmingly, the 'clean' people extended a further 200m behind us away from the action. So many people.
Another 3 trucks passed through, and finally one truck that still had tomatoes passed through. Locals sitting in the back of the truck grinned down at us as they squeezed the juice out of the tomatoes upon the streaking people below, before hurling them into the crowd. We ran into Stef and Nathan, both looking quite clean in comparison to most of the people around us. We watched amused as people emerged from the thick of it, covered head to toe in tomatoes, stained red and pink.
I then had the bright idea to go back into the action. Upon arrival we were pumelled incessantly, from all directions. The people in front of us were trying to get out. The people behind us and from the side streets on either side of us were trying to get in to get some action. We were smack bang in the center. For about 5 minutes we were ceaselessly knocked around by the endless pushing and shoving. Finally, it became apparent the last truck had passed through and everyone started pushing in the same direction - towards a nearby sidestreet. We went with it and finally the relentless pushing eased up and we were able to walk (relatively) normally, if you ignore the fact we were walking in about 1f of tomato juice, which was hiding countless scraps of tomatoe, shoes, hats, ripped tshirts, cups and bottles. The buildings were covered in tomatoes and streaked by lines of juice left as the tomatoes slid to the floor to join the sea of red mush. The fight seemed to have sapped the rowdiness out of the crowds and so the yelling and singing was replaced by the squelch and quelch of people walking through the stew. Everyone was coloured in hues of red from pale pink to blood red.
We followed the crowd as it made a left hand turn into a cleaner sidestreet. The locals were standing out the front of their houses with their hoses out, some were extensions from their kitchens. They hosed everyone down as they walked past and groups gathered at doorsteps as the locals gave individuals the good rinse they were seeking. An elderly lady hosed down Joe and I in front of her house, and somewhat cleaner, we walked back to our prearranged meeting spot to find the lost others.
We managed to find Shane and Tara. Shane had lost his toga as expected and Tara, though still filthy, had managed to sore herself a mismatched pair of thongs (she had come without shoes). We didn't manage to get on a train until 3.30, but again managed to score a seat. We were all utterly exhausted - Shane and Joe fell asleep on the train. At Valencia train station we agreed to meet up with Joe later that evening and went back to our hostel for a good shower and a siesta.
Unfortunately, our hostel only had ONE shower!!! But Tara and I managed to score a shower quickly and then slept until just before we were due to meet Joe. He snuck us into his hostel, The Rest Nest (Purple Nest's counterpart) and we had drinks with the girls before retiring just after midnight - we had an 8.30am train the following morning.
