Fiesta of Fire
I still wasn’t
sure whether we were the victims of some elaborate Valencian practical joke.
Looking round at the rest of the crowd that filled the Plaza Ayuntamiento I
could see young families, groups of teenagers, elderly couples and groups of
fashionistas. Amongst all these people, however, I couldn’t see anyone else with
their mouth open.
Over the last few
days, every one of the locals we had spoken to had warned us that, once the
mascletà began, if your mouth was closed you risked a burst eardrum. The
mascletà, which will happen every day for the rest of the week, is the first
event in Valencia’s annual festival of fire, Las Fallas. The locals themselves
have been preparing hard for this moment, and for the day that we’ve been here
it’s sounded more like a war zone than a sleepy city on the shores of the
Mediterranean. The whole city constantly echoes with noise as the sound of
exploding firecrackers reverberates around the streets. We’ve seen parents
encouraging their small children to light and throw fireworks and yet, somehow,
we’re still not really prepared for what’s about to happen.
At the centre of
the plaza, a huge triangular open space flanked by grand municipal buildings and
posh hotels, a row of enormous palm trees surrounds a tall metal cage. If you
squint hard enough then through the fence you can just about make out what
appears to be a giant net, hanging about six feet off the ground and pulled taut
across the cage. As the chimes ring for two o’clock the crowd falls silent and
fixes its attention on the cage; a shout goes up from the balcony of the town
hall.
“Senyor
pirotècnic, pots començar la mascleta!”
A few fireworks
shoot up into the sky, bursting lazily overhead, their colourful streams of fire
washed out by the midday sun. Suddenly, the square erupts with noise; explosions
fill the air as the net in the cage reveals its true identity: an enormous mesh,
packed with gunpowder. A layer of smoke rises from the mesh as row upon row of
firecrackers detonates. The explosions get louder and louder, crashing around
the square as they echo back and forth. The buildings shake, the ground trembles
and still the explosions get louder, tearing through the air. They thunder on,
ever louder and now physically painful. I can feel my eardrums vibrating, and
although my mouth is now wide open I feel they will rupture at any second as the
crescendo increases to its maximum: several earth shaking explosions rip through
the square before silence descends, leaving only a thick cloud of smoke, the
acrid smell of gunpowder and a ringing in my ears.
The crowd erupts,
clapping and cheering Senyor pirotècnic, the pyrotechnic master, who bows before
them. Unlike most firework displays the Valencianos prize, above anything,
volume, and this one seems to be well appreciated. Speakers around the square
burst into life, playing a song the whole crowd knows and joins in with. It
seems mainly to be directed towards the Falleras, a group of women and girls
clad in giant and intricately adorned dresses, their hair intricately styled,
who now stand proudly upon the balcony of the town hall, rows of them smiling
and waving. Although I can understand nothing of the song, the word Valencia is
repeated over and over again, as if in some kind of proud city anthem.
This show will
take place every day for the next week. Each day a different neighbourhood will
stage the display, competing for the honour of being judged to have hosted the
best mascleta and being granted the honour of staging the mascleta on the final
day of the festival.
The mascleta is
not the only neighbourhood competition that goes on during Las Fallas. Over the
preceding months every neighbourhood of the city has worked on a falla, a giant
papier-mâché statue that, come the final day of the festivities, will be
ritually burnt. Now, as we walk through the city at the start of Las Fallas we
can see the statues being erected: giant, gaudy grotesques that stand in the
small plazas at the centre of every neighbourhood, often apparently depicting
some local or national satire, though the specific details were completely lost
on us. One depicts a caricature pharaoh, another a sinister looking puppeteer,
but most impressive of all seems to be that in the Plaza Ayuntamiento: being
slowly winched into place with the aid of a crane it depicts a rather voluptuous
woman posing for a portrait. Already, unfinished, the woman towers as high as
any of the surrounding buildings. When, in five days time, the statues are
burnt, the fire brigade will have to douse those surrounding buildings with
water to stop them being damaged by the intensity of the heat, and thousands of
people will pack out the square to cheer on the proceedings.
It’s hot, it’s
noisy, it’s most probably quite dangerous. As the week goes on la despertà will
begin: processions will wind round the city at 8am every morning, banging drums,
detonating firecrackers and, no matter how hard you partied, waking you from
your slumber. What’s more, unless you’re a Valenciano, you’ll probably never
fully understand what’s happening. But as a new experience it certainly takes
some beating. Just make sure you listen to the advice of the locals, no matter
how ridiculous it seems.
