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25th
February 2001 Fire
Fiesta The
people of the Costa Blanca spend a whole year creating huge, cartoon effigies
just to set them on fire. Simon Willis
discovers why. Juan
Llantada pulled a face, not unlike an iguana, and offered some advice; "During the ten minutes of the
Mascaleta you must keep your mouth slightly open, like this" he said,
repeating his reptilian contortion.
"It will prevent the explosions damaging your inner ears". The
Mascaleta was psychological warfare.
Before going into battle, the Arabs, who ruled much of Spain for
centuries, shot powerful fireworks into the sky to intimidate their
opponents, and those skills are still used at fiesta time. The first salvo panicked every pigeon
in Valencia. The second volley
flew lower but louder, and my hands instinctively clamped themselves over my
ears. Around me, people were
heeding Juan's advice and grimacing harder than a wall of demented
gargoyles. The explosions merged
into a sustained aural assault.
Shockwave after shocking wave battered my body, fists of pure air
pummelling my face and chest, until...
absolutely nothing.
Silence. And then a
hundred thousand, temporarily deafened, people began to cheer, a little too
loudly. A city sized crowd,
invigorated by the power of their experience and quietly relieved it was
finally all over. Until
tomorrow. For one
week in March, the province of Valencia gives itself over to the most primal
of urges and celebrates the secret of fire. Towns and tiny villages reverberate to an almost
continuous cacophony of fire crackers and marching bands, all watched over by
huge, cartoon-like effigies, specially built for this unique celebration. Then, at the very climax of the week
long fiesta, these lovingly created monster models are set alight and
completely destroyed in an orgy of flame. Officially,
the Fallas celebrate the day devoted to Christ's Father, Saint Joseph, and
its roots lie in the Valencian wood working tradition. During long, dark winter nights,
carpenters had to work by the dim glow of oil lamps which they hung from a
pole with several arms. The word
falla comes form the Latin facula meaning torch. In Spring, the lamp stands were a waste of space and,
since carpenters could easily build a new one, they were burnt along with
piles of old wood shavings, as part of the celebrations for the day of their
Patron Saint. Local people
started using the carpenters' bonfires to get rid of old clothes or unwanted
junk. Then someone, with a
typically Spanish eye to satire, sat a scarecrow on top, and dressed it to
look like an important, but disliked, neighbour. This added to
the fun of the fiesta, and the fallas began. Today, different
neighbourhoods still compete to produce the best fallas, only now they
commission specialist artists, sculptors and craftsmen to create, transport
and erect the final statues. A
small town of fallas engineers has grown just outside Valencia, providing
employment for thousands of people.
But modernisation has not diminished their power to puncture
pomposity, to comment on social trends, or to poke fun. It must be a humbling experience for
a politician to see himself go up in flames - a spitting image, spitting real
fire. I found my
first falla by following a procession through the Costa Blanca town of
Gandia, and the sight of it stopped me in my tracks. Towering thirty feet over head,
looming as if about to pounce, was the soulful, bearded face of a wizened old
man. Father Time clutched an
immense candlestick in one hand and, in the other, raised aloft a ball from
which a sprite stared down in fear and anger. To one side was Old Spain; grey men, shrouded in cobwebs,
ossified in their opinions. On
the other rose an image of Gandia's latest industrial park, a dubious
development including high rise flats, crowned by a Burger King. A skeletal horseman rode between old
and new, apparently questioning the wisdom of such progress. That was the central theme, but other
tableaux were dotted around the base; an old man was slumped in a chair
reading a book, while his grandchild sat on his knee, engrossed in a video
game. A local politician, who I
was told had recently introduced Gandia's confusing one-way traffic system,
struggled under a pile of cartoon cars.
Small local issues, global social trends, and the mortality of man
juxtaposed with the infinite quality of time were all encompassed in one
gaudy, magnificently monstrous sculpture. It was my first falla and it will always be the best. But I'd heard the really impressive
ones were to be found in the big city of the Levantine plain. For five
days and nights, Valencia contracts amnesia. It forgets to be a bastion of business and focuses on fallas. While small towns may close a street
or two, Valencia shuts its entire city centre, allowing only taxis, officials
and emergency services to drive through the barriers. Wide open avenues are transformed
from race tracks into vast pedestrian thorough fares, and it's difficult not
to be overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the people's endeavour. No fewer than three hundred and
seventy fallas are dotted around the city, each a huge structure, each
organised and paid for by a different district, and each erected in a
different square, sometimes squeezed in so tightly they almost touch the
surrounding buildings. It shows
a powerful sense of local pride and willingness to work together which I
cannot imagine happening anywhere else. They save the
best until last. The crema is
the epic conclusion of the fiesta, and I decided to experience it in the
second city of fallas, the town of Denia. Each falla is judged and, like a macabre Miss World
pageant, they are ignited in reverse order. This being
Spain, no-one actually expected the fire to start on time, so no-one was
disappointed when, by half past twelve, nothing had happened. The crowd pressed closer, willing,
shouting, whistling and cheering for the man with the lighter to do his
job. Then suddenly all hell was
let loose. Although I'd paid it
little attention, a rope encircled the falla, about twelve feet from the
ground and dangling from it, just overhead, were lots of small paper parcels. These now sprang into explosive life,
as fire crackers and catherine wheels fired off a fusillade of flame and a
shower of sparks. People
screamed and ducked for cover from the scalding slivers. Crowd control by firework proved
highly effective because in an instant, everyone had retreated to where the
fire department, the bombers, had been asking them to stand all along. Barriers were dragged in front of the
startled, smouldering audience, and the crema began. At first
there was barely a hint of a flame.
I thought the fire had not caught hold. Then I realised the falla was burning from the
inside. With a 'crack' one of
the supports gave way and a ball of fire belched through the gap,
silhouetting the huge caricature in an unholy orange glow. With the flame came the heat,
fantastic heat, radiating from the falla with a power ten times that of the
explosions of the mascleta.
Around me, people clamped their hands over their foreheads to protect
the expanse of bare flesh. The
following morning, I would discover that the skin on my brow had peeled, such
was the intensity of the heat, but for now I hid behind my camera, struggling
with exposure settings, trying to get close enough for a shot but being
driven back by the blaze. That
night I watched three fallas rise in flames and fall into ashes. The build up to each ignition took
longer and longer, as none could begin until the bombers arrived and this,
not surprisingly, is their busiest night of the year. One falla, erected in a particularly
narrow street, could only be lit after the neighbouring buildings had been
doused with water to protect them, and a fire hose played across their
balconies for the duration of the conflagration. Six hours
later, with the morning just starting to take shape, I stood at the same
spot, staring at a pile of damp ashes and wondering. Why go to the expense of shutting
down towns and cities along the Costa Blanca? Why build elaborate statues just to destroy them? Why risk life and property for a
moment of incandescent madness?
Well, it seems to me that this not really about a Saint's day, or
lampooning powerful people, or even using up carpenters' cast offs. Such things are part of it, but the
fallas festival is far more fundamental,
more elemental. It represents
the eternal cycle of creation and destruction, of light and dark, of life and
of death, and these truths still exert a powerful influence in Iberia. Because the morning after the crema,
the planning always starts again for next year, because the fallas is simply a spectacular part of an
eternal cycle which can never be broken. Travel
Brief When to
go: Saint Joseph's day is
celebrated on 19th March. The
Fallas festival runs for a week up to the weekend nearest this date. Where to
go: Valencia is the capital of
Fallas, and the hotel prices reflect this. By contrast, Denia is big enough to have the atmosphere
but small enough to watch almost every crema. Costa Blanca towns which have Fallas festivals include:
Benidorm, Bunol, Calpe, Denia, Gandia, Oliva, Pego, Sueca, Valencia. Best
Information: http://www.fallas.com/ Tourist
Information Office of the Government of Valencia: 003496 352 8573 Municipal
Tourist Office: 003496 351 0417 Central Fallera Committee: 003496 392 0504 |
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