The Hottest Party in Spain.
Fires are burning all over Valencia. I cannot glimpse an intersection
that is not ablaze.
Bombaderos, firemen dressed in black turnout, stand by just waiting
with tanker trucks full of water, and portable pumps. I inhale the acrid
smoke with gusto, awakening the latent pyromaniac within. My heart races
as I turn left and head down Calle De Trafalgar. An elaborate archway of
carnival lights, designed like the onion tops of a Russian Orthodox
Church, frames the narrow entrance to Falla Parotet. The ninot at the
end is smaller than most, but it has not been set afire. I push my way
assertively through the crowd.
I want a front row seat. I want to feel the burn.
I am in La
Nit del Foc - the night of fire.
An
unseen hand tosses a burning carton at the base of the twenty-foot high
purple-clad mermaid.
The pack cheers and jostles forward. It is only minutes before the
whole statue is in flames. The inferno makes my face feel sun burnt as I
stare into the fluorescent orange serpent. It engulfs her blonde hair,
revealing a timber skeleton. She bends forward, and then summarily
crashes to the ground. The nearest spectators flinch from the sparking
embers. With a whoosh, the collapse sends its dragon breath, a foehn
wind,rushing past me down the alleyways. The crowd stays late, watching
as the fire withers into embers, the dark of the night sneaks in and
covers what once was a roaring inferno.
I arrived in Valencia, Spain the day before hoping to get to Plaza
del Ayuntamiento by 2:00 p.m. when the daily mascletas are lit. At the
bullring, Plaza de Toros de Valencia, I join the mob. It carries me
along shoulder-to-shoulder like a molecule in the ocean. Seemingly
without my feet touching the ground, I am swept along by this human wave
moving towards the plaza. I hear the pops, then the echo and rumble of
large firecrackers, mascletas. I am still six blocks away. Hundreds
detonate at once, and then silence. I am too late.
The
press of flesh is already dispersing. I escape the last of the horde on
the next side street past the Estaci� del Nord. In front of the
Farmacia, a rotund bride carrying off a drunken, skinny husband faces
me. Cupid makes sure there is no mistake. It is a silly sight. They are
here for Las Fallas, a five day festival in honor of St. Joseph.
Celebrated each March 15th , paper-mache ninots like the bride and groom
are sacrificed at the end of the week in a blaze called crem�.
As I dive further off the main plaza, I discover the Casals faller, the
individual neighborhoods. Each one creates their own paper-mache
effigies; some traditional, some irreverent, and some politically
satirical. All compete for best-in-show and notoriety.
In one, a mutt mounts a coiffed poodle from behind in a strict
interpretation of screw-the-pooch. The mixed-breed has its eyes crossed
and tongue hanging out in an obvious grimace of pleasure.
Another tableau depicts a gay couple holding hands, getting confirmed in
matrimony- a slight bearded fellow with parsnip pointed nose and goatee
is paired to a chubby older fellow with rouged cheeks.
Grids of twine crisscross the streets, and I realize that each casal has
there own mascleta celebration. The secret to Las Fallas is spurning the
main plaza and probing these little enclaves.
I return to the casal early the next day. The Caballeros FX
(pyrotechnicians) deftly handle little explosive sausages, scissors in
their hands and brown paper fuses in their mouth. They secure the
colorfully wrapped mascletas to the grid. These "clotheslines" drape
across the streets with barely enough room for cars and pedestrians to
glide comfortably beneath.
Little
boys, not more than eight years old kneel purposefully next to a car's
bumper arranging their own fireworks in an intricate pattern. Nervous
hands holding a piece of smoldering rope spark the fuse. They take a few
steps back and cover their ears.
On another corner, a lit cone erupts in a shower of sparks. A teenage
girl sends a text message nonchalantly nearby. A little three year old
girl in an all pink outfit, including stockinged legs, stands not six
feet away from the incendiary display.
The steeple bell marks two o'clock and in seconds the ritual begins. At
first, just a couple of mortars spew skyward, and then the strings of
mascletas join in. As loud as cannons, these are no ordinary
firecrackers. A smattering at first and then in a flash, hundreds were
exploding at a time. I feel the percussion in my chest. The throng backs
away- I move closer. The pungent smoke fills the constricted streets and
alleyways.
The pyrotechnicians but silhouettes against their ignition flares as
they walk from fuse to fuse. I can no longer see the next intersection.
The fuses sparkle, the paper and twine are ablaze. A deafening roar
echoes between the buildings. I sit inside an erupting volcano.
The day yields to dusk as I walk along Paseo de la Alameda. The
fireworks will be ignited in the main plaza, but the best viewing is
from the bridges that span the dry river bed. I select a spot on Pont de
Monteolivet. This bridge is near Ciudad de las Artes y las Ciencias, an
incongruous campus of ultra-modern architecture set in this medieval
city. The City of Arts and Sciences houses a museum, an aquarium and a
domed cinema.
What the nightly pyrotechnics lack in variety is made up for in
quantity. It is an inexhaustible grand finale right from the start. The
skyline lights up in crimson bursts for over an hour. The smoke
eventually muddles everything to a pastel nacarat glow. The city parties
long after the echo of the last titanium report fades away.
The
next day I amble to the beach. The smoke has cleared, but in the air
there lingers the distinct sulphurous scent of gunpowder.
The Night of Fire is part of Las Fallas,a festival that happens during
the week leading up to March 19 each year. Make your plans early.
[Contact me if you would like prints or cards with any of these images]
Photos and text by Jim DeLillo
http://jimdelillo.viewbook.com
http://jim-delillo.artistwebsites.com/
http://jimdelill.photoshelter.com
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