World Travel Guide Online

The Fires of Spring
Valencia, Spain

A festival is not truly Spanish unless it contains some element, however small, of danger. The most famous of course is the bull-running in Pamplona. But the Fallas festival, which takes place every March in Valencia, also enjoys this undercurrent of cheating death.

Fallas is a word in Valencian, the local dialect. It refers to the massive wood and papier-mache constructions erected throughout Valencia and its suburbs on March 12^th every year. This year, a slightly sinister fairy godmother whispers to a princess in the shade of a fairytale castle. A winged demon guards the gates of hell as his cowed and naked subjects enter. A jet airliner crashes into the Titanic, overlooked by caricatures of Speilberg and Almodovar. Each district spends an entire year planning how to surpass its neighbor; the falla artists are regarded as master craftsmen; and thousands of euros are spent in the planning, building, and erecting of these elaborate and sometimes grotesque works of art.

And on March 19^th, the feast of Saint Joseph, one week after they have been raised, they are burned to the ground.

But first, it starts with an afternoon fireworks show. Fireworks, in the bright sunshine of 2 p.m.? But the mascleta is not so much about light as about smoke and noise. As much noise as possible.

The crowds start to gather in the Plaza del Ayumtamiento (Town Hall Square) from about one o’clock onwards. The centre section has been cordoned off and the fireworks are laid out like grey Christmas crackers each connected to the other with string. Teenagers meet friends outside the cafes and fast-food outlets that line the square. The outdoor tables are doing a roaring trade. Fathers hoist children onto shoulders, and older couples hold hands as they join the crowds from one of the connecting side streets. The crowd is huge but good-humored. And then it starts.

Smoke and Noise of Mascleta

It starts with a small pop, and an ooh from the crowd. Then a serious of bangs, growing ever louder and closer together. Louder, until the buildings begin to shake. Louder, until the windows resonate dangerously. Louder and louder, until my eardrums scream. They whiz, they spurt flumes of coloured smoke, they explode in the air and scatter streamers to the squealing crowd. Louder and louder, until my brain throbs against my skull and I am sure the glass and stone is about to go flying, and I can take no more and then — it stops. For one second, the silence almost hurts. Then the crowd burst into applause. The louder the mascleta, the louder the applause.

From March 1^st to March 18^th, the mascleta takes place every day, and every day it grows louder. And as the Fallas festival gathers momentum, the Valencians find yet more inventive methods for making a racket.

The sheer number of people adds to the volume. The Spanish climate encourages outdoor living, which encourages people to talk loudly across the distances, which means that any ten Spaniards are naturally louder than, say, any ten Danes. But since this is still not enough noise to herald in the spring, Valencia does a roaring trade in firecrackers and other minor explosive devices for the week of the Fallas. A normally simple walk down the street becomes a dance of avoidance as the crowd shifts one side to the next and the footpath pops beneath you.

Mama holds her little boy as Papa passes him a banger to throw. He cannot be more than three years old. All down the street, in among the crowds, slightly older boys delight in the sound and smoke they create. The small child looks doubtful for a moment, but Mama urges him on. He throws, and squeals with pleasure as his own explosion causes the crowds to part.

One of the Many Fallas on Display

By March 17^th, it is impossible to move through the town centre at more than a snail’s pace. But why would you want to, with the feast for the senses that the town has laid on: the smell of gunpowder and paella, the touch of the crowds pressing against you, the garish colors of the fallas themselves. I meet my friend Clare at the bus station, and as we walk out a firecracker whizzes and pops at the taxi rank. She jumps; I stand still, accustomed after a week of this. We take a taxi along the riverbank, and as the sky darkens there is a sudden sparkle of fireworks above the Torre de Serrano.

The festival is building to a crescendo. By night the streets are thronged and throbbing with music. By day the noise never lets up. Marching bands play oompa-loompa tunes that occasionally bear resemblance to some recent chart number (I recognize one tune by Spanish pretty boy David Bisbal). They are followed the falleras, those proud ladies who hold the Valencian traditions close to their embroidered bodices.

George Lucas must have been inspired by the falleras, because their hairstyles bear an eerie resemblance to that of Princess Leia in the first Star Wars movie. Her hair held in place by an elaboration of combs and pins, the fallera cannot lie down but instead must hold her head high for a week as she sweeps the hems of her five-hundred-euro dress through the streets. It is a responsibility she maintains with all the dignity of her standing, and none more so than the little falleritas with their bundles of flowers.

Crowds, and more crowds. The Rufasa falla has won first prize this year, so there is a long line to see it. The street is arched by lightways and lined by stallholders. Clare and I clutch our handbags tightly. Around the falla itself, there is scarcely room to move as people stare upwards at the forty-foot ladies with their flounced skirts and twirling umbrellas. The need to breathe takes us away from the spectacle faster than we had planned.

The night of March 18^th is the nit de foc (night of fire). The bars are doing a roaring trade, and street vendors sell cans of beer. Yet the Spanish retain a civilized attitude to alcohol and the atmosphere is one of relaxed merriment rather than loutish drunkenness, despite the choking number of people. The town centre is thronged and several narrow streets are impassible. When the fireworks begin, our view is blocked by buildings and we try to hurry to the riverbed, but hurrying is possible in this town at this time of year. We catch the end of the display as the fireworks explode in a spray of orange, purple, blue, green, white. The air crackles with sulfur.

Little Girls Dress Up

The following night, March 19^th, is the nit de crema (night of burning). The crowds gather on the street while others lean out of windows. Children hold back and grasp a parent’s hand, or push forward to the cordon around the falla. This one is Michelangelo’s David, although a rather better-endowed version than his counterpart in Florence. A line of firecrackers is threaded through his limbs and over his head. We wait, until the stiff-necked fallera steps forward with the flame. The flickers illuminate her silver combs and the gold trim of her dress. She lights the fuse, steps back. A series of bangs, a fizzle of light, a crackle. And then, it is aflame.

And for a moment, I feel the danger. The old buildings lean dangerously close; surely they will catch fire. Like Icarus, we are to close to the flame. Heat fills my lungs, and I step back so I won’t scorch.

David’s head cracks and tumbles, and the crowd surges back. But there is little panic, for within ten minutes the magnificent structure is blackened splinters and a few crackles of fire. The firemen have been waiting their turn, they turn the hoses and a few minutes later, there is just a patch of damp, black ash. We wander through the town, and it is the same everywhere. The magnificent sculptures, which have absorbed the energy and hopes of the city districts, swelled the hearts of locals with pride and of visitors with wonder, are no more. It is indescribably sad.

Some time afterwards, I ask a local why. Why spend so much effort and produce something so wonderful, only to destroy it in the end? He explains that the fallas are created in order to be destroyed, that is their purpose. They are like life, temporary, to be enjoyed while they exist, and then to make way for the new.

The day after the night of burning, Valencia is melancholy. No more cracker-throwing children, no more mascletas or brass drums; the silence is deafening. The women of Valencia brush out their hair and pack away the fallera costumes in plastic for next year. The crowds take the bus or the train or the plane out of town.

The scent of burnt papier-mache lingers. But not for long. In the dried river bed that forms a winding park through the city, the orange blossoms prepare to bloom. The restaurants by the seafront are preparing paella for long lunch hours. The sky is so blue you could swim in it. The burning is over, and at last it is spring.