La Tomatina

Every year, thousands of people travel to the tiny Spanish town of Buñol to do something absolutely ridiculous: throw tomatoes at each other until the streets run red like a scene from a B-movie horror film directed by a chef. Welcome to La Tomatina, the world’s messiest food fight and Spain’s most absurd yet beloved summer tradition. It’s part slapstick comedy, part surreal performance art, and part collective therapy session conducted entirely in tomato. Think of it as a post-modern reinterpretation of both agriculture and rage, only with more pulp.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: who wakes up and decides, “Yes, I’d love to get pelted in the face by an overripe tomato today”? Apparently, over 20,000 people do. Every August, they cram themselves into the narrow, sun-baked streets of Buñol with one shared goal: to turn the town into a pulpy red battlefield. And let’s be clear—this is not some casual toss-a-few-tomatoes-with-your-mates scenario. No, this is a full-throttle, all-out, squishy-fruit war. Goggles on. Shirts ruined. Dignity? Optional. It’s not so much a food fight as a food apocalypse, cheerfully embraced by travellers from every corner of the globe. You haven’t truly lived until you’ve watched someone joyfully lob a tomato at a stranger from five feet away and both of them immediately laugh like children who’ve just gotten away with murder.

It all started in 1945, and, like all great stories, it began with a random act of chaos. Local legend says a group of young people crashed a parade, overturned a market stall full of vegetables, and began hurling tomatoes at everyone in sight. Why? Because they could. And because nothing says youthful rebellion like an airborne salad ingredient. The following year, they brought their own tomatoes, proving once again that teenage persistence knows no rational bounds. By the 1950s, it had become an annual affair, much to the horror of local authorities who banned it a few times. But Buñol’s residents, being wonderfully stubborn, kept the tomato dream alive, sneaking in contraband fruit like culinary smugglers. One can only imagine the backroom conversations: “Hide the tomatoes in the laundry basket. Don’t let the Guardia Civil see.” It wasn’t long before the ban became more of a polite suggestion than a rule, and the tomato rebellion marched on, growing redder and rowdier with each passing year.

Eventually, the government caved and gave the festival its blessing, probably after realising it brought in more tourists than a free sangria fountain. Today, La Tomatina is an official event with its own rules: no bottles, no hard objects, squish your tomato before throwing (because decency), and stop when the cannon fires. Yes, there’s a cannon. Nothing says fiesta like a boom signalling the start of mass produce mayhem. There’s even a ticket system now, limiting participants to 20,000 and turning the whole thing into a sold-out sensation. Hotels get booked months in advance. Travel agencies offer “Tomatina Packages” complete with goggles and post-fight beer. There are T-shirts, guidebooks, Instagram influencers live-streaming their fruity destruction, and enough selfie sticks to launch a satellite. Even local entrepreneurs have jumped in with themed merchandise, tomato-shaped pastries, and special edition cocktails that taste vaguely of vinegar and poor decisions.

And the tomatoes? They’re not from the local organic farmer’s market, thankfully. These are low-grade, grown-for-throwing tomatoes, plucked from the fields of Extremadura where they’re too ugly to make it into pasta sauce but perfect for pelting strangers. The farmers are in on the joke, growing truckloads of red missiles for the sheer purpose of having them explode on someone’s chest. No one eats them. No one wants to. They’re watery, overripe, and make a satisfying squelch when they land. Some say the sound is half the fun—like bubble wrap for the soul.

On the day itself, the tension builds early. Streets are hosed down. Locals wrap their homes in plastic like the town is expecting a flood, only it’s not water they fear—it’s acidic fruit juice. Window shutters are sealed. Businesses close shop. Grandmothers disappear behind curtains with expressions that say, “Not again.” Revellers arrive in white clothes, which is a brave choice, considering most of them will end the day looking like extras in a zombie flick sponsored by Heinz. Some people wear swim goggles. Others don shower caps or snorkelling gear. One guy inevitably turns up dressed as a tomato. There’s always one. And if you’re lucky, you’ll see the odd unicorn onesie or someone in full gladiator gear. Because why not?

At precisely 11am, the chaos begins with a ceremony that makes almost no sense and yet somehow fits perfectly. A greased pole is set up with a jamón serrano—yes, a literal ham—dangling at the top. Participants scramble, slide, and form human ladders trying to reach it. Sometimes it takes ten minutes. Sometimes it takes an hour. Sometimes nobody gets the ham and everyone just decides that effort is overrated. Regardless, once the signal is given, the cannon fires, and the tomato anarchy begins. Lorries unload tonnes of tomatoes into the streets like it’s the world’s strangest delivery day. People cheer, some scream, and others simply raise their arms to the sky, welcoming the fruity deluge like some pagan ritual designed by a tapas chef.

For one glorious hour, Buñol transforms into a Mediterranean version of Dante’s Inferno, only with more Lycra and considerably more laughter. People slip, slide, and laugh as they lob, dodge, and absorb tomato blows from all angles. The streets become rivers of red sludge. Strangers become tomato comrades. Enemies are made and forgotten in minutes. It’s all utterly chaotic, magnificently pointless, and completely glorious. People lose flip-flops, phones, and occasionally their minds. You haven’t lived until you’ve watched a businessman from Tokyo and a Brazilian backpacker bonding over their mutual confusion while knee-deep in tomato juice. There are dance moves. There are chants. There are spontaneous, tomato-themed group hugs that defy all understanding and most hygiene standards.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, it ends. Another cannon. The throwing stops. The cheering starts. People hug, cry, or just sit in exhausted tomato puddles, questioning their life choices. The local fire brigade rolls in like post-battle medics, hosing down the crowd and washing away the pulp. It’s the closest thing you’ll find to a communal shower that smells like marinara. Within hours, the streets are cleaner than they were before. The acidic tomatoes actually help disinfect the cobblestones. Buñol gets a deep clean, and the tourists get a story that makes no sense to their mothers. Locals reappear from behind their plastic barriers, peeling tarps off walls like soldiers dismantling camouflage nets, and the town breathes a collective sigh of relief—until next year.

La Tomatina is not for the squeamish, the tidy, or anyone with a deep emotional attachment to laundry. But it is for those who believe that sometimes, the best way to experience life is to throw a tomato at a stranger and laugh about it later. There’s no political statement. No deeper meaning. Just a town, a ton of tomatoes, and a shared desire to be gloriously ridiculous for one sun-drenched hour. It’s Spain’s joyful middle finger to seriousness. A wild, sticky, laughter-filled reminder that not everything has to make sense. Some things just have to be experienced, washed off, and toasted with cold beer. And maybe that’s the whole point—that in a world full of headlines and deadlines, you sometimes just need to stand in the street and get hit with a tomato to feel truly alive.

If that’s not the most human thing ever, I don’t know what is.