Las Fallas

So I’ve wiped the virtual dust off the virtual desk and taken it upon myself to post another entry into this blog. This past weekend I went to Valencia with my roommate Antonio and some of his friends for a massive festival called Las Fallas. Wikipedia can define it better than me:

“The name of the festival is thus the plural of falla. The word's derivation is as follows:
falla ← Vulgar Latin *facla ← Latin facula (diminutive) ← Latin fax, "torch".”

The night before we left for Valencia, I stayed in Antonio’s apartment with his family. Being very excited, I asked the family how the festival works, specifically, I asked, “Can anyone bring a Falla to the festival?”

The short silence was followed by laughter, and then to make me feel really smart Antonio got up, ran down the hall to tell his older sister and 10 year old brother about the gem that just came out my mouth, but hey, it’s all in good fun. When he comes to Vancouver I hope he asks, “Hey, can we bring our own fireworks to the Celebration of Light?”

Anyways, a Falla is basically a large structure built to celebrate San Jose, who I am assuming is the patron Saint of Valencia. These constructions are extravagantly built and highly stylized and portray whatever the designers wish. For example, I saw one with world dictators on a roller coaster, and another had Spanish politicians and stuff related to the economic crisis here. They stand anywhere from 2 metres to 30 metres tall, depending which type of Falla it is. For the city-wide competition, there are a few categories. So what happens is The Fallas are put in Valencia for about 5 or 6 days of the 20 day festival, smack dab in the city centre basically stopping all traffic. They are admired by eager foreigners such as myself and treated with a “been there done that” attitude by some Spanish people such as Tony and his friends. And at the end of the festival, they are set ablaze right then and there in the streets of Valencia.

The crazy fires are one of the reasons one goes to the Fallas, it had the same feeling as the Olympics in Vancouver, everyone was in the street, in some spots a person honestly couldn’t move and you were straight up stuck, hoping no one had Mexican (or Curry) for lunch. Also, every night for 5 nights before and up until the end of the festival, there is a massive fireworks display at 1:30 in the morning. Also, for every god damn day and on every god damn street there is a five year old with a lighter and a bag full of mighty mites, bottle rockets and no joke, airbombs (types of firecrackers). In Spanish they say “petardos”, for firecrackers, well, I say those little rats who light them 2 feet away from me are “retardos”. They also had these horrendous air bombs that didn’t fly, and made a god awful blast by one’s feet. It was like the Olympics in the sense that instead of hearing stupid amounts of 'Oh Canada' we heard were made partially deaf by stupid amounts of fireworks. Simply put, there were fireworks absolutely everywhere.

The nightly shows were amazing, I saw two of them. The fireworks were so loud that the grand finale my body shook, such a cool feeling. I think it’s because the streets are so narrow and the buildings were tall, so the combination forced the sound waves down the avenues, as opposed to the Celebration of Light which is out on English Bay. They weren’t super extravagant; it was just about the noise, really.

The daytime fireworks were really unique because you go to the city centre, wait for an hour and a bit, then at 2 pm the sky just starts going BOOM BOOM POW BOOM BOOM, oh wait; that was just the toddler beside me lighting his own stash off. At 2 pm the sky erupts with explosions of fireworks, but all you can see is the smoky aftermath. A restless blue sky, you might say.

So Saturday night for the grand finale, thousands of people gather around the various Fallas scattered throughout the Valencian streets, and wait on those very narrow streets for the La Crema (Valencian for the burning). People light off a long chain of firecrackers that's connected to the base of the gasoline soaked Falla, and at midnight two fireworks sound to announce the start of La Crema, then minutes later there is a fire 40 metres tall on a random street in Valencia. Pretty amazing. I could feel the heat on my face from probably 60 metres away. Ashes softly drop to the streets; somehow, few (or no) people get burnt. What someone worked on for ages is all of the sudden ashes and a few stubborn pieces of wood standing in the air. The air smells of smoke and exploded fireworks, firefighters are dousing nearby buildings to prevent an unexpected Falla burning, and in front of you all you can see are the LCD screens of what seems to be a thousand digital cameras held high. The fire grows taller and taller, and the smoke burns blacker and blacker into the night. And eventually, the once massive Falla is reduced to a pile of ashes.

I’ve tried to describe how the Fallas are burned but really, the pictures will do all the justice. It was very unique. After it’s just madness in the streets with people partying and drinking into the night.

SIDE NOTE: The guys I went with are an awesome group from Antonio’s hometown called Totana. The guys included me from start to finish and made we feel so welcome and comfortable. Living a whole weekend in your second language can be tough!

They’re all close and have been close for a while, so there were endless laughs and good times. The Spanish guys don’t take much too seriously, and definitely live in the moment.

Something funny about the guys I live with is that they speak horrific Spanish, and are the butt of many jokes in other parts of Spain. Not only did I learn tons of slang this weekend, I heard the difference between the proper Valencian accent versus their “panocho” accent. They tell me panocho is the dialect spoken in Murcia, their dialect. I’m assuming it’s similar to us making fun of southern accents from the states or something.

But yesterday Antonio’s friend Juan (everyone, including Antonio’s mom, calls him Capao, Spanish for “castrated”) was stopped by group in Valencia asking where the port was. He answered with a phrase that made Antonio cry laughing and rendered him speechless for like three minutes at the busy Valencian beach. I don’t quite get it but it was something along the lines of “Well.... It’s at God's ass.” He meant to say it was really really far away. Apparently it’s a phrase unique to their town, and it’s about as poorly spoken as a person can be. I’d be surprised if anyone found that anecdote funny but it was hysterical. One, for Tony’s fit of laughter, and two, for the posh-looking woman having no clue what “hanca Dios” even meant, and probably thinking Capao had something wrong with his brain.

Anyways, I hope everyone is well at home and if you took the time to read this, thank you!

A small culture shock

On my family’s big Europe trip this Christmas we made sure to get down for a day trip to Morocco. My family is big on saying “been there” about places even if it’s not much time. My pops was contemplating the three hour round-trip from Seville just to touch Portuguese soil... classic Gary. In continuing with the “been there” them, we went down to the tip of Southern Spain, and one day we took the ferry across to Morocco. Our destination was Tangier, a half hour ferry ride from Spain.

The excitement started right away, the catamaran ferry was bouncing around like a sea-doo in a big ships wake. The windows were soaked, people were bouncing around like lottery balls. Unfortunately, my dad got very very sea sick... claaaaaassic Gary. He’s ok now.

We docked in Tangier and got hooked up with our tour guide, and we were on our way. Because Morocco was constantly a European possession not too long ago, it looks very European. Tangier has wide streets, typical Spanish architecture, and cafes, bakeries, and shops (but not all of it). What made it feel different was seeing people in traditional Muslim dress, as well as the organized chaos at intersections and crosswalks between vehicles and pedestrians.

We drove through the new city, the European looking area, and then we did the walking tour through the Kasbah and Medina, the old part of the city. This was the best part of the tour, the part that looked Islamic, and the part that made you feel like you were far from home. It was tight walkways for streets, constant stairs, and people wandering everywhere, traditional oven rooms beside convenience stands. And people trying to sell you anything and everything.

The haggling was entertaining for the most part. I had mixed feelings when it was with kids though. There were quite a few kids that looked 12 or under trying the sell you stuff or just straight up begging. Do you give them money? Do you buy the junk they’re trying to sell? If you do either, do they go buy food? Does the money go to their family? Or does the person making them do it just take their coins and send them somewhere else? All of these questions raced through my mind. I would like to think the kid runs to the bakery and buys bread, but I’m pretty sceptical of that, especially after watching Slumdog Millionaire.

I’ve never been to a developing country, so it’s a bit shocking to see some young kids not in school, and working on the street selling shite out of a plastic bag, or in a cramped souk. A kid I tutor’s younger brother goes to school, plays basketball, probably runs around with other kids lucky enough to live in a developed country. He’s 10, probably a bit younger than the kid I haggled with for a Real Madrid shirt. This kid was probably 12 or so, and after chatting with his older brother and him, I got a knock off jersey for 10 euros. This was about 190 euros less than the “listed price”. Let’s just say their grasp of English hasn’t taught them the difference between 200 and 20. So after I argue about size, the kid tears off running while his bro stayed put in the cramped and unclean little souk.

About 5 minutes later, he comes back panting, smiling a crooked-toothed smile, and carrying a bag with a white shirt it in. I asked him in Spanish, “10 euros right?”

“Yes... And 1 euro for me? One euro! Come on, one euro!” He replied.

Without hesitation I forked out an extra euro, plopped in his dirty, outstretched, little hand; hoping he put it to better use than I would. He smiled and took off. It’s crazy to look a 10 year olds in Almeria, or at the school I work at, and know that just a few hours away, kids the same age are wandering the street carrying plastic bags with crap toys in them, in hopes that tourists will pay just one or two Euros for them.