As I sat down at the desk in my hostel to write this piece, I forced myself to stop thinking about what could’ve been and the reality I was living in that moment.
“It’s going to be the experience of a lifetime,” my friends said as they saw me off at the airport a couple of days previously. If only I had known just how hard it was going to hit me every time I experienced things and didn’t have him there to share it with.
I’d travelled more than 7,000km (4,350 miles) from my native India to Valencia, Spain, to witness one of the world’s most famous festivals, La Tomatina. Billed as the world’s biggest food fight, it seemed like the perfect antidote to my sorrowful post-break-up state, and I woke up the morning of the event at 4.30am, eager to get stuck in.
Why did my boyfriend and I break up, you ask? The caste differences, which are still prevalent in India today, are to blame, contrary to what the world sees.
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As I left the hostel, the staff member at the front desk said to me in a sleepy tone: “Tomatina is no longer a Spanish festival; it belongs to the world now.”
Walking towards the bus stop that would take me the 40km from Valencia to Bunol, where the festival takes place, I saw two guys around my age heading in the same direction. “Are you going to the festival too?” I asked. They nodded, and we fell into step and easy conversation. They were both from Japan but had been travelling around Europe for several months.
“I came to Spain to forget that my backpack was stolen in Slovenia,” one of them told me, seeming incredibly calm, even though his bag contained his work laptop, iPad, chargers, licences and more. “I’m just grateful for this life and the experience I’m about to have here.” His words struck a chord as I, too, was here to forget and to try to live in the present.
As we approached a long queue for the bus, another stranger started chatting to us. Dr Tapish, a surgeon from India, had also taken this pilgrimage of sorts to escape the mundanity of his life back home. He and his friends invited me to join them for the day.
The story of La Tomatina, as a local teacher named Yolanda Diaz explained to us on the bus, is about more than just throwing tomatoes. “It started as a scuffle,” she told me, her eyes proud with the memory of a festival she has attended for the past 20 years. “It began in 1945 when a fight broke out during a parade, and frustrated youths started throwing vegetables from a nearby market.” In other words, it was a spontaneous, rebellious act.
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Over the decades, it evolved, was banned and then reinstated in 1959, when locals carried a large tomato in a coffin, pretending to mourn the death of the once-great event, and forcing authorities to allow it again and to embrace it as an official festival.
“For the world, it’s an hour of tomato-drenched chaos, but for us, it’s a 10-day festival with food contests and music across the city,” she beamed. Diaz also told me how the red and blue flags hung on the balconies in Bunol belonged to the two main “tribes” of the town. “I belong to the red one,” she added.
Along the way, I also met Sigfrido, owner of La Palleria, a restaurant in Bunol, which had been trading in the same central spot in the town for forty years, and who had witnessed the festival's growth firsthand. “Earlier, it was more people, fewer police; now it’s more police, fewer people,” he told me. “I enjoy talking to people from all over the world during the festival.” His words captured the beautiful contradiction of the event: a local tradition that has become a global hub of connection.
As my new friends and I departed the bus and walked towards a growing crowd in the centre of the city, the nervous excitement was palpable. A torrent of cold water suddenly cascaded from a balcony above us, drenching us and making us laugh and recoil. “It’s like a baptism!” called out one of my new friends from the sea of bodies around us.
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The air hummed with a dozen languages. People were crammed shoulder to shoulder in the narrow street; a human river flowed toward the Plaza del Pueblo. And then, at noon on the dot, the first truck appeared, its horn blaring out like a war cry. And a minute later, the world dissolved into a glorious, sticky, red chaos.
More trucks arrived to dump 120 tonnes of tomatoes into the streets. My friends and I clung to the walls as the first round of hard, red lumps were launched in every direction. I felt overwhelmed. The earthy smell of tomatoes became all-encompassing, mixed with the smell of sweat. There was an eruption of excited shouting and the sound of squishing, laughing and yelling. I was no longer an individual, but part of a single, pulsating, tomato-covered being.
At that moment, throwing a tomato felt less like an act of aggression and more like an act of surrender. All my meticulous planning, my carefully constructed walls, my lingering heartache, melted away with every “splat”. Everyone on that street was at once a target and a friend.
An hour-long battle concluded with a final cannon shot. And then came the hoses. Locals, with an air of practised efficiency, turned high-pressure hoses on the crowd. The streets around us became a torrent of red pulp. The process of washing away the tomatoes felt symbolic.
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I entered the red sea as a solitary pilgrim, raw with grief. I emerged feeling lighter. The connections I made with travellers and locals proved that life’s meaning is found in living, not just existing. My shared experiences with strangers proved to be healing. I didn’t know these people; I didn’t know their backgrounds or their status in society. And neither did I need to, because in those few furious hours of throwing tomatoes, we became one.
I went to La Tomatina seeking liberation from grief, and I walked away cleansed, having washed away my sadness with pureed tomatoes.
How to get there
A return flight from London Stansted (STN) to Valencia (VLC) with Ryanair takes 2 hours and 55 minutes and starts from £30. EasyJet flies from Gatwick to Valencia in 2 hours and 20 minutes from £45.
You can book tickets for the festival through ticketstomatina.com with a bus/entry/after-party package for €48 (£41). If booking independently, trains from Valencia to Bunol start from €3.70 (£3.21) one way with the earliest departing at 6.30am.
Where to stay
The best place to stay if you’re not overnighting in Bunol is in Valencia. Russafa Youth Hostel, a short 15-minute walk from the Ciutat Vella (city centre) in Valencia. You can reach Bunol from Valencia by bus (average journey time an hour, £5) or train (average journey time 1 hour 30 minutes, £5).
You can also stay in Bunol at Hotel Ignacio, but be prepared to book well in advance of the festival.
