“I don’t know why we do these things – there was probably a reason once, but no one remembers anymore – it’s just how we do fiesta here in Catalonia.” …….
Our host at the campsite in Oix – a tiny village celebrating its annual fiesta this weekend – shrugged as I asked him to explain last night’s high jinx. It’s as hard to describe as it is seemingly to explain, but here goes: Imagine stepping onto the set of Mad Max – where grown men and women are dressed head to toe in dark maroon fire-retardant trench coats, sporting old-style motorbike goggles, one wearing a rams head masks, horns, most with their faces painted, wicked grins all round and wooden staffs spiked with fireworks.
Rams Headed Fire-Starter!
At eleven at night the few village lights still glowing were doused, the purple pirate drummers struck up a hearty beat and then the rebels came alive. Each of them lit the Catherine wheel fireworks on their staffs and ran at the crowd herded into the narrow street leading down to the church. Yes – AT the crowd!
Drummers
Purple haze
It quickly became apparent why so many men where wearing old straw hats, as the sparks flew and the locals dashed not away from the maniacs trying to scorch them, but straight into the centre of the spewing embers to dance in circles with the fire-starters.
Dancing with the fire-starters
More dancing with the fire-starters
Fireworks showered down on us from the balconies overlooking the square and the little road that circled the church; sparks shot up our trouser-legs as the pyromaniacs swept the road around our feet with more explosives. As one firework died down another was fished from a leather pouch slung over their shoulder, pegged onto the staff and quickly lit.
Fireworks from the balcony
Showering down from all angles
Herding into the narrow streets
Too late to look for cover!
A full circuit of the church later, the drums thrashed a final charge, the dancing became more frenetic and then almost as soon as it started, it was over. What the hell was that all about, and what the hell is coming next, we wondered. The lights came on and then, somewhat incongruously, a local Catalan reggae band started up on the stage – playing to a diminishing crowd as the fire dancers melted away back home again. It was fabulously crazy and we still haven’t found out why they do it. For equal mystery we could have stayed in Solsona – the town we left to come here – for their festival. Hanging donkeys by the neck and hauling them up to the top of the church spire is not my idea of a party.. but apparently that’s what passes for a good fiesta in Solsona!
Donkey disaster
Even at the gift shop…
Don’t panic donkey-lovers… it’s only a story and that’s only a model. Apparently the donkey killers of Solsona were some not-so-smart fellows who had heard there was grass growing on the roof of the church, so decided the pull their donkeys up there for a feed… by the neck. They also have dancing giants and a bunch of other stuff that seems a little crazy to outsiders like us, but makes perfect sense to the locals. Solsona and Oix are in the heart of Catalonia. An autonomous region, with its own government, flag and language; the people are fiercely proud to be Catalan first and Spanish second. It seems a lot of things are different here and traditions abound. Given that we are also so close to France – about 20 kms as the crow flies high up into the Pyrenees – I can get away with saying “vive la difference” !
Happy Birthday Sara