The La Tomatina Festival

I'm on my 3rd round of soaking my laundry (using about 4 times as much soap in each bucket as I normally do), and yet, my bathroom, entryway, and the public stairs that are unlucky enough to share the wall with my bathroom window all still reek of rotten tomatoes. It's been just over 3 days since me, and 20,000 other people, spent an hour throwing four dump trucks worth of tomatoes at each other for an hour in a small town outside of Valencia, Spain, and I still feel like I've had my ass kicked in and I would like to sleep for 24 hours uninterrupted.

The La Tomatina Festival is commonly known to be the worlds largest food fight, held annually on the last Wednesday of August in Bunol, Spain, a small town of (on a non-Tomatina day) around 9,000 residents. 2013 was the first year that the festival has decided to require the purchase of tickets to enter the event, in an effort to control the size of the crowd, mainly. However, when you realize that the number they chose to be the appropriate number of people was 20,000, you can see what kind of event this is (previous years have reached upwards of 40,000 people, 4 times the population of the town that holds the festival). To this day, nobody actually knows how the festival ever started, but the story I like the most involves a group of boys back in 1945 that started their own food fight on the street, and kept up the tradition ever since. The town has officially supported the event since 1950, and believe me, it's amazing to see the community truly support such a messy and insane event, and openly welcome 20,000 (mostly) 20-something's to make a giant mess of their home.

Our day started by waking up at 5:45AM at our hotel in Valencia, and out the door by 6:15. We headed out in a state of excited anticipation, with only our imaginations to tell us what was laying ahead of us. We hopped onto the subway and headed to the other side of town in order to catch our 7AM tour bus to head 35 kilometers inland to Bunol. I managed to doze off a little on the drive, and when I woke up, we were surrounded by hills on all sides, in a little town tucked into the countryside, as cute and quaint as they come -- Except for the swarming of the thousands of people who had already arrived and the blaring music coming from a Red Bull tent sent up in the middle of the field. It was somewhere around 8AM, and the party was already on full blast. We all grabbed a mojito and an energy drink from the make-shift bar and got in line to trade in our tickets for wrist bands.

Wrist bands acquired. Mojitos and/or cheap beers drank. A few trips into "nature" to avoid long bathroom lines completed. We've got our swim goggles hanging around our necks and our white shirts on, ready to be ruined in the fight. We've managed to add a guy from India and a girl from China who may be the smallest full grown human I've ever seen to our group at this point, and we're ready to roll. We head up into the heart of the town, and follow the buildings covered in tarps to know where we need to be. Around 9:55AM, we cross through the police checkpoint into the official tomato-throwing zone, where we're checked to make sure we aren't bringing in any beer cans or other hard objects that shouldn't be thrown in the fight.

The streets flowed with tomato mush, knee deep in places

As per tradition, a greased pole is erected for the festival with a ham at the top of the pole. At 10AM, people start trying to climb the pole, with the intention of knocking the ham down. We're lost in the crowd and not able to witness the scramble for the ham, but we know it's happening somewhere. A lightning-bolt flashes and thunder rumbles overhead, followed shortly by a torrential downpour of a chilling rain. Men are (literally) tearing their shirts off their chest, local residents are throwing buckets of water off their balconies onto the crowd, and I swear, I've never felt energy like this. We dance in the street and sing "Ole! Ole!" like we're at a futball match, already soaking wet before the fight ever starts. Suddenly, the water cannon goes off, followed by the roar of an excited crowd of 20,000. I look down at my watch. It's 10:46AM. Someone has knocked the ham down, and the first truck of tomatoes is already working it's way through the crowd. I quickly strap my goggles to my face before I get any tomato juice in my eyes, and get ready for the adventure of a lifetime.

The festival utilizes a total of 4 dump trucks filled with tomatoes, which ends up coming out to a little more than 40 metric tons of tomatoes for the fight. The rules of the game are as follows:
1. You must crush the tomatoes before you throw them.
2. You may not throw anything other than tomatoes.
3. You must move when the dump truck comes through the crowd.
4. You may not rip off someone else's shirt (not really followed all that well...)
5. When the second water cannon goes off, exactly 1 hour after the first, all throwing must stop.

The dump trucks came through the crowd once about every 10 to 15 minutes or so, which worked well at keeping the excitement up. Just as you started to run out of whole tomatoes to throw, a whole new batch appeared, and we got worked into a frenzy all over again. La Tomatina is an experience you can never have rivaled by anything else you do in life. It is the ultimate definition of a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and believe me, once is definitely enough. I have a vivid memory of getting nailed in the side of the head by a tomato while my friend ground another tomato into my hair and down my shirt, and suddenly thinking "How the hell did my life get me to this exact spot right now?!" It is surreal to say the least.

After the last truck came through the crowd, a sudden unexplained death crush of people started pushing back down the street towards where we came into the festival. By death crush, I literally mean I've never been so legitimately afraid of having my ribs crushed as I was at that moment in time. The last time I saw the Chinese girl that was with us was about 15 minutes into the fight as she huddled shaking in the middle of the mob of people. As we were pushed down the street, our group, which had done well at keeping together through the fight, began to be pushed apart. I grabbed one friend's hand and we held onto each other for dear life, protected behind us by the Indian man that was with us, who had one hand on each of our shoulders to keep us from being crushed too hard. Seeing a side-street coming up to our right, my friend cried "Go!!" and I made a mad cut to my side and pushed as hard as I could until I was able to breath again. We lost our Indian friend in the escape, and never saw him again.

Once we had escaped to the side-street, I finally pushed my goggles up off my face for the first time, finally getting a clear look of the chaos the festival had left behind in it's wake. Flowing freely down all the streets throughout the entire town was a river of what looked almost like pasta sauce. In places you were wading through calf or knee deep rivers of crushed tomatoes (no, I'm not exaggerating), and the smell and taste of tomatoes filled your mouth and nose. This is the point in time where I truly gained a respect for the people of Bunol, Spain, who are so gracious enough to allow this event to happen to their town every year, and, once the throwing stops, their hospitality came even more to light.

Down every street we passed, local residents stood in their driveways with their garden hoses, ready to hose down the thousands of people lined up for a rinse. Back on the main street of the fight, locals were still throwing buckets of water off their balconies onto the crowd, and the fire department began their work of spraying down the streets while workers squeegeed mashed tomatoes into the sewers. Following a crowd of people, my friend and I headed down the hill to the river that runs through the middle of Bunol, ready to, if nothing else, get the tomato chunks out of my shoes. We joined a couple hundred other people, stripped down to our underwear, and climbed into the river to wash off, and rinse our clothes out, as much as possible at the time.

Me and a friend, tomato covered and happy.

Once we were "clean" we headed back to the edge of town where we first arrived, grabbed a beer and some food, and waited under the Red Bull tent, which had been pre-decided to be our meeting point in case of separation for our group of eight. The sky started to open up again and drizzle some more, and we sat shivering and discussing how grateful we were for that side-street we found, and wondering what the fate of the rest of our group was. Finally unable to handle the bone-chilling cold anymore, I wandered back into the crowd in search of any T-shirts left available in adult sizes, and threw down 5 Euro's on the only thing left in my size: a neon green tee with a silhouette of someone dancing with the words "Something is moving..." printed at the bottom, with "Tomatofight" at the top. It made no sense, but I immediately stripped off my soaking wet tank top and was grateful for how soft and warm it felt (I think I forgot how soft T-shirts are supposed to be after hand washing my clothes for so long).

After we gathered the rest of our group, we mustered the energy for one last mob fight, and, along with a few thousand other people, tried to get on a bus back to Valencia. Each time a bus pulled in, we took off like thoroughbreds at the Kentucky Derby and ran after the bus, eventually getting a good enough position to climb into the warm and dry bus back to the city. After a very thorough shower which we completed in teams to help check for missed tomatoes, the only thing left to do was pass out for 4 hours.

To anyone thinking of attending La Tomatina, here is my advice:
Do it. Do it right. Do it well. It's an experience every young person should have. Go all out for it. And damn it, only do it once. 

A Terrible Lesbian's Opinion On Russia: Why Do We Care What They're Doing?

So I’m going to get off the travel topic a little bit, and focus instead on just some basic, world-wide, human rights issue’s real quick. Don’t worry, we’ll get back to the regularly scheduled, travel-related programming soon (like my plans to throw 40 tons of tomatoes at people in a couple days). I want to talk a little bit about what’s going on in Russia right now in the context of the queer community and the actions being taken against them, against us.

“You’re the worst lesbian I’ve ever met” my friend told me.

“Yeah, I’m aware. I just don’t care.” Although my faux-hawked hair, Subaru, and vegetarianism did give me some street cred as a walking stereotype.

The first time I came out to someone was nearly 8 years ago, and I’ve been publically out and open to anyone that cares to barge that far into my business for about 4 years now. When I first started telling people that I was attracted to other women, I made myself a few promises. First, I swore that I would never, ever, let my sexual orientation define what I could or could not do in my life. I will do what I want, and I will follow my heart where it takes me, and my sexuality will in no part play any role in my decision making.

The second thing was not so much a promise to myself as it was just a fact that I knew to be true. Being gay was not who I was. Let me say that again, being gay is not who I am. Period. It is simply another facet of myself. The fact that I snowboard when I need to clear my head, I find traveling to be the greatest thrill in life, or that I wish I could live as a character of Toy Story (Buzz Lightyear preferably) makes up no more or less a part of me than my attraction to the female demographic of society.

“I haven’t decided yet if I’m coming to the party. I’m not really a huge fan of gay-themed parties.”

“Ha! You’re funny! I’ll see you there” she responded, not realizing that I wasn’t actually joking.

Election night, 2012. Capitol Hill, Seattle.

I think often times in the queer community, it becomes a challenge. It’s almost as if putting 50 people of various sexualities in one room suddenly makes your sexuality less valid, and now, you must prove that you are, in fact, gay enough. It’s like the rainbow flag in my window, my unwavering support of gay-rights issues, and, oh yeah, the fact that I actually am gay, is suddenly called into question because of my lack of interest in glitter, Ke$ha, and the need to flamboyantly announce myself on the world. I have nothing against anyone who is a fan of Ke$ha, or flamboyancy, although I will never understand the desire to have glitter still on your clothes 4 months after the party because that shit NEVER GOES AWAY.

So why am I saying all of this? Because not all of us non-heterosexuals are the same. We are all individual humans. We have different interests, desires, beliefs, and stories to tell. But we all still face many of the same struggles and celebrations also.

“I’m not allowed to come over anymore because my dad doesn’t like that you’re a lesbian.” My first taste at direct discrimination from a friend’s family in high school.

“Dad, I can get married now!!!” A text I sent when Governor Gregoir signed same-sex marriage into law in Washington state.

“I can walk you down the aisle now.” His response.

Terrible lesbian or no, I’ve never wavered in my support of same-sex rights and, in fact, have actually been a fairly vocal advocate for them. My love of travel, though, does influence my actions a little bit. I don’t, obviously, stick to only developed, Western nations when I travel (they’re too expensive anyways!). I love to experience cultures, and have experiences I wouldn’t generally have without having gone in search of them on my own. My first time out of the country was to rural Kenya, I currently live in a conservative Moroccan city. Are these places where I generally walk down the street shouting “I’M GAY! I’M GAY!” Oh hell no. That would be suicide. Literally.

When I travel to places like Morocco, or Kenya, or whatever the hell else the world may take me, I go back into the closet. Voluntarily. My love of travelling overrides my need to be out and proud 24/7. While I have gotten into some amazing conversations with people in these countries about gay rights, and learned very much from them, it’s also not my culture. It is not my place to come in and say “Here is what you should be doing.” Even if it is what they should be doing. But change must be internal. The people of these countries need to make the change on their own (then maybe one day I can be out and open when I travel).  And they are. Little by little. While I’ve definitely had some gut-wrenching moments in my travels, I also see enough hopeful changes that I believe the good is outweighing the bad, overall at least. Like Uganda’s second annual gay-pride parade that just happened.

But things aren’t improving everywhere. Many places, they’re disintegrating. Rapidly.

I’m sure many, if not most or all of you have followed to some degree the latest that has been coming out of Russia in regards to gay-rights. Putin, in all his manliness, has declared it illegal to essentially even tell children there’s such a thing as being gay. Russia has vowed to arrest and deport any gay athletes that show up to the 2014 Olympic Games in Sochi. And, unofficially, people are being beaten and tortured. All because they fell in love.  

This is heartbreaking. It’s an awful state that our world is in right now, truly. And all of the members of the Russian queer community should know that they have the support of their worldwide queer community every day. But here is my issue with all of the coverage on Russia lately: Why are we only looking at Russia?

The press went absolutely ape-shit when all of this started coming to light in Russia in the past month or so. Suddenly it was this huge tragedy that everyone cared so deeply about, and the internet seemed to have a feeding frenzy over any sort of story about the topic. But why? Why do we suddenly, out of nowhere, care so much about what Russia has to say about gay-rights?

A 2010 study found that there are 5 countries in the world that, as a law, say punishment for engaging in same-sex behavior is death. And those are only the countries that actually took the time to make it a law, it’s the reality in many more places. In addition to those 5 countries, there are 77 countries in the world that criminalize consensual sexual acts between two people of the same gender (oddly enough, many only criminalize male-male relations, and choose to ignore that women are sexual beings too all together). That’s 82 countries total around the world that, in some fashion, criminalize being gay. There are 196 countries in the world (depending on which country you report from, and who your politics actually recognize as a country), which means that 42% of the world criminalizes homosexuality.

So once again, why are we giving Russia all the attention here? With all due respect, it can be a lot worse than Russia. I am in no way condoning what they’re doing, but, I guess what I’m saying is this:

If I’m going to be out somewhere, Russia is not the bottom of my choices.

So how about we start recognizing that this is a real world-wide problem. Why are Africa and the Middle East being held to a lower standard? Let’s give some countries that aren't full of only white people some attention. And let’s give them that attention because what they’re doing is wrong. Not because they’re hosting the Olympics so it suddenly matters to us. 

What Country Does Your Money Come From?

I was looking around my apartment the other day and I had the realization that if nothing else, by definition of what I collect, I’m officially a traveler. Let’s be honest here, who else is going to have their only collections be maps (which, I will note, make up the only decorations in my house), postcards, and foreign currency. So what if I don’t have a solid plan for my future? When that future comes, I’ll at least have some damn good stories to tell to the guy sitting next to me as the plane takes off for Brazil or Nepal or Tasmania.

I recently had the chance to get out of Morocco for a little bit and take off on an adventure to Spain and Gibraltar with some friends, marking the first trip I’ve ever planned and taken as a full functioning, competent adult. No parents, no school planners, no job requirements. Just an awesome vacation with some really awesome people, where I was entirely responsible for myself for the first time. This all may sound a little silly, but for someone who has dreamed of traveling the world her entire life, this was a big moment for me. It was the official start to my quest to see the world, taken into my own hands, and charging head first into everything I've ever dreamed of.

The Mediterreanean to the right, the Atlantic to the left,
Spain in the distance, the U.K. under my feet, and Morocco
to my back. 

But, as seems inevitable, my mind came with me on vacation (weird how that happens…), and I of course have new and insightful thoughts that I think the world should know about (what other kinds of thoughts would I have?).

Over the course of our trip, we spent time in 3 countries, spoke 5 different languages, and dealt with 4 different currencies. I often times tell people how much something here in Morocco cost me, only to have them ask me how much that is in dollars. My response is often an attempted quick calculation in my head (I’m not really great at dividing by 8 I’ve learned), followed by “I don’t know, I get paid in Dirham’s, not Dollars.” I just don’t think in U.S. Dollars. I don’t need to.

But for this vacation, I was tapping my American bank account, not using my work account here in Morocco, which, as I quickly learned, wouldn’t have lasted very long anyways. Spain uses the Euro for currency, while Gibraltar, an English territory, uses the Pound. It’s 1.3 Dollars to the Euro. It’s 1.5 Dollars to the Pound. Its 8 Dirham’s to the Dollar. Its 11 Dirham’s to the Euro. Its 12 Dirham’s to the Pound. Is your head spinning yet? We all kept borrowing money from each other during vacation and I was the one each night to sort out who owed who what, and in what currency, and apparently I’m pretty good at it. Who knew?!

But the point is this: Imagine you’re a Moroccan. You’re born and raised in Morocco to a typical family in a small town somewhere; your family doesn’t exactly spew extra money, if you catch my drift. It’s fairly common here in Morocco for people to go to Europe to work and send money back to their families, specifically to either France or Italy (both are on the Euro, try and keep up, it’s an 11:1 exchange rate).

When I hit the ATM when I first got to Spain, I, using my American debit card, pulled out €200. My bank account then promptly showed I was $263 dollars poorer. Kind of a gut wrencher to see that happen. But it was interesting, to say the least, to finally travel somewhere where my American dollar was weaker than the local currency, and realize what it feels like to be Moroccan every day, dreaming of getting out of Morocco to something “better.”

 

Dirhams, Euro's, Dollars, and Pence

But let’s go back to you pretending that you are a Moroccan looking to travel to Europe to find work. With an 11:1 exchange rate, it’s almost impossibility. For every Euro you need, you need to save 11 Dirham’s. Just to afford the plane ticket alone is a far-fetched dream for many people. The fact that I can claim that title of “traveler” is a direct result of the fact that I was lucky enough to be born and raised in America. The fact that the money in my bank account is dollars, and not Dirham’s (or, heaven forbid, Kenyan shillings, at 100 to the American dollar), is the reason I can afford to see the world, especially if I stay out of places like Europe.

In an ever-changing world, there is a rapidly growing difference between the worlds wealthy, and the world’s poor. And unfortunately with exchange rates like these, the people who are born into developing nations, it is becoming increasingly more difficult to be able to ever see more than just the village you are from. And while this may not seem like “your problem” right now, as the world evolves, it will be soon enough.