When the Streets Breathe Again
Buñol, a town of about 9,000 people, welcomes nearly 20,000 visitors from Spain, Europe, and beyond. Buses rumble up the winding mountain roads, trains pull into the modest station, and campervans line the town’s edges. Long before the first tomato flies, the streets burst with voices in many languages and flashes of countless colors. People wear old clothes and sneakers, fit goggles over their eyes, and strap waterproof pouches across their chests. They mount GoPros to capture the day and costumes — from superheroes to tuxedos — ready for a baptism in tomato juice.
It is mid-August, and Buñol holds its breath — a picturesque, age-worn enclave where narrow streets wind between stone façades, tiled roofs catch the sunlight, and the scent of orange blossoms drifts through the air. The calm precedes a storm of the most peculiar kind. For 364 days a year, life moves at the slow rhythm of a small Valencian town: neighbors talk in shaded plazas, elderly men play dominoes, and children dart past fountains in the summer heat. But on the last Wednesday of August, Buñol transforms into something entirely different — a living canvas for the planet’s most affectionate chaos.
Each year, the quiet community in the Valencia region turns itself into a stage for a spectacle that blends carnival and battlefield. For sixty minutes, the town square becomes a pulpy arena where thousands of kilos of overripe tomatoes serve as both weapon and art form. Squashed fruit clings to clothing, laughter bounces off centuries-old walls, and the sweet acidity of tomatoes thickens the air. People remember it not simply as a fight but as a ritual — a shared release, a colorful and slippery ballet of absurdity and delight.
The date lives in the town’s memory as a yearly rebellion — an hour of sanctioned anarchy in which the valley surrenders to a tidal wave of tomatoes. For that one day, rules blur, language barriers dissolve in laughter, and neatly pressed identities give way to dripping shirts, red-slicked hair, and the sting of tomato juice in the eyes. This is La Tomatina — the world’s most famous food fight, where joy, not rage, turns the streets red.
In 2025, La Tomatina returns louder, juicier, and more exhilarating than ever. On Wednesday, August 27, 2025, the world will once again turn its eyes to Buñol. In the weeks before the day, the atmosphere shifts. Cobblestones seem to brace for impact. Café walls fill with posters, ticket counters stay busy, and locals prepare — some to dive into the fight, others to watch from balconies, ready to pour water over the red-stained warriors below.
A Richly Red History
La Tomatina began, like many great stories, by accident. In 1945, during a local parade of “giants and big heads”, a scuffle broke out among townspeople. One thing led to another, and a nearby vegetable stall became the unlikely arsenal. Tomatoes flew, faces were splattered, and although the police initially disbanded the impromptu food fight, a seed had been planted. Despite multiple bans in the 1950s, the people of Buñol continued to revive the tomato clash year after year, culminating in a mock tomato funeral in 1957 — complete with a coffin and a mournful march — as a protest against the prohibition. This theatrical resistance succeeded, and by the 1970s, La Tomatina was officially recognized and supported by the local council. In 2002, Spain’s Department of Tourism declared it a Fiesta of International Tourist Interest.
From a wild spark of spontaneous revelry, La Tomatina has grown into a globally beloved phenomenon that attracts adventurers, artists, and joy-seekers from every continent.
The Town Prepares Like a Playwright
Three weeks before the event, Buñol turns into a rehearsal space. Volunteers hang banners with meticulous sloppiness, tape plastic sheeting over wrought-iron balconies, visitors greeted with practiced smiles. Municipal crews sweep the streets daily. The town moves with an economy that blends practicality and theatre: host families book out rooms, cafés stock tapas for a thousand hungry mouths, and delivery vans unload crates of overripe tomatoes for their single glorious purpose.
“The town becomes a stage,” says María Serrano, a third-generation pastry shop owner whose windows face the main route. Her shop doubles as a briefing post during the festival. “We set out extra chairs, fasten the plastic covers, and keep the coffee ready for whoever needs it after the fight. It’s messy work, but a beautiful one,” she adds, pride warming her voice. “For us, it’s a day of life, business, and laughter.”
Every part of the local economy works with the festival’s rhythm. Children crowd balconies to watch the Palo Jabón, bus drivers learn new routes, and cleaning crews perfect their choreography down to the minute. The town bends its everyday patterns to fit the ritual, proving that festivals don’t just entertain — they hold a place together.
Ethics, Waste, and a Town’s Answer
The tomatoes hurled during La Tomatina are not the glossy produce of market stalls, but the overripe, soft-skinned kind grown in Extremadura for industrial purposes — destined to spoil before sale. Buñol buys them cheaply, transforming what would have rotted into the pulsing core of its most famous tradition. In this way, the fruit is diverted from waste to ritual, its short-lived usefulness redeemed in a riot of colour and laughter.
Still, a question hums beneath the chaos: in a world where hunger persists, should people turn food into ammunition? Critics call it waste, but locals offer context. Farmers bring tomatoes that no one can sell or ship, and the day’s profits flow directly through the community. Festival week swells the town’s economy — visitors tip generously, buy from family-run shops, and even volunteer for the cleanup. Even the mess itself finds an unlikely ending: municipal crews hose down the streets, and the tomatoes’ natural acidity cuts through grime until the cobblestones gleam.
Buñol embraces the paradox with open eyes — a celebration that burns bright and sustains in its own way. The hour of frenzy gives way to an evening of restored order, and the scent of crushed fruit drifts into the air, leaving cleaner stones and another year’s worth of stories woven into the town’s identity.
Palo Jabón: The Greased Prelude
Before the first tomato is flung, the Palo Jabón calls the crowd to attention. A tall wooden pole, lacquered in grease and crowned with a ham, becomes the focal point of a boisterous, human comedy. Groups form, shoulders press, and competitors try to scale the slippery tower in a show of collective effort and gleeful failure. Óscar, a Palo Jabón veteran with more than a decade of attempts under his belt, tells us about his first climb as if it were an initiation. “I was twenty and stupidly brave,” he laughed. “You slip, you fall, and you find your neighbors under you, laughing. It’s not about the ham — it’s the attempt. The whole town cheers when someone gets a handhold. It is the perfect warm-up for the tomato fight.” Óscar’s hands, callused from a lifetime of manual work, thumb an old scar with a sort of fondness.
The Cannon and the Red Flood
At 11:00 AM, the cannon rings — blunt, ceremonial, irreverent. Trucks roll in carrying what the organisers and local lore alike call the day’s sacrament: over 100 metric tons of ripe tomatoes. They are chosen not for the dinner table but for their squish: soft, yielding, loud on impact. The first arc of a thrown tomato redraws the town. Cobblestones, balconies, and shirts are quickly baptized in pulp. Goggles fog with steam and juice. Voices rise to a single ecstatic pitch. And yet beneath the cacophony there is an order: an unspoken etiquette. Squash before you throw; do not aim for the face; be mindful that the moment is shared and fleeting. Within the hour, Buñol’s streets become a moving canvas. Balcony musicians layer rhythms over the melee; hoses spray the overheated; local stewards guide the flow. La Tomatina is loud and bodily and tender: people throw, people duck, people help one another up. The act of being drenched in tomato seems, paradoxically, to be an act of hospitality.
Why People Keep Coming
There are practical reasons people come to Buñol for La Tomatina: the documentary shots, the viral videos, the postcard memories. But the deeper reasons reveal themselves in small moments — the handshake after a tomato splats on a shoulder, the tapas shared beneath a makeshift tarp, the child on a balcony clapping for the runners below. The festival acts as a modern rite of passage, a permission slip to be messy, to laugh, to let go. Younger visitors treat it as sport and spectacle. Older ones reconnect with something uncluttered and immediate. For Buñol’s elderly residents, the day feels like both a nuisance and an annual affirmation — a noisy proof that their town matters to the world.
Laila, a 28-year-old teacher from Almería, plans to attend with a group of friends. “I need to be ridiculous with people I don’t know,” she says, grinning at the thought. Jon, a 32-year-old web developer from Liverpool, booked his trip months ago. “I think it will be chaotic but in a fun way,” he admits. “I’ve seen videos, and there’s no hostility. My partner pushed me — she wanted a trip like no other. I’ll tell it in code and in pictures.” He plans to guard his waterproof camera like treasure but can’t wait to dive into the chaos.
Óscar, the Palo Jabón veteran, stands as the kind of local who remembers every detail of the festival, even the ones international headlines overlook. A farmer by trade, he wears his scar from a past climb like a medal. “When people climb, you see hands crossing,” he says with pride. “That’s what it is for me — people helping each other to reach something silly. The ham isn’t the point; it’s the shared trying.”
The Hour After: From Red Chaos to Warm Evenings
When the second cannon fires, a collective sigh drifts over Buñol. Goggles come off, revealing faces flushed with heat and laughter, and the streets flow toward hoses, rivers, and public showers. The scent of frying oil and cured ham takes over, drawing people to tables where patatas bravas are shared and stories are traded like currency — “Did you see the kid who…?” “Who got the ham?” María’s bakery becomes a haven of coffee, napkins, and post-battle tales. By evening, the town slips back into itself: the church bell, tiled roofs, and soft conversations in the square. Tourists linger, locals close shops with a mix of tired smiles and playful complaints, and somewhere a guitar plays. For one hour each August, the world and Buñol collide in red — and part with hearts a little lighter.
Ready, Set, Throw — Your La Tomatina Game Plan
If you’re heading to Buñol for La Tomatina, you need more than excitement — you need a plan. First, book your spot early because tickets sell out fast, and be prepared for shoulder-to-shoulder crowds. Next, pack light, dress in clothes you won’t mind parting with, and wear goggles to protect your eyes from the tomato splash. In addition, keep your valuables safe with a trusted friend or in a waterproof pouch. Don’t forget to bring sunscreen and water — the Valencian sun doesn’t forgive carelessness. Finally, once the chaos ends, slow down and savour the local flavours; fresh bread dipped in hot oil is the perfect way to recharge.
Of course, the fun only works if everyone plays fair, so follow the rules like a seasoned tomato warrior. Before you throw, squash tomatoes to avoid injuries. Only hurl tomatoes — nothing else. Also, resist the urge to tear clothes, stop the moment you hear the final cannon, and above all, respect the locals and their home. By doing so, you keep the fight spirited, safe, and unforgettable.
So, if the idea of one glorious hour of flying tomatoes calls to you, don’t just dream about it — secure your ticket, pack your goggles, and join the world’s juiciest food fight.
Ise