This is how we die, I thought, as my friend and I clung to each other desperately, sweaty hands intertwined. Whistles were being aggressively blown while uniformed men bellowed in Spanish, gesturing wildly for us to move to the sides.

20,000 of us were sandwiched up against the doors of homes and shopfronts down this one narrow, historic street. My best friend and I had landed ourselves at the back of a pile six or seven people deep and took in tiny gulps of air in our first experience of a crowd-crush. Seeing my own terror mirrored in her expression, I regretted having suggested this ill-conceived adventure.

Arriving at our campsite the previous day, we had baked under an unforgiving Valencian sun. Sweat beaded our upper lips as we set up deliriously; the temperature crept to 43 degrees. We readily traded security for the possibility of catching the faintest breeze from a sea somewhere nearby, sleeping with our tent unzipped.

The 5-day campers had arrived first and established their dominance, moving about in packs. In the pool, they scrabbled up onto each other’s’ shoulders to form several-people-high stacks and ‘fought’. They yelled and swore and flirted and backflipped while my friend and I skirted around the edges of the pool.

They had also, it seemed, emptied the campsite’s general store of virtually anything useful. When we arrived, only some sad-looking canned vegetables were left – although 3L bottles of sangria remained in plentiful supply. Dinner that night consisted of dry gluten-free bread scraps salvaged from the bottom of my pack, smothered with chocolate turned liquid in its foil packet.

The next morning, my friend and I giggled as we donned our matching tank tops and headbands, secured our phones in Ziplock bags, and shoved goggles into our pockets. Bundled onto a bus at 7:30, we were running on pure adrenaline and arrived in Buñol to a thrilling air of anticipation.

For several sweaty hours, we watched as shirtless boys and the odd girl clambered up a greased pole, attempting to reach a leg of ham affixed to the top, as per tradition. When 11am finally struck, we were herded up against the sides of the street in what felt like a re-enactment of a WWII scene. Enormous trucks rumbled in, halted, and let their back trays down. Hundreds of thousands (millions?) of tomatoes came spewing out. Mayhem erupted.

It was only a matter of minutes before we were drenched. Seeping around the sides of our goggles, the juice stung our eyes, the skins were plastered to our hair, the street gushed red. In the interest of sustainability, only poor quality overripe or rotten tomatoes that would be otherwise thrown out are offered up for the event. And my God, the STENCH.

Suffice to say this was nothing like the play-fight I’d envisaged; it was hardcore combat. We bowled out the odd tomato, but mostly my friend and I defended ourselves from the sidelines in amused bewilderment. I’ve rarely felt greater relief than when it ended.

But later, we once again feared for our lives as a mass of bodies surged towards the limited number of buses arriving each hour to take us to the after party. Survival instincts not yet relaxed after the day’s antics, it was every man for himself, steely eyes locked on those vehicles. Feet and elbows pushed relentlessly, dangerously, robotically, forward. All my friend and I could do was keep our arms firmly interlaced as we were swept along in the wave.
*
“It’s this way!” someone yelled as we forced our limbs, heavy with sun and tomato-pummelling, onward. We’d left the after party in the early hours of the morning and a small group of us were now tramping through an overgrown track. As the tangle of green underfoot gave way to sand, I gasped at the sight of beach.

Daylight was just beginning to peek through the clouds as we undressed and slipped silently into the warm ocean. For the first time in days, a sense of safety descended on me. I could breathe properly again. Lolling about in the bathwater, the sky turned pink and cast a heavenly glow on our faces. It seemed as if we were bathing not in the sea, but in the sunrise itself.

Tomorrow, there would be clothes to be binned and tents to be hosed, bags to be re-packed. Friends would be tearfully farewelled and long days of travel would follow, back to the world beyond this fruit-stained fever dream. But in that moment, time stopped.

Ten years on, a few hazy scenes swim into focus when I think about those three days. An unfathomable volume of tomatoes. A frightening number of humans behaving badly. And glittering above it all, one glorious, unforgettable sunrise.

This category is sponsored by Freely Travel Insurance.

 Freely is a brand of Cover-More Insurance Services Pty Limited ABN 95 003 114 145 (AFSL 241713) (Cover- More). The information provided is only on the availability of Freely products. We do not give advice and the information provided is not intended to give an opinion or recommendation regarding the product. For information on what’s covered and how to contact Freely, refer to the PDS, FSG & TMD which can be found here: freely.me/au.