On November 3, 1658, the eruption of Volcan Playon sent balls of fire raining down on the town of Nixapa, forcing the villagers to flee. They resettled in Nejapa, where the eruption is commemorated every August 31st with Las Bolas de Fuego (Balls of Fire).Whatever you are imagining is probably far milder than reality; it's like the most dangerous game of dodgeball EVER. Two opposing teams paint their faces, don "uniforms", and throw gasoline soaked fireballs at each other, to the delight of hundreds of cheering, raucous, inebriated spectators. I've have never witnessed anything so insane in my entire life.
Upon arrival, Las Bolas de Fuego looks likes your typical festival. Vendors line the street, selling pupusas, french fries, nachos, churros, t-shirts, glow sticks, and anything else they think you might want. Others tote beer and pop through the streets, like baseball game vendors. Musicians rock out on stage, fireworks are ignited, and men run through the streets shooting sparklers and smoke.
Our friends in Nejapa were able to gain us access to the staging area for the FMLN team - the town's youth gym. There young men dressed in long shirts, pants, face masks and gloves, painted their faces and psyched up for the event. Outside, someone had already lit a fireball and passerbys took turns putting on a protective glove and holding the blazing ball.
I didn't plan on getting up close and personal with the fireballs, but right before the fight began, I made the unfortunate mistake of following two crazy Salvadoran friends, Negro and Julio, to find something to soothe my growling stomach. On the way back, Negro said, "They haven't started yet. Let's cross the street here." And I blindly followed, carrying my french fries smothered in salsa (ketchup). It wasn't thirty seconds later that a ball of fire came barreling straight at my feet. Thank God that years of gymnastics and soccer honed quick reflexes. I jumped up, feet spread wide to avoid the blazing wad of rags, managing to save all but a few fries that tumbled to the ground. The only true casualty was a dime-sized ketchup stain on my shirt.With my heart pounding wildly, I broke into a jog (it was impossible to run in that crowd), and shoved my way back to where the rest of our group was standing. Within minutes, the event truly commenced (what I had experience was just a warm-up) and as the crowd pressed forward to watch the madness, it became hot, intense and uncomfortable. Justin, Bobby and Michael were standing on a raised sidewalk wall, snapping photo after photo. They were too close for my comfort, so I attempted to move to where I could see, but had less of a chance to be scorched by a rogue ball.
This plan didn't work very well, and I quickly grew tired of weaving my way through the sweaty, pulsing crowd of strangers, ever fearful that I may be trampled or lit on fire. I decided to high-tail back to the safety and security of Bobby and Brittney's house. Justin and Michael, however, remained close to, and sometimes right in the middle of, the action. I hope to post some of Justin's video, but for now, here's a YouTube clip:
Goodness gracious GREAT BALLS OF FIRE!
Photo Cred: Justin Klubnik
Photo Cred: Justin Klubnik
