La Tomatina: The Great Spanish Tomato War of 2018
Only 20 miles from Valencia lies the tiny village of Buñol, where each year a unique and wild tradition unfolds: La Tomatina.
For 355 days a year, Buñol is a quiet town, but on the day before the tomato fight, the festivities kick off with food and preparations, as residents start protecting their homes from the chaos to come.
The medieval city is a typical Spanish pueblo with a castle and everything. Its quiet streets are transformed once a year.
In the summer, nearly every Spanish town celebrates its fiestas, often in honor of their patron saint. Madrid, for example, marks August 15th with open-air concerts and film screenings, while Andalusia’s coastal fiestas might feature carnivals, food stalls, and fashion shows. But Buñol’s fiesta is unlike any other, culminating in a massive tomato fight that leaves the streets running red with rivers of juice—a scene straight out of a gory film.
La Tomatina began in 1945, though its exact origin is debated. One legend claims a guitarist playing in the town square was silenced by tomato-wielding kids, sparking the “First Great Tomato War.” Another version, considered more likely, tells of a group of young people crashing a parade near a fruit stand, leading to an epic food fight. After years of police intervention, the event was officially reinstated in 1959 with strict rules, including time limits and mandatory cleanup. Since then, it has taken place annually on the last Wednesday of August.
In 2018, I had the chance to experience La Tomatina firsthand.
How I survived the 2018 Tomatina
I arrived early—around 6:50 a.m.—only to find parking already scarce. By 7 a.m., the town shuts down to traffic, and the entire city turns its focus to the tomato fight. Following the crowds downhill, I joined a mix of people from all over the world, with locals seeming less enthusiastic about the event.
In the “red zone,” I noticed most buildings had been fortified with tarps to shield them from the inevitable mess—a smart precaution, as I later discovered from the state of my own clothes. The crowd gathered around a group of men erecting a greased pole with a ham perched on top, a tradition tied to the 1959 rules: the fight cannot begin until someone retrieves the ham.
The first attempt was made by a determined Japanese team—no luck. Next, a random drunk participant gave it a shot, resulting in a spectacle that was as messy as it was entertaining.
A drunk man in red pulled a Japanese participant with a bowtie out of the crowd, encouraging him to take on the challenge of climbing the greasy pole. Needless to say, the attempt didn’t get very far, much to the crowd’s amusement.
The Japanese team regrouped and made a collective attempt to conquer the palo-jabón, or soap pole. Despite their determination, the greasy challenge proved too much, and their efforts were ultimately unsuccessful.
Tomato-covered ‘zombies’ made valiant attempts to climb the greasy pole, only to be thwarted by Ketchup-man, who paused for a selfie before pulling everyone back down.
While dozens of people scrambled over each other like the zombies from World War Z, creating a human tower that climbed higher and higher, a group of very determined and strong Indian men were quietly strategizing. One of them told me they had a similar festival back home and knew the formations needed to claim the ham—they were confident it would be theirs in no time.
What they didn’t account for, however, were the relentless ‘zombies.’ No matter how carefully they tried to organize, some heavy, tomato-covered climber would inevitably latch onto their backs and pull them down, toppling their efforts.
Thankfully, the rule has been updated so that at 11 a.m., the fight begins regardless of whether the ham has been claimed.
For the record, I think the ham is probably still up there.
BANG!
The moment the first tomatoes were distributed, everyone was instantly drenched in red goo, transforming the crowd into a slippery, tomato-covered spectacle.
A loud noise signaled the start of the fight as a truck rolled down the street, its passengers hurling tomato ammunition into the crowd.
The battle had begun.
The scene erupted into chaos, a frenzied sea of red. People transformed into zombies—but not the slow, lumbering kind from The Walking Dead. No, this was pure Train to Busan energy—fast, wild, and relentless. The streets of Buñol had officially turned into a high-speed tomato apocalypse.
The chaos of the battle was pure madness—indescribable and relentless. I was blindly snapping photos, furiously wiping my lens whenever I could. Of course, there were always a few jokers waiting for that exact moment to lob a tomato straight at it, ensuring my efforts were futile.
The heart of the action unfolds right in front of the city church. A few brave (or foolish) participants climbed high onto the walls, only to be pelted relentlessly, like a firing squad of tomatoes targeting them. Meanwhile, off to the side, the infamous ham still sat atop the pole, untouched and mocking every attempt to claim it.
By this point, the supply of full tomatoes had completely run out. People resorted to flinging tomato juice or whatever scraps they could grab. On the left, a plastic cup filled with crushed tomatoes toppled over, spilling its contents in every direction, adding to the already chaotic scene.
Less than a minute into reporting live on Periscope, a big, fat tomato smacked me right in the face. Armed with a waterproof iPhone 7 in one hand and a Nikon camera on each shoulder—both carefully tomato-proofed the night before (I’ll explain how later)—I was thrown into the chaos.
It was pure madness. I could barely lift my arms. Every time I tried to push toward the heaviest action, a truck rolled in, and I’d get squished back against the wall. There was no escape. Shooting blindly, I relied on auto ISO and the widest lens I had, hoping to keep at least some shots in focus. Mobility? Forget about it.
I had come prepared with swimming goggles to protect my eyes from the acidic juice, but they fogged up immediately, leaving me blind. I ditched them within minutes.
Very quickly, whole tomatoes gave way to pulp and juice, transforming the battlefield into a sea of slippery red chaos.
The ground was barely visible beneath a sea of tomatoes, which at some points piled nearly a foot deep, creating a slippery, squelching red carpet of chaos.
The streets transformed into a flowing red river of smashed tomato corpses, which people eagerly scooped up in plastic cups to hurl back at one another, keeping the chaos alive.
Insanity.
I could barely see what I was shooting amidst the chaos. Tomatoes were flying in every direction, and I found myself constantly wiping my lens, only for it to be splattered again within seconds.
This guy caught my eye just as I had finished cleaning my lens, holding a handful of tomato pulp and clearly ready to launch it at me. I gave him a pleading look—‘please, no’—and, to my relief, he spared me. Thanks, man.
Everyone always asks me about the smell. It didn’t stink, but there was this sharp acidity to it that lingered. The scent clung to my nose for two days—not unbearable, but not exactly pleasant either.
BANG!
And then, just as suddenly as it began, the battle ended. That one hour flew by so quickly, I barely noticed it was over.
Surviving soldiers bravely retreat after the end of the battle.
It's over. It's safe to take of your goggles.
With the battle over, people began pouring out of the narrow streets, leaving space for selfies in the rivers of tomato lava flowing into the gutters. Meanwhile, frustrated locals tried in vain to shoo away tourists so they could start cleaning up and return to their normal lives.
Some participants made the most of the aftermath, running and sliding face-first through the tomato pulp, while others attempted—and hilariously failed—to create tomato angels.
One determined man wasted no time. The moment the explosion signaled the end, he was out cleaning his sidewalk with a pump, draining his property while chasing lingering tomato zombies away with a broom.
Interestingly, the tomato acid is said to disinfect everything, leaving the streets squeaky clean. And in case you were wondering, the tomatoes used in the fight are inedible and would have been discarded anyway.
Selfie time. A couple lies in the tomato river while others throw goo on them for a picture.
Tourist has tomatoes poured on her head for a photo.
One of the most popular photo ops involves running and sliding on your chest through the tomato pulp while someone snaps your picture—messy, ridiculous, and undeniably fun.
A soldier has fallen. He fought a good battle.
The Aftermath
Chinese soldier celebrates surviving the Tomatina. Her shirt is white. Or at least it was.
Girl heads to a faucet to get cleaned up while the shirtless man on the right tries to kick everyone out of his sidewalk so he can go back to his normal clean tomatoless life.
I was completely covered in tomato goo—my hair felt like dried-up spaghetti, and my camera straps and waterproof canoeing backpack were stained red (and still are).
There are no public showers, but thankfully, dozens of locals are ready with hoses. Some charge 2 euros to spray you down, and one kind lady even offered soap. If you’re willing to walk far enough from the ‘red zone,’ you’ll find a few generous souls who’ll help you clean up for free.
As for me, I headed straight to my car, dropped off my gear, and found a public fountain to ‘untomato’ myself. Surprisingly, my hair felt incredibly smooth afterward—an unexpected perk of the madness.
For just two euros, you can get hosed down with freezing cold water—a refreshing, if slightly shocking, end to the chaos. One kind lady even threw in some shampoo for free, adding a touch of luxury to the cleanup.
Or, if you’re feeling resourceful, you can do what I did and bum some free water at a public fountain—effective, albeit less glamorous.
This spot was a hub of activity, blasting loud music, selling beer, and hosing down tomato-covered revelers all at once.
No matter how hot it gets, that freezing water still manages to be shockingly uncomfortable.
Shooting in Tomato Chaos: Lessons Learned
The single most important thing you need when shooting in tomato-heavy conditions is paper wipes. That’s right. You can waterproof your gear all you want, but if your lens isn’t clean, your photos won’t be sharp. Veteran shooters at La Tomatina taught me this trick—they kept individually packed tissues in tiny plastic ziplocks. Tomatoes are slimy, acidic, and notoriously difficult to clean off a filter, so having a reliable way to wipe them off is essential.
To protect my gear, I wrapped my cameras in plastic wrap, sealing them shut with gaffer tape to keep out fluids. This method worked, but it had a major downside: I couldn’t access my command dials or change settings. Knowing I’d be shooting in bright sunlight, I pre-set my Nikon D5 with a shutter speed of 1/1000, an aperture of 5.6 for a larger depth of field, and ISO set to auto. My setup included a Nikon D5 with a 14mm-24mm lens (left exposed) and a Nikon D800 with a 50mm lens (leaving only the UV filter exposed).
Many veteran photographers used similar techniques, but I noticed others opted for cheap waterproof DSLR cases. These seem like the ideal solution—they protect the entire camera, including the lens, and come with their own straps for convenience.
However, I encountered an unexpected issue. The extreme heat, coupled with 22,000 sweaty bodies pressing against me and the high humidity from all the tomatoes, caused my lenses to fog up from the inside. This led to a soft blur in the center of some photos, as you might notice in a few above. Thankfully, the humidity evaporated later, and my lenses suffered no permanent damage. In hindsight, keeping the camera raised above the crowd, away from warm, humid bodies, would have prevented this issue.
Next time—if there is a next time—I’ll simplify. I’ll bring just one camera and invest in one of those cheap waterproof cases. It seems like the best way to survive the tomato apocalypse with your gear intact.
Banjo Joe lives life at his own pace, embracing a rhythm of freedom and simplicity that contrasts with the fast-moving world around him. A musician with The Whistle Pigs, Joe spends his days off the grid, playing banjo, enjoying the quiet of nature, and hanging out with close friends. His band’s hit song, “Long Term Plan,” reflects his unhurried journey, where he finds meaning in the small moments—like a late-night jam session or a quiet morning spent fixing coffee. “I’m just rambling through, figuring it out as I go, but I’ve got a plan. It’s a long term plan,” says Joe, capturing the essence of his laid-back yet purposeful lifestyle.