It's not a fiesta without fireworks

by Michael Blair (Australia)

Making a local connection Ecuador

Latin America loves a Christian festival. No-one seems to know when they are supposed to happen, or what they are celebrating. They just happen, and involve fireworks. A group of locals walked past my hostel in Montanita (Ecuador) just before 11pm on a Sunday night, shouting for us to join them to watch the “bulls and the fireworks”. We followed, making our way to the square in front of the church where a large crowd was milling. A band was playing, a few women were shuffling side-to-side like jolly hippopotamuses. In front of the church was a tower rigged with fireworks. Beneath the tower were two small painted bulls, about the size of a sheep dog. There were ice cream trucks and stands selling fired potato, pork and corn to the growing crowd. Something big was going to happen, but we couldn’t figure out what. The crowd was getting increasingly edgy. Finally, a man walked over to one of the bulls and hoisted it onto his head. All hell broke loose as his companion lit the fireworks which were strapped to the bull. The man charged into the crowd as rockets were flying off the bull in all directions. The locals were ecstatic, waiting for the fireworks to get close before trying to find cover. As the bull teared into the crowd near me I hid behind an ice cream truck. As I re-emerged a rocket tore from the bulls arse, just missing me, but leaving a black mark across the white polo shirt of the old man to my right. Finally the bull ran out of fireworks, and the crowd returned to a smiling throng, checking their neighbours for burns and lost eyes, reassuring them all was well. But it wasn’t over. A lady wandered over to the remaining bull, lifted it onto her shoulders and the carnage started again. At one stage she ran to the entrance of the church, fireworks shooting into the roof of the church veranda, scattering the hippopotamuses. After the game of cat and mouse between the bull and the crowd had finished, the fireworks show started. Spinning fireworks launching to the sky, before the flaming remnants crashed down into the crowd. The plaza had been rimmed with fireworks, explosions tearing around the plaza at great speed. The tower in front of the church lit-up with spinning fireworks one side at a time, before revealing the finale, a picture of the Virgin Mary on top of the burnt out structure. There is symbolism somewhere there. Walking back to the hostel, stepping over pieces of burnt wood, we were still trying to figure out what the hell just happened. The words of a woman I had spoken to earlier came to mind — “You could never do this in Europe. It is so fascinating because it is so dangerous. Everyone knows they could get burnt or lose an eye but they do it anyway”.