Robert Mykle’s
THE WINE BATTLE
La Batalla del Vino
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The
moment the car came to a halt, I knew we were in trouble. From the back
of the van alongside us, a group of young men unloaded an impressive
array of long-barreled weapons. Dressed in white with red bandannas
at their throats, they were obviously battle-hardened veterans. With
quick precise movements, the platoon-sized group cocked and loaded their
arms. But these weapons were not Kalasnikovs-47s or Colts M-16s. They
were Mattel high-powered water guns loaded with red wine. Spotting my
clean white shirt and pants, they aimed their guns at me. Instinctively
my hands flew into the air. They laughed, then took pity and, without
firing a shot, set off in search of bigger, better game. I followed
as they joined a long line of like-dressed participants snaking up the
steep slopes of a small craggy mountain capped by a diminutive chapel
or ermita dedicated to the local patron saint, San Felices.
Everyone carried a container – buckets, large plastic bottles,
backpacked fumigation pumps and even tanker trucks – loaded with
wine. Halfway up the mountain, in the shadow of the saint’s statue,
a large throng of people made ready to dance, sing, and shoot thousands
of gallons of red wine at each other. This was the La Batalla
del Vino, the Wine Battle of La Rioja.
JUNE
29 – THE WINE BATTLE
The day begins early. Groups of people and families can be seen as early
as 6 a.m. marching out of Haro for the 7-kilometer walk to the rugged
hilltop where a small chapel and statue of San Felices watch over the
rolling plains of La Rioja Alta. By 8:00, a long line of white-dressed
celebrants is winding its way up the hill.
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Naively, I assumed I could observe this unique celebration as a noncombatant.
As I quickly discovered, no one is neutral in the Wine Battle. As I
followed the thousands of people streaming up the rocky outcrop, I noticed
that strategic spots along the climb had been staked out by bushwhackers
and snipers. Along the steeper sections, wine already poured from up
above.
At 9 a.m., Mass was celebrated in the small chapel or emrita
de San Felices. It was crowded, the humidity was high, and everyone
was sweating wine. Immediately after Mass ended, the battle began. Bands
of musicians blared jotas and rancherias as a dancing
throng of nine thousand people fired torrents of red wine at each other.
Women, especially the young and attractive, were treasured targets,
though no one escaped a thorough drenching. Anything white, new, or
clean was offensive and attracted a soaking.
It literally rained wine, as if Dionysus had gone mad. Even the hallowed
walkway to the sanctuary was no safe refuge. Wine showered down seemingly
from the heavens themselves. The arid ground turned to mud and streams
of wine flowed down the hillside. A few battle-weary participants tried
to find refuge in the rocky escarpments above the fray. Taking pictures
was a high-risk endeavor. Unless a camera was wrapped tightly in plastic.
It was in peril of a thorough wine soaking – a use definitely
not recommended by the manufacturer. In less than an hour, 60,000 liters
of red wine shot into the air.
“The Spaniards sure know how to party,” a smiling German
tourist drenched in wine said–clearly, a keen observer of the
obvious.
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While a relatively modern 15th century phenomenon, the Wine Battle finds
its tradition
in the ageles prehistoric ritual of sacrificing the fruits of one’s
labors. Still, to a wine lover like myself, all that fine Rioja wine
soaking into the ground seemed a deplorable waste.
And after wine? Food, naturally. Scores of bonfires flamed in the parking
lots and picnic areas. Families and Peña clubs grouped around
the fires, braising meat and warming precooked pots of snails, sausages,
veal and lamb.
With appetites sated, the tired, shell-shocked, purple army afflicted
with more than a few hangovers, slowly retreated towards Haro. Though
fatigued and battered, they were not yet finished. The wine warriors
gathered in the main square, where they formed a long procession that
paraded throughout the town, singing and dancing. Eventually they made
their way to the bullring for a vacilla, where the tired celebrants
played matador on the arena sands. The two- year- old wild calves or
vacillas ran frenetically around the arena. clearing large
swaths of celebrants in their paths. More than a few people got tossed
by the animals, but all in good fun.
On Monday everything returned to normal, so I made the requisite visit
to the local wineries or bodegas that had been closed for the
festival. Most of the wineries have tours, and each has a slightly different
philosophy regarding winemaking.
At Bodegas Muga, Isaac Muga accompanied me on an extensive tour. On
the site they not only extract, ferment and store their wine, but they
also make their own oak barrels–all to ensure the highest quality.
After a tasting of the Muga line of wines, I had to heartily agree that
they had succeeded.
I gained an interesting insight into a national idiosyncrasy.
“A Spaniard will not buy a bottle of reserve wine,”
he said. “He’ll buy an expensive crianza but never
a reserve. So for the domestic market, we bottle some reserve
as crianza.”
However the Spanish mind works, the idea of drowning a hillside with
wine must rank high on the curious list. La Batalla del
Vino may be one of Europe’s best-kept secrets. For
those who love wine and aficionados who want to experience firsthand
a unique, unspoiled local celebration with few tourists--the Wine Battle
is a must.