Mallorca. Felatrix. Fiesta.
We approached the small square below the bulk of the church by a side street that could barely take two cars. It was dark, more so than usual as the street-lights were extinguished - though the first fireworks ahead gave enough light to walk easily. We were in a family group with ages ranging from seventy-six to nine and anticipating family fun – dancing, fireworks and music.
As we entered the square something quite different was in store: noise; a cacophony of drums - not snare drums but deep metallic bass hammered out with African urgency - and a spectacle that combined Hieronymus Bosch with Mad Max. Under the steps of the church, on a platform above a chariot was the Devil himself, with a ram’s head, scaly back and scorpion tail, wielding a hose of fire that sprayed a fountain of sparks horizontally in every direction. He was escorted by a cohort of fiends armed with flame-throwers with tongues of fire that licked the ground in front of the crowd and scorched the air above their heads. As he came towards us we cowered against the shutters of a shop. A demon holding a glowing poker menaced us, a sinister tongue slithering over the lips of his mask. Belzebub himself approached on his chariot and towered above us to hose fire and sparks onto the wall above. There was a smell of burning hair and screams of fright from my niece and mother that melded into the deafening drums that were now level with us. The Lord of Darkness and his diabolic acolytes funneled into the narrow street, sparks ricocheting off the walls and gouts of flame enveloping the lamp-posts with the crowd pressing behind.
Health and Safety: 0 Theatre : 10
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