Ivrea: The Battle of the Oranges in Italy

We had arrived at the annual Battle of the Oranges. It wasn’t long before some of our local teammates began to turn and look at us with menacing smiles and an orange in each hand. Before long we were encircled by a sea of green. Amongst a flurry of Italian we made out what might have been their only English, “on your knees, one at a time”. 

The Place:

In Spain they throw tomatoes at each other for an hour every year in Buñol at La Tomatina in the middle of summer.  Meanwhile, in the dead of winter in February, Italians gather in the northern town of Ivrea to pelt each other with large cold oranges for three days. As I explain in part 1 of the story, “Ivrea: Welcome to Italy’s Oldest Carnival“, this small town of about 20,000 divides itself into nine teams every year and shows the world how to commemorate the overthrow of tyranny with the annual Battle of the Oranges. Most of this story takes place near the bridge called Ponte Vecchio in the centre of town. 

The People:

I found myself in the northern Italian town with two long time friends, Tom and Bill. After an elizabethan experience in France, we arrived in Italy ready for a faster pace.  Simone, an adventurous Italian was our itinerant and spontaneous guide during our stay in Ivrea. He provided us with instructions on how to join “Team Raven” (Tuchini del Borghetto) the first night of the Carnival. He also informed us that the orange-throwing tradition began shortly after the second world war. 

The Plot:

The Arrival:

With Simone’s instructions in hand, we joined the ranks of Team Raven by entering into their base, an old house in a plaza near Ponte del Vecchio. As it turns out, this was an experience in and of itself. After entering, we trekked down a flight of narrow stairs into a hallway connecting to several rooms. About three meters on, we peaked through a wooden trapdoor that led down to an underground river where a boat was bobbing gently. Continuing past, we entered one of the rooms and two italian woman greeted us warmly before excitedly signing us up and equipping us with uniforms and pouches.

The Initiation:

After dressing, we made our way outside, unsure of how things would unfold next. It wasn’t long before some of our teammates began to turn and look at us with menacing smiles and an orange in each hand. Before long we were encircled by a sea of green. Amongst a flurry of italian we made out what might have been their only English, “on your knees, one at a time”. Tom and Bill must have taken a step backwards because I was soon standing alone a few paces ahead of them. After obliging and taking a knee, a particularly large Italian man placed his hand on my head as though about to say a word of blessing. No sooner was his touch removed when it happened. The men took turns throwing oranges at my head with a force consistent with their substantial statures. Afterwards they raised me to my feet and embraced me. I had been initiated. Next Tom and Bill had the misfortune of having to undergo this process knowing what stood between them and the Battle of the Oranges.

The Prelude:

Citrus dripping from our brows, we wandered over to one of the stacks of orange crates and filled up our pouches. Meaanwhile, the plaza started to fill up. People all around us were talking with nervous anticipation. We watched as horse-drawn carriages were congregating across the bridge. Men and women adorned themselves with thick padding and helmets before mounting the back of their chariots. There were 10 gladiators each in 40 carriages. The air became tense. Suddenly, the first of the carriages began to charge towards us. I reached into my pouch and firmly gripped a cold, baseball-sized orange. 

The Battle of the Oranges:

The first carriage rumbled into our square and stopped to engage us would-be-revolutionaries. Chaos ensued. We surrounded the carriage, attacking from all sides. Oranges flew in every direction. More than once I was struck by the cross fire. Missing my first few throws as I dodged and weaved in every direction, I found my footing and took aim for a fourth time. Success at last! It was the most satisfying of sites to see a well-aimed orange strike the helmet of one of our assailants dead centre in a spectacular explosion of citrus. 

All told, the battle raged for three hours with short breaks for hot dogs and sangria (naturally). The spectacle of our veteran comrades charging the carriages, an orange in each hand and undaunted by repeated blows, was certainly impressive. Above all, orange grins and black eyes were the order of the day. 

In fact, it was the order of three days. As the church bells rang out at 2:00 pm the Battle of the Oranges ensued for three days in a row, each time ending with a solemn procession of stately military figures parting through the crowd on horseback. We joined our tired teammates in the evenings for meals, and an underground disco party. 

Denouement:

After checking-out of our hotel the day after the final battle, we were intercepted one last time by Simone. He handed us free tickets to the team’s wind-up lunch and pointed the way. This sort of thing is gold when you’re traveling on a budget. We shared a citrus-free meal of corn, fish, and potatoes with our Italian friends and then said our goodbyes. We walked over the Ponte Vecchio, glancing at the empty orange crates as we passed.  Finally casting ourselves on the benches at the train station in the centre of town, we glanced up at the timetables ready to continue the pursuit.