Twelve million Taiwanese ride motorcycles, and as many use telephones, watch television or prepare steamed noodles. These everyday activities don‘t seem to necessitate wearing a helmet. However, for one whole day every year, 20,000 Taiwanese take serious precautions. On this special day a helmet becomes an indispensable piece of headgear for everyone, including pedestrians. To make this strange phenomenon comprehensible, a little background information becomes necessary. According to legend, at the end of the eighteenth century, the marshy, salt­water port city of Yen Shui experienced a particularly torrid month of August, which caused a significant increase in the number of flies and mosquitoes. They bore what was then an unknown disease called dysentery. The epidemic rapidly grew out of hand, as no doctor at that time had the knowledge or remedy to slow or stop the illness. High fevers decimated the population, and the death count mounted into the thousands. Desperate, a few survivors of the epidemic went to the temple and prayed to the local god, Kuang Kong, to help them. Answering the frantic prayers, the god appeared, seated in a palanquin and flanked by his generals. He left the temple court with his entourage and, preceded by the inhabitants of Yen Shui, the procession paraded through the streets of the town, busily exploding firecrackers and fireworks, hoping that the noise would frighten away the evil spirits responsible for the disease. The parade was successful and the epidemic left Yen Shui for good. From then on, each year, on the last day of the Chinese New Year celebration, the historic event is recreated, including a parade in the city streets with rockets, firecrackers and fireworks that explode in all directions. This attracts both incendiary specialists, and thrill­seeking spectators who prepare for their own participation. Yen Shui becomes, for one delirious night, the city in the world in which the most protective headgear is sold in the shortest time period; its use becomes mandatory for every citizen for this special day. Pedestrians equip themselves from head to foot with specially designed protective shields and gear. Each citizen, armed with the experience of preceding years, creates increasingly personal and ingenious forms of protection: bits of carpet stuck around the neck, plastic ponchos, cardboard panels, leather gloves, welding goggles and protective transparent plastic shields. All means are appropriate to protect the entire body while leaving the visual field free. At first the precautionary measures amuse the newcomers. But as tension mounts, a sudden agitation moves through the nervous crowd, and the spontaneous curiosity of the spectators is transformed into fear. The first firework support structure, or rack, appears, pushed by a team of pyrotechnicians dressed in suits resembling those of vulcanologists. About the size of a rack for the merchandise normally found in most supermarkets, the device is decorated with a collage of red paper strewn with calligraphic writing devoted to the glory of local divinities. Oscillating around the menacing structure, the bearers of the palanquin, in which is seated a statuette representing the god Kuang Kong, begin to dance in a noisy and disorderly manner. Certain disciples are dressed very scantily, believing that their devotion to the god will protect them from harm. Unfortunately, each year at least one hundred victims make their way to the local hospitals to have burns and other injuries treated. Suddenly, the fragile purple wrapping is torn from the monstrous structure. Thousands of rockets are aligned along the ramps of the metallic launcher. All of the fuses are linked together, making the structure resemble a sort of electronic device. But most horrifying of all is the orientation of the rockets, which are pointed practically horizontally, aimed towards the crowd less than 10 metres away. At once, it becomes obvious why the spectators have chosen to don such an array of protective gear. Burns and shocking wounds are often provoked by the unpredictable incandescent rockets, which are exceptionally dangerous for the eyes, face and hands. Too late to turn back now, the signal for the launching has been given, and a lit torch touches the row of waiting fuses. The deafening roar is reminiscent of the launching of the "organs" used by Soviet soldiers under Stalin on the Russian front during the Second World War. Like those terrible weapons, the Taiwanese launch ramp brutally rips through the atmosphere, spitting out a terrible cloud of incandescent bees that rush violently towards the compact crowd just a few metres away from the monster. These powerful projectiles can travel up to 200 metres before falling to the ground, and they hurtle themselves against the compact mass of bodies, thudding against helmets and shields. The noise is intolerable, with explosions, strident whistling sounds, brutal contact against metal poles, screams of and moans of pain. The spectacle seems interminable, and each wave lasts for over a minute. Five waves succeed one another, all directed towards the crowd before the last and most powerful, which is projected vertically in a rainbow crowning the thick, grey cloud of bitterly acrid smoke, and irritating the eyes, skin and throats of the spectators. All over the city, and all night long, hundreds of other launch ramps of different designs and firepower spark the joyful responses of the enthusiastic, though battle­fatigued crowd. Most of the helmet bearers come through the experience intact, and leave for their homes in the morning filled with memories and imperishable souvenirs of intense emotion. Although not part of the tradition, with a little luck, they will be able to reuse their helmets as they return home on motorbikes.