Remedios , Cuba ( CNN ) -- For 200 years , folks in Remedios , a small town in the Cuban countryside , have shared the legendary tale of Father Francisco Vigil de Quiñones . As the story goes , Father Vigil was annoyed that so few of his parishioners were attending his church 's Christmas Eve midnight Mass . So the Catholic priest had an idea . He employed a few of the town 's children to create a ruckus that would get people out of bed and into the pews . They threw rocks , beat sticks and awoke the town , prompting them to fill the church . Two centuries later , on Christmas Eve 2010 , the ruckus remains , but the worshippers have disappeared . The town 's current priest , Father Agustin Ibarra Diaz , stood overlooking the same house of worship -- gazing at a sanctuary completely empty of parishioners . Outside the colonial-era church , salsa music blared . The actions of his predecessor have had disastrous results for Ibarra . The type of pre-midnight Mass disturbances evolved over the centuries . Brass instruments were played . Large colorful floats with flashing lights were built . And then , of course , there were the fireworks . It 's the fireworks that have Ibarra worried . And they are not just any pyrotechnic rockets but a homemade strain -- with names like morteros , voladores and palomas -- designed to create the biggest bangs and brightest flashes and most smoke possible . They do n't always fly straight up . `` Its tough to be a priest and give Mass when there are rockets going off . People ca n't really enjoy the Eucharist , the birth of Jesus , '' Ibarra said , regret in his voice . `` We 're afraid that rockets will fly into the church and kill someone . '' Ibarra said he appreciates the effort that goes into the celebration and festivities . But this year , for safety reasons , he decided to cancel the Mass . If Remedios misses the evening services , it does n't show . Outside the church , the town 's small plaza is nearly full of residents and visitors . At each corner of the town square , a large float rises three stories into the air . One float has an arctic theme , with carved wolves and penguins standing in fake snow . Thousands of colored lights dot the float and illuminate the square at nightfall . Dotting the square are food stands offering lechon , slow-cooked whole pig , its skin crunchy and colored a deep amber from hours over the coals . For less than a U.S. dollar , vendors will carve off a few slices of the meat . Although it 's still early , the square 's one bar is close to being sold out of Havana Club rum . About 5 p.m. , the first fireworks are being set up , and eagerness is growing for the party to begin . The pyrotechnics are the work of so-called artilleros , or artillery men . `` We 've been doing this for generations and generations , '' artillero Pablo Torres said . `` My dad did it ; my son does ; everyone does . '' Wearing a bright orange construction helmet , Torres said he 's not afraid of getting hurt by the explosives . He offers a bottle of yellow liquid : `` Drink some rum , and you will be all set . '' The first barrage of fireworks shakes the town . Thousands of skyrockets scream into the sky , which is soon dark from smoke . The explosives called palomas , or doves , fly up with a stream of sparks . The artilleros fill lead pipes with homemade bombs that then blast forth . Some of the firework specialists use Cuban cigars to ignite the fireworks . For safety , many of them wear thick olive-green canvas shirts and small straw hats that are usually the uniform of sugar cane cutters . Others wear only T-shirts and shorts while they play with fire . The fireworks shoot off in every direction , and flaming shrapnel comes falling back down to the square . Someone ends up getting burned every year , say the locals , but there are few serious injuries . The only death anyone can remember was a woman killed years ago after an errant rocket flew into a building where gunpowder was stored . That there are no worse injuries amid the hours of explosions seems miraculous . But so are the festivals themselves . While the entire country faces crippling shortages and economic challenges , Remedios still cobbles together everything it needs for the big spectacle . The parrandas bring in tourists despite the fact that the town has only one 10-room hotel . Andres Carrillo has come home to Remedios from New Jersey . His mother is renting out every bedroom in her house to foreign tourists . Carrillo said the festivals may bring in badly needed funds , but they are still put on to honor tradition . `` We are addicted to the fire and the smoke , '' Carrillo said while dodging a rocket . `` You see that people are not from here because they cover their nose . We do n't . We love this . ''
Huge 200 year-old Christmas Eve fireworks fest ignites joy in Remedios , Cuba . Originally , event attracted worshippers , but now church closes for safety . `` We 're afraid that rockets will fly into the church and kill someone . '' Someone gets burned every year , say locals , but there are few serious injuries .