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The local bus drops me off at the square in Aigues-Mortes, a town on the edge of the Camargue in southern France. I ask the driver quite specifically if that will be where I will be picked up again at 6:00 pm, because I know it will be the last bus back to La Grande-Motte, where I am staying. He confirms, but little do I know that some bus drivers seem to think it quite amusing to leave visitors stranded in foreign towns far away from home. More about that later.
Attracted by the sound of music and some kind of announcements in French blaring from loudspeakers as I get off the bus, I find that the next street is closed to traffic and there is a crowd of people waiting. What they are waiting for, I don’t know, but I figure I can do like the rest of them and wait for something to happen. My patience is rewarded.
Suddenly a group of muddied riders on muddied Camargue horses gallop by, closely abreast with each other. Then a group more. And yet another group. One of the bystanders makes quite a sport of dashing out immediately in front of the horses and waving a red jacket. Naturally, the horses become frightened and one of them even slips and gets tramped on by the other horses. Why scaring the horses is considered fun, I don’t know.
After a while I venture up the narrow street that the horses have been galloping down to see where they are headed. I spot a banner hanging from the houses saying to be careful because bulls are passing by. I am gripped with fear that I will be stuck between a bull and a hard place in a Pamplona-kind of experience and scurry behind a barrier. Not until later do I discover that within each group of closely packed riders is a small black bull being escorted to the arena at the other end of town. There are bullfights today!
On the one hand I do not want to watch blood and gore. On the other hand I am curious and want to catch some of the atmosphere, so I make my way to the arena. This is a rather amateur affair. The seats look homemade and it is quite easy to see what is happening from the outside by peering between the rickety bleachers.
There is no blood and gore at all. Instead the battle is fought between a single bull at a time and drunken young men and teenagers. The bull is let loose in the arena and the men goad him, flapping their arms, shouting, and waving their jackets. The bull paws the ground, snorts, bellows and does all the things a real bull should, then chases off after one of the men, who promptly jumps to safety over the barrier. Before the bull gets a chance to say, ”Where’d he go?”, the next man hops and waves and shouts in the hope that he will get chased by the bull. The bull is confused, the men are drunk and the crowd roars with delight.
Stay tuned for part II of “Bulls, bikes and buses”…
