travels with janne

After a delightful outdoor French lunch with a view to the passing horses and bulls on their way to the bull-fighting arena, and a stroll through the cosy streets of the town, I rent a bike. Enough of city life. Now I want to see the Camargue countryside, which is famous for its marshy landscapes, salt flats, birds, horses, and bulls.

I do not pedal for very long before I am rewarded by the sight of pale pink bodies on toothpick thin legs. Flamingos. They have their heads submerged in the water constantly, looking for whatever delectable things they can find. They are as delicately coloured as bridesmaids’ dresses but when they lift their wings to nibble at an underarm itch, a deeper pink is revealed, like a saucy crinoline under the party dress.

The flamingos are not the only elegant feathered creatures here. Herons, swans, ducks and egrets share the waters in this strange landscape.

My bike trip also takes me past leisurely fishermen, white and grey Camargue horses, black Camargue bulls and vineyards. In the distance I can hear the trumpets sounding each time a new bull enters the bull-fighting arena in town and I can see the ancient ramparts surrounding the town.

I must, however, depart from this idyllic scene and catch the bus back to Les Grandes-Mottes, where I am staying. The bus driver assured me that he would be at the designated spot at 6:00 pm, so I am ready and waiting for him by 5:30. When he still does not arrive by 6:30, I go to the local tavern and ask if they can give me the phone number of a taxi.

“Taxi? Today? At this time? No more taxi. All closed,” they say but suggest that I catch the train which they claim just happens to be leaving in about ten minutes. I march off to the train station at top speed and find that the next train leaves in an hour but does not go all the way to La Grande-Motte. The man selling train tickets suggests that I take the bus. The non-existent bus. I am not keen on walking all the way home. Even though it is only nine kilometres, it is soon dark and the road is not conducive to walking.

Fortunately, the man at the train station can produce no less than two telephone numbers for a taxi and, after a brief phone call, the taxi duly arrives. The taxi driver tells me that when there is a bullfight day in town the bus stops at another place. He says it is not uncommon that tourists are left high and dry by the bus drivers who seem to find this rather amusing.

Having been born and brought up among French people, I do feel a certain affection for and kinship with them. In fact, I even admire many aspects of their collective personality. But today has not been one of their finer moments.

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”…

This morning I get up at 3:30 am, drive to the airport, unfurl my umbrella and brave my way through the wind and the rain with one hand on the trolley cart and the other holding the umbrella. In the afternoon I am in warm and sunny Le Grande-Motte in southern France at a business meeting. In between the obligatory meetings I have time to escape and do some sightseeing.

Le Grande-Motte, a holiday resort town on the Mediterranean, combines the pacifying sound of the ocean and the rustling of swaying palm trees with strange architecture and the all-pervading odour of dog poo. Never have I seen so many little mutts depositing so many stinky stools while their well-dressed owners at the other end of the leash look on.

A summer holiday resort area in the autumn has a kind of after-the-party feel to it. Quiet, restful and empty. The back-to-back gargantuan hotels remain, though, overlooking the beach with their endless triangles, ellipses, circles and trapezoids. One particular architect seems to have been given free reign to design the hotels, the congress centre and all manner of other buildings in La Grand-Motte.

In nearby Montpellier, where I am treated to a guided tour, it is a quite different matter. Here the buildings are elegant and old, like the ones in Paris. Montpellier has a university so there are lots of students. The Fabre Museum, that I have never heard of before, is a delightful art museum well worth a visit as are the narrow and picturesque historic streets.