Black Bulls to the Left White Horses to the Right: The Camargue

In 1971 at age twelve I saw my first movie in a theater with some girls from school and no parents. Ironically we chose "Friends" with the sound track by Elton John.  I liked horses and it was set in the Camargue.  The story of two teenagers who run away and fall in love while living in a traditional Guardian's hut introduced me to my first romantically wild horses.  Running in herds through marshland, all that was missing from the magical white steeds were unicorn's horns.

Traditional Guardian's (cowboys) huts are made with stucco and thatched roofs of reeds as there are no rocks in the area.

Gone on horses from the first time I heard the running of the Melbourne Cup called by Bert Bryant which no doubt was before I turned one.   An Australian born with Phar Lap Syndrome, I would frequently cried about a horse that died 27 years before I was born and still do but I'm not a weeper. Banjo Patterson's "The Man From Snowy River" remains my all-time favorite piece of literature, and I've read the compete works of Shakespeare.  I had always wanted to visit the Camargue and see the white horses.  They're not wild anymore, there aren't wild horses anywhere anymore, maybe in North Dakota somewhere but if the BLM have their way that won't be for long.  The Australian Brumby is done and it was conservationists who saw to it's end.

This year has been good to me and I've ticked off a few bucket list priorities, The World Cup Carnival in Dubai, the Prix De Arc De Triomphe and the Camargue.  It doesn't get any better than that.  I took the train from Paris after the Arc to Avignon where I rented a car and drove to Arles. There I stayed overnight in a hotel on the edge of town where the proprietor was rehearsing Flamingo guitar music in the bar when I arrived.  A bit cliche but I must be headed in the right direction.   The next morning I continued on to Saintes-Marie-de-la-Mer.  On entering the region I first saw black bulls in pastures to the left and soon, white horses to the right. Yes, I was that crazy tourist sitting on top of the 'automatic' rental car on the main road trying to shoot pictures of horses buried in reeds. They really like to eat that stuff and seem to do well on it because they hardly come up for air.  I didn't care, I'm used to making a fool of myself when if comes to horses.

Many people might see the Camargue as a bit of a bust because the white horses are nearly all tourist nags tied up along the side of the road now.  I couldn't afford one of those photography workshops where they stage the horses to run through water being herded by guardians to look wild, but it's all good and I can make things work by myself.  If you're Alice in Wonderland you're going to be astonished by just about anything and I'm always Alice when I travel.

They are all pretty well fed.

If the horses weren't going to be as spectacular as my dreams I thought the bulls might make up for it but I hadn't any pictures of them in the 'wild.'  In Saintes-Maries I headed straight for the tourist office and booked a 4x4 safari for the following morning, there were bull races in the town arena in the afternoon.

I wanted to look around to find a hotel I was comfortable with and the Hotel Camille worked out great right opposite the ocean, clean, warm, a nice bathroom with hot water and a good shower.  It was also walking distance to downtown restaurants that serve fantastic local seafood, paella, bull and endless quality Provencal roses. Always being a table for one, where I stay needs to be relatively safe after dark.  I have never slept better than in the quiet town of Saintes-Maries. The Camille is two stars but if you are looking for Disneyland don't come to the Camargue, and leave your spoiled attitude at home because there are no crash helmets when you go horse 'back' riding here and you'll feel silly wearing jodhpurs.

Jerry, my 4x4 safari guide naturally asked where I was from?  I always say New York because I have lived on Long Island for 22 years but my accent is as thick as Steve Irwin's and so is my love of adventure.  Jerry had worked for a racehorse trainer in my home town of Perth in the 80s which was something I knew a little bit about.  He rode track work like me and went to Sydney where he worked for the trainer of Strawberry Road.  Funny how the mention of a great race horse can connect perfect strangers. The sky was dark and gloomy, the wind strong and colors not great for shooting Flamingos so Jerry took me to a riding establishment where they let me in among the horse while feeding to get some nice close ups.  Then we dropped by his own horses that he used for cutting; a buckskin quarter horse, a grey Camargue mare who had been crossed with a quarter horse and a cute little purebred Camargue breed (Association des Eleveurs de Chavaux de Race Camargue) with the brand on her hindquarter, who was almost all white at three.  They have big jaws and plenty of character with kind eyes set well on the sides of their heads, but then I never met a horse I didn't like and they are a perfect size for me.

Jerry's buckskin Quarter Horse

Jerry

Jerry's Camargue filly.





I wanted a private riding experience a bit better than the usual tourist thing and knew if I pushed hard enough I'd get it.  Jerry was just the guy to hook me up.  We swung round past his best friend's place and Luc, agreed to take me out for three hours the following day.  It was like being back in outback Australia, "rustic."  Luc, who runs a roadside bar, La Cavale, was still in bed at 11:00 a.m. when I arrived, so I hammered on the door and waited a while.  His brother came by and asked if he could help me?
      "Luc is suppost to take me riding today."
Luckily his brother, who works on a sightseeing boat in town, was off because of the strong winds or I would have probably gone in a dragged him out myself.  I'd waited most of my life for this and figured he and Jerry had been on the booze the night before.  It's likely Luc jumped up with his boots still on but after sticking his head in a water troth he was good to go.  The ride was truly amazing and a hundred times better than any tourist deal.  My horse Gregale, named after a wind, was the only "be" (bay) horse of no descriptive origin in the whole of the Camargue but it didn't matter.
       I shook my head and said, "you couldn't find me a white horse?"
We took the horses on the ferry to cross the river to rice fields and marshland where we walked a long way through brackish water to the beach.  I saw a Kingfisher and a whole flock of Flamingos took off as we passed them in the water.  The contrast of their bright orange and black wings only visible in flight as they circled around us.  I was sorry I had given my cell phone camera to Luc to put in his pocket, but this trip wasn't about birds even though we where in the area of Le Parc Ornithologique de Pont de Gau, one of world's great migratory bird watching habitats.  Here is where the Flamingos come to breed taking a different partner every year, they only have one egg.  FYI I took Ornithology at college and love to photograph and paint birds.

Luc and Victor

Me on Gregale

On the Ferry

The ferry Captain told us that a girl had been killed in the a nearby town of Aigues Mortes the day before at the bull races.  Remember, I don't speak any French and they speak my favorite language, "little English" which I happen to be fluent in.  Her horse, (chavel) had slipped in the street and been gored by the bull, (toro). She went down and was killed in what everyone considered a stupid accident, she was 25.  French women have big balls, she was a Guardian, one of the horse riders who run the bulls out of town through the main street for six kilometers after the bull races.  A cannon explosion warns the public when this is about to happen and a funny generic recording of a woman's voice who sounds like a airplane safety instruction repeated in several languages, announces:
     "In a moment, wild bulls will be running loose through the streets and you are advised to take  precautions."

Guardians at the Bull Races Aigues Mortes

The locals prefer to mix it up with the bulls.  The streets are lined with bull barriers through the center of the historic village and pass by bars where serious drinkers cheer them on like any other sports fans. That's what they call a gated community in the South of France.

Running the bulls to the gates of the historic city in Aigues Mortes

This is the road where wild bulls run loose and out of town for 6 kilometers.

After my horse ride I left Luc, lounging in his garden bar, like I said, think outback Australia.  It wasn't until I saw an anvil I realized he was a farrier.  When I picked out Victor's (his ride) hoofs his shoes were perfect and it figured Luc was a farrier; nature of the beast, good at his trade, hard working, hard playing.

Since I had the car with my big camera in it and a afternoon to fill I went in search of Aigues Mortes.  When I came across the historic city walls there were bleachers of all different sizes and colors setup around what I guessed was an arena and x marked the spot that was exactly where I wanted to be.  This was a lot more rustic than Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer's bull races had been and all I could think was, Oh God Gypsies, but no one stopped me walking in or asked for a ticket and some lovely people invited me up on their highrise bleacher.

The best people ever.

The arena fence was a simple low two rail thing that might as well have not been there at all, hence the need for higher bleachers.  The bulls just jump right over the fence and run through the crowded area charging everyone who gets in their way, so expect to have company on your stand when it happens.

Aigues Mortes

One young man who joined us in a hurry had blood and bull saliva in his hair.  The blood was his since they don't kill the bulls at these events but I have read that they are sometimes sold to Spain for fighting because of their unique talent.  "Rustic" is the favorite descriptive term even for the bulls. Apparently these black ones, distinguished by horns that turn straight up at the sky, are not considered domesticated.  You will see bull on the menus around town but the primary reason for breeding them is for Course Camarguaise (Camargue racing).  The locals call it bull racing and the aim is to run in and take a rosette ribbon from between the bulls horns but I couldn't see any ribbons, they just seen to tag the bull between the horns, good enough.  The difference between Saintes Maries and Aigues Mortes bull races was in Saintes Maries only the official team players dressed in white tagged the bulls but at Aigues Mortes anyone from the public who felt lucky jumped in.  After Saintes-Maries all the bulls were run out of town together by the Guardians.  In Aigues Mortes they did it one at a time; three riders to one bull, which is more difficult since they are herding animals and alone go in any direction including back to the arena on one occasion.

 Are you feeling lucky today?

What you will notice about these bulls is they love to chase people with the determination of a cat with a mouse.  They fixate on whom ever gets in front of them and pursue vigorously with no respect for the arena fences jumping with the ease of a hunter at the Hampton Classic.  I witnessed one jump out of the arena, back in and straight out again to get at a guy. And, they respond to the music played seeming to know exactly when the chase is on.  Some bulls are better than others and the most aggressive are the best entertainers.  There are six individual matches in an afternoon with an intermission after three.  They tire and a fresh bull is needed.  If they won't leave the arena three others wearing cow bells are let in with them to encourage them out.  The crowd is clearly on the bull's side if he slips and falls or stumbles there is a big sigh but not so if he gets a person down on the ground and stomps or gores him. You have to admire the young men and women's bravery and athleticism.

 Aigues Mortes

Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer

In Saintes-Maries' arena with the professional players the bulls were all young three-year-olds and wore no protective covers on their horns. At Aigues Mortes their were no professionals other than the Guardians and the bulls did wear leather covers.  Not that it made a difference to the girl who died who's story was verified by the spectators around me.  They said that the cheval had slipped on the street during the run through town and the toro turned and gored it in the thorax.  The girl was thrown on the cobble road and died of trauma to the head, all that I got in little English.  It was a stupid accident that most people thought could have happened anywhere at anytime and no one was to blame. So, on with the games, I'm sure they burned a candle for her in the church, that's what they do.
Life's a race and you best run it while you can.

       Aigues Mortes

Photos by Annie Wade

Thanks to: www.visit-camargue.com
                  jerryho@hotmail.fr