Cowboys and saltwater
A France unplanned: Part seven
Driving down the D570 route into the Camargue region, I doubted I was still in France. The road was hugged by swamps and marshes with long, jutting reeds on both sides. At one point, I slowed to a near halt as I questioned whether the flamboyance of flamingos to my left was real or imagined. The gentleman in Millau who recommended the region had informed me of the biodiversity of the area and a little about its composition. Still, I did not expect such surreal views to casually unfold by the side of the road; egrets, swans, and flamingoes wading in the water, getting on with their days.
The absurdity continued. Further along, a string of wild, white horses galloped, shouldering the road and moving between the mini stables peppered along.
Spirit
How the French lumped the Camargue region with the rest of Provence remains a mystery. The blue and white Mediterranean houses reminded me of the Greek Isles. The pace was definitely that of Southern Europe. The facial features of the locals resembled those of the Spanish and Italians. Fashion was somewhere between crocheted resort wear and several decades behind. Hot couture, if I may.
It was the reverence for Les gardians de Camargue, the French “cowboys”, and pride in their own subculture that held my attention. Shopkeepers and waitstaff could not wait to tell me about their strong and noble riders. Equine imagery was ubiquitous, painted on building facades and walls, as silhouettes forged in iron atop gates and fountains, and horse statues found across Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, where I stayed. Their popular horse shows were travelling throughout France and were due to return in a week, long after I’d left.
Music was everywhere. The bars were packed from one end to the other. Restaurants featured Gypsy Kings-like ensembles with accompanying flamenco performers. They vigorously drove the soles of their nail-studded heels into the floors with and blazed around in their ruffled red skirts. The sidewalks had buskers strumming and fingerpicking similar tunes as onlookers stepped in and out of the space to dance. The entire city vibrated under my feet; it was impossible to stand still.
Symbol
Walking around Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, I saw the same ornament hanging atop doors or fastened to walls. It was an anchor with a heart at its center. Even the churches and restaurants had it prominently displayed. It was on display at shops selling horseshoes, saddles, metal rings, and leashes. It was the Guardians’ Cross, La croix camarguaise, as I later learned, a religious emblem expressing the virtues of faith, charity, and hope.
Salt
The Camarguais cuisine was - as expected in France - a delectable treat. Seafood - my one weakness - was abundant, given the proximity to the water, as were the variations on regional dishes such as bouillabaisse and paella. Bull meat was also on offer, steaks, cheeks, and sausages, the latter being my absolute favourite appetizer on this trip. The canned goods - for which the area is famous - made superb hasty lunches on the go. I brought a pack of spicy salt home as a functional souvenir, and cursed my knowledge of and adherence to Canada’s border security rules. The bull sausage would have been quite the treat in the cold weather.
One evening, I walked by a pack of jovial diners leaving a restaurant. “That good?” I asked. One held the door open and gestured with his hand to go in. Catching Le Fournelet’s final food service, I opted for the seafood sampler, pieces of grilled fish and squid caught that day. It was the best meal I had in France.
Salvation
The bells of the Church of the Saintes Maries de la Mer could be seen from a fair distance. The building was the central feature on the way to most destinations around town. At night, its exterior was lit from the ground up, augmenting its size and venerability. I hadn’t intended to visit it; this was another church in a country full of old churches. As I walked by it for the tenth time, curiosity won, and I stepped through its humble doors as I researched its history on my phone.
To certain believers, the shores of Saintes-Maries welcomed the three Marys, Mary Magdalene, Mary Clopas, and Mary Salome, after they were placed on a boat and sent out to sea following the burial and resurrection of Jesus. With them was a fourth figure, Sarah - a servant of one of the Marys. She became the patron saint of the Romani. Each May, tens of thousands of Roma worshippers descend onto this town of 2,000 and carry her statue to the sea, reenacting her arrival to France.
The relics of two Marys (Salome and Clopas) were in the church, kept in the manner that most churches showcase their reliquaries. Saint Sarah’s statue was on a separate level. Once I walked into the hall, I stood aside and watched as worshippers lined up to touch or kiss the statue’s hand or place a plaque or painting in the hall. The artefacts left were deeply personal yet on display. Then I noted another particularity: Behind glass cabinets and on the walls were paintings old and new, professional and amateur, expressing gratitude or reflecting the impact of the (alleged) miracles the Marys performed on someone through prayers or a dream visitation. The miracles painted were of healing the ill, delivering living babies, helping the downtrodden, and such. It was a departure from the religious artwork and icons I’ve seen in churches, which tended to focus on biblical stories and the lives of the venerated, with nothing depicting the lives of the current or past congregations they served.
I spent the last few days traversing Provence and looking at the work of artists who poured their suffering, sadness, illnesses, and alienation onto the canvas. In Saintes-Maries, the art reflected the relief of ordinary folk who used the tableaus to show pain and hurt leaving their lives - with some help.
Stupid
The beach was across the road from my hotel. I could hear the crashing waves from my window. The winds were strong, blasting at 70 kilometres per hour, lifting sand grains along the walkway and depositing them in my hair, eyelashes, and mouth.
On the second day of my stay at Saintes-Maries, I couldn’t resist the allure of the Mediterranean without at least dipping my toes. This was, after all, my place of worship. I saw two surfers in the distance and a handful of sunbathers lounging on the beach, but no one was in the water.
In a move that I can only call an act of an idiot abroad, I talked myself into going into the water. Just a quick dip, in and out. I was a strong swimmer and particularly fond of hopping over waves. More than that, I was a child of the Mediterranean; the blue waters of Greece ran in my veins. In I went, and no more than two strokes in, I felt a vacuum below my legs pulling me out and under. I lost my orientation immediately and couldn’t kick my way up as the waves repeatedly crashed on top of me, driving me further down and out. The only thought that ran through my mind was that no one knew I was here in this water. No one could see me now.
A forceful push from behind slammed more water above my head and submersed me completely, slamming my knees into the seabed. I panicked and couldn’t hold my breath as the water was repeatedly forced into my mouth, ears, and nose. I couldn’t recall how I suddenly found myself between two breaks, violently coughing and trying to remain calm long enough to take a breath. The next thing I knew, a woman rushed forward to help me out of the water. I bent forward on the beach and expelled salty water from my nose and mouth, taking smaller, choked gasps between each outburst as she hammered my upper back. I stood up eventually and wobbled towards my bag, shrugging off her offer to help me walk to the hotel. I pulled my dress overtop and coughed my way along the boardwalk to my room, where I lay for hours coughing and spitting out seawater for the rest of the day and night.
I left the following day for Toulouse, a little behind schedule and deeply humbled by the intensity of the previous day. Gratitude washed over me, though I was unclear of whatever or whomever I should thank. Was it the Marys? Saint Sarah? The woman on the beach? Gentler currents? I didn’t know, I still don’t know. I think if there were a return to Saintes-Maries, the painting I’d leave at the Church would be that of an invisible hand reaching from the Mediterranean and sobering me up on its shore.
