“Avance!” The tale of Blanchet

Photo and videos courtesy of Arthur Humeau

In Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, a seaside village in Provence, they know me as Blanchet. It means “white one,” because of my fair skin, and it’s the name I earned after winning a bull game.

It was a Sunday, the last day of the Fête Votive in the Camarguais town. Jean-François Baron, the son of the family I’m staying with, insisted on having me participate in a bull game. He was disappointed that the running of the bulls was only for the gardians, the French cowboys, but he noted that the course au plan was open to everyone.

Pressing up against the walls of the arena, constructed for the moment out of metal barriers and wood pallets, were hundreds of locals of all ages, waiting for the bulls (and their champion) to appear. I wanted to join the people in the water slipping in and out of the arena, splashing to attract the bull’s attention.

“Avance!” the other guys cried, prodding me forward. Avance! I went into the water. Avance! I got up to the shore. Avance! The announcer noticed a foreigner approaching the bull, a foreigner he called “Blanchet.” Avance! I got on the sand. Avance! What little of “Francitan,” the regional Franco-Occitan dialect, I could understand from the announcer, as well as the other guys, told me to back off. I sensed the bull’s deliberation. He graciously opted not to charge and circled the arena before retiring to the trailer.

Now the crowd really wanted me to get into the ring. Fear flitted away as one of the locals guided me, my steps long and robotic, up on shore and atop the hay bales. The announcer noticed “Blanchet” was ready to fight. I heard that name and realized it was me they were talking about. I liked the sound of it.

The bull emerged and looked for his target. I beat my chest, I hooted, I taunted him with a red ribbon, and he charged. I fled for the second time, and the bull hung around for a bit before retreating to the trailer. Four of us mounted the hay, while the gardians goaded the next bull with their long tridents.

Out came the bull, blood mixed with saliva dripping from his mouth; he was furious and began his cautious approach to our island of straw, each step leaving a seething mark in the sand. It was then my instincts kicked into action, that part of my brain most concerned with survival in the face of wild, horned beasts. Jean-François joined me atop the hay bales.

“Tap your feet, tap your hands on the hay!” the announcer said. The bull waited. He watched. The vibrations reached his ears. He charged! Horns plunged into the bales, he thrashed and rent the hay into the air. One of our companions tripped while escaping; the bull dealt a small blow to his back with his muzzle.

It was just Jean-François and me now — the arena was a wreck. Our pillar was no more than a flattened hayrick, and we stood on the opposite side, careful not to break the line of sight. He circled the pile. We held close in front, racing away in circles before breaking into the charging waves and ascending the barrier to safety. This was the final straw for the bull, who ran right back to the trailer, gardians closing the door behind him.

Thus the fight concluded. The announcer wanted Blanchet to come up and speak! In Francitan, the older gentleman asked me my name — Jack; where I was from — Richmond (they knew where it was!); and how I came to France — by airplane from Lebanon, where my family lives. Then they asked me to sing them a song: I hesitated, flipping through my mental Rolodex of familiar tunes. I wanted to sing something French, and I considered “La Marseillaise” but ultimately landed on “Le temps de l’amour” by the late singer-songwriter Françoise Hardy. Applause rang up over the arena, and I think the bulls liked my raspy rendition, too.

No triumph goes uncelebrated — on the drive back to Arles after a dinner of moules frites and pastis, I reeked of bull, straw and salty sweat and seawater, the last vestiges of adrenaline filtering out of my veins.