Is bullfighting illegal in France?

Yes. Well, sort of. While France has banned the traditional bullfight where the bull is killed in the ring, there are still ten departments in the south and southwest of France where it is allowed to continue. Why? Because it is considered a longstanding, uninterrupted tradition. Hm. As if saying, “well we’ve always tortured and killed animals so we should be allowed to continue” is somehow reasonable justification.

So, after the balmy evenings by the sea on the côte d’azur, we mosied into the town of Les Saintes Maries de la Mer in the Camargue. 

Where is the Camargue?

The Camargue is a region sitting between Marseilles and Montpellier on the Mediterranean coast of France. The mighty Rhône river empties into the sea creating a vast delta of silty, salt flats and marshland. Rice is cultivated here and it’s also a famous region for salt production.

If you’re a history buff, the entire coast is rich in seafaring conflict, trade, commerce, battles and overly romanticized cultural stories. Check out the books by American author Mark Kurlansky. One of my favourites is called “Salt. A World History.” He traces the history of the planet through the production of salt and its fascinating. 

The Camargue is also famous for one of the oldest known breeds of horse in the world. 

The Camarguais horse

The Camarguais horse is a compact, white horse that is agile and well tempered. The people who ride these horses are known as guardians. They wear nifty outfits and carry pointy sticks to deal with incalcitrant cows; well, bulls, actually.

This region is also famous for two other animals. Flamingos and black bulls. The flamingos stand in stark contrast to the bulls. One signals the essense of goofy grace and beauty, the latter, virility and power. Ok, they also have mosquitoes but they’re not sexy so I won’t talk about them.

What to do in Les Saintes Mairies de la Mer

Les Saintes Mairies de la Mer is a beautiful seaside town known for its yearly pilgrimage of gypsies. Even at the end of October the place was packed. As in most seaside tourist towns, you wander about, eat lunch somewhere, wander some more, look for a toilet, eat icecream, see a church,look a religious pictures and relics, pick shells on the beach, buy stuff, and so on. This place is no different. We found a spot to park, ate a quick lunch and meandered into town to look at its quirky church, restaurants and cool little tourist shops selling wines, olive oils, salts and other regional specialities. 

Oh, and yes, you can also go to a bullfight in the town’s arena.

What is a French Bullfight?

As soon as Husband said he wanted to see a bullfight, I wanted to run, screaming in the other direction with my hands over my ears. How, in God’s name, can anyone still actually want to watch a bull be tortured and then murdered in front of hundreds of cheering and gasping men, women and yes, even children? 

And then I thought, “ Oh, Dana, you’re such a hypocrite. What about horse racing? Do you think horses actually want to run around a track?  Every horse I’ve ever seen in my life has its head down to the ground, eating grass. What about rodeos? What about forcing any animal to do what it wouldn’t naturally do in the wild? What about shoving grain down a duck’s throat so we can ooh and aah at Christmas over the foie gras? Oh, it’s tradition. Uh huh.

There is so much hypocrisy regarding our approach to sharing the planet with other beings that it’s hard to know what to get upset about because pretty much everything on the planet is manipulated to serve humans; pesticides and bees, for example. I could spend my entire life railing against all of the injustices in the world but I am essentially powerless to change anything by just “feeling” bad about it. 

I swallowed my reticence and agreed to go see this thing because I already know my intellectual arguments against this type of “entertainment.” I just didn’t want my emotional reaction to form because of something I just read, but rather, I wanted to feel the emotions of being there in person.

Ironic how the word entertainment comes from the French “entretenir” which mean to support and hold together. Well I was barely holding it together as we bought tickets and made our way into the arena. 

What is La Course Camarguaise?

Well, my first mistake is that La Course Camarguaise doesn’t kill the bull. Phew. But, I still was unclear about what happens, then.

We presented our tickets at the gate, made our way up to the open air arena and found a spot on concrete bleachers with the sun on our backs. Hundreds of people filed in, chattering loudly, hauling strollers, babies, dogs, and sparkly sequined beach bags. 

A group of older, local men sat nearby, all of them large boned, with huge, hairy hands poking out of the sleeves of their neatly buttoned dress shirts. The buttons strained mightily against their portly bellies, indicating frequent and plentiful meals. They were in their element and by the way they waved their hands around and argued amiably amongst themselves, they clearly knew a few things about a couple of things.

The crowd settled in and a small band started playing music up in the stands and eventually the music died down and the large door facing us opened. A group of women in long dresses, white lace collars and hair up in buns, solemnly made their way out to the center of the arena to the solemn and haunting music of Ennio Morricone’s “The Mission.” 

This preshow consisted of a parade, prancing horses, a Maypole, speeches and people generally taking themselves very seriously. And it went on….and on….After a good 45 minutes or so, my butt was officially getting cold and eveyone finally filed out of the arena. An expectant hush fell over the crowd, a cold breeze picked up and a chill swept through my body that wasn’t entirely due to the wind.

Oh,God. What the hell was I doing here?

What happens during La Course Camarguaise?

A dozen lithe young men clad in tight white pants and t-shirts filtered into the outer ring, jumping up and down, stretching and generally looking like skinny rugby players warming up for a match. 

They knew they were being watched so there was a certain smug bravado about their movements as they flexed their muscles and bent over, tight pants stretching over their youthful butts. Or maybe that’s only because that’s what I was looking at. Ahem. They eventually all settled behind the red wooden fence circling the inner arena and all heads were turned towards an area somewhere right below me. 

Blasting horns startled me away from my musings as an enormous, black bull burst out into the middle of the arena, snuffling, snorting, turning around, head up, straining and peering every which way. The bull meant serious business. Makes me wonder whether they provoked it with cattle prods before they let it loose.

The bull spotted one of the young men just behind the red wooden barrier and charged over to him, ramming it’s gleaming horns into the red fence. CRACK! 

Holy crap!

Just then another blast of horns startled me and in unison, all the young men jumped into the arena. One man ran right up to the bull stopping only a few metres away arms stretched out. The bull lowered its head, scraping its hooves, sending sand flying up and over its back. I thought that was only something you saw on Bugs Bunny.

Another young man positioned just behind the first took off at a sprint passing just next to the bull. The bull whirled around with the speed of a UFO changing directions, barrelling after the young man. The man raced directly towards the barrier and just as the bull reached him, the man thrust out a hand behind him holding a kind of metal comb and made a swipe at the top of the head of the bull, missing the bull by a, well, hair’s width.

With a swerve and a leap, the young man planted his foot on a rail at the bottom of the fence and leapt right up and over the fence to safety. (see my illustration for the detailed drawing of said manoevre) The bull rammed its horns right into the fence and I gasped as a wood panel lifted right up and off the fence. The bull turned away just as fast and ran towards the next man who was trying to distract it so that another man could make a run.

Time and again, the men distract, taunt and jeer the bull to charge at them and the men take it in turns to run past the bull hoping to rake the bull’s head and grab a string or tassel attached to its horns. 

And that’s the goal of the event. Every time a man manages to snatch something off the horns, he wins money. This continued for fifteen minutes until the round ended, the bull was let out of the arena and they got ready for the next bull.

There was a total of six bulls and each bull had its own personality. The first one got winded quickly and had its tongue sticking out for much of the time. Successive bulls were faster, craftier and it was clear they’d learned how the game works because they seemed to have a strategy in their attempts to gore the young men.

I was impressed by the speed at which the young men jumped out of the way, leaping sometimes right up onto the stands and beyond a few injuries sustained upon landing outside of the ring, none of the men were hurt.

I was on the edge of my seat, crying out in shock and fear and I admit that it was thoroughly captivating. I allowed myself to feel the experience for what it was and to fully immerse myself in it. It was as thrilling as it was emotionally exhausting. I can only imagine how the bulls felt.

At half time, they opened the arena and instead of bulls, the arena filled up with children from the audience. Their parents chased them, making bull horns with their fingers and scraping their feet as the kids sped around screeching in delight as they allowed their parents to “catch” them.

And then it hit me.

This was fun for them. They loved watching the bulls run around and the men trying to grab string and ribbons. What’s more, is that the star of the show, however unwilling, was the bull, not the young men. I found out later on that even the bulls are awarded prizes for not allowing the men to snatch string from their horns. As if the bull cares.

I feel confused. On one hand, I am totally against using animals for our entertainment, especially when they are clearly stressed out. The first bull spent most of its time with its tongue out, groaning, and it even had a bloody nostril. On the other hand, it was totally exhilarating and I cheered silently when a bull was able to avoid having a string taken. 

The second half of the event started and the bull that came out was nothing like the previous ones. He was gigantic, had really long, razor sharp horns and was incredibly fast. It was clear that he’d done this before as he positioned himself for maximum damage.He pushed his butt up against the fence, scraping his hooves in the sand and then charged along the fence line as one after another the men leapt up and away to safety.

He dominated the ring, nose in the air, scoping out who he was going to go after next. The bull took its time and seemed to almost calculate and anticipate who’d come after him, shifting and moving to position himself so that he could run at anyone daring to enter the ring. The men were clearly nervous and much more cautious and they had a heck of a time trying to score points. 

But I’d had enough. I was getting really cold and we left before the final bull came out. Just as we descended the stairs to the exit, I saw the last bull come out and it was a monster. I was done. I just couldn’t watch this spectacle anymore. I think my heart wouldn’t have been able to take anymore and I really didn’t want to see any of the men get injured.

We walked back the to van, silent. What could you possibly say in that moment? I was so filled with a swirling maelstrom of emotions that words just seemed inadequate. I was close to tears for the rest of the night.

At the most fundamental level, I’m a hypocrite. I eat meat. I wear leather. I participate in an economic system that raises animals in crowded conditions and then kills them so I can make cool French recipes. I get it. I profit from animal testing so I can shampoo my hair. I eat raw oysters. I wear down coats and snuggle under duvets made from down that is plucked from live birds; a practice I only just learned about. 

I don’t claim to have any moral high ground whatsoever, but I do have a heart. I do feel for animals and humans alike and I’m sad that we, as humanity haven’t figured out a way of treating beings with greater respect and compassion.

I was thrilled by the experience in the Camargue but I wouldn’t go so far as to say I had fun. I was impressed, in the very French meaning of the word, which means that this event left an impression on my very soul. One thing I do know is that I will never again set foot in another arena in this lifetime. 

Once is more than enough for me. What do you think? I’d love to know your thoughts on this.