Passion Play by Roger Moss

The heat haze is building steadily as I join an assortment of well-travelled cars and vans heading south across the Plaine de la Camargue. On the outskirts of Les Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer we encounter the first signs of the sizeable police presence mobilised for the event. Next we roll past huge temporary campsites packed with caravans of all shapes and styles, and from which there’s a steady flow of people walking towards a town centre currently barred to unauthorised vehicles. From here on the atmosphere is electric, less like a religious celebration and more like Rio visits the Mediterranean. It’s also far removed from being just another tourist event, and making sense of it means understanding its origins. The two ‘official’ Saintes — Marie-Jacobé and Marie-Salomé — arrived with their black servant Sara and a group of disciples in AD18 after being expelled from Palestine. Unlike their companions who moved inland, the two Maries chose to remain close to where they had landed, and in due course baptised not only the local people but the occupying Roman troops, too. Then, according to legend, Sara asked the Maries to baptise a large group of gypsies living nearby and was later adopted by all gypsies as their Patron Saint. Since that day Roms, Manouches, Tsiganes et Gitans from throughout Europe have converged in their thousands on the small fishing port to pay their respects to Sainte-Sara la Noire and her companions.

I join the crowds threading their way through the narrow streets to a medieval fortified church whose huge western doors are flung wide, allowing those assembled in the hot square to share the joyous blessings being bestowed endlessly upon the congregation packing the interior. It becomes a strangely hypnotic experience, and one from which it’s increasingly difficult to remain detached. It can also last for hours, the atmosphere building steadily under the discrete but attentive gaze of the police, who prefer to maintain their vigil from a distance. Gazing upwards I spot two of them on the church roof patiently surveying the crowd through powerful binoculars.

The mood changes abruptly when the eventual echo of hoof-beats heralds the approach of the Camargue gardians, traditional cowboys of the plains, emblazoned with Provençal patterns and mounted proudly, two abreast, on their trademark white horses. Behind them trails a large crowd at whose heart an enthusiastic group of gypsy musicians lays down a multi-cultural soundtrack with fiddle, guitars and hammer dulcimer. On reaching the church the gardians line up either side of the open doors to await the appearance of the congregation for the big procession. When the moment finally comes a tumultuous cry rises from the crowds and suddenly they’re off, in something approaching carnival mood, to wind their way through the streets, along the promenade and finally onto the beach. I decide to peel off and await their arrival on the beach among the multitude of onlookers slowly desiccating in the midday sun. The warm-up act is a group of young girls in blood-red dresses, dodging the waves and dancing on the hot sand like living flamenco dolls.

Eventually the attention falters and heads crane as one in the direction of music echoing around the promenade, the volume suddenly wound up a couple of notches as the crowds part. The gardians stride into view, followed by the priest broadcasting his sung Ave Marias through an amplified megaphone. Behind him are the musicians and a forest of standard-bearers whose extravagantly embroidered and gilded banners flash in the sunlight. Finally, trailing in their wake is a long line of faithful followers. The procession advances steadily across the sand to the water’s edge and on into the waves. It’s an extraordinary sight. The priest, now waist-deep and encircled by the members of the procession, reminds us all why we’re here, before offering his benediction to the appreciative crowds from the warm waters of the Mediterranean. Eventually everyone regroups to stride from the waves onto dry land, re-enacting the arrival of the Saintes two thousand years ago.

I leave the procession to retrace its route back to the church and join the growing numbers taking a closer look at some of the travellers assembled self-consciously along the promenade. Among the long line of stalls selling hand-made gifts, fabrics, lucky charms and other essentials are a few beautifully-decorated traditional timber caravans. A photo, with or without the equally authentic occupants? “Un Euro, S.V.P.” Or how about a nicely-made model caravan to take home, for rather more? Maybe not. We all know that the real stars are the people themselves, dazzling in the kind of attire which now only comes out on great occasions like this.

Later, as night falls, smart, brightly-lit restaurant terraces pulsate one after another as diners are whipped to fever-pitch with practised professionalism by high-energy gypsy-jazz musicians. After pausing briefly I walk on, round a quiet corner and chance upon a very different show. Beneath a lamp-post in a corner of a dimly-lit square behind the now-silent church, the real Django legacy, fused with fiery flamenco, ignites among a group of young, dark-eyed musicians. Onlookers are welcome, but ultimately incidental; here the music is its own reward. A slender woman with a tambourine makes a brief appearance with her daughter, who dances awkwardly while her younger sister goes around with the collection hat. It’s a non-starter, and they move on to try their luck in more brightly-lit surroundings, while the show goes on unconcerned.

An hour or so later I return to my car, the music still ringing in my head as I follow the road out of town. This time I turn off and enter the gateway of one of the encampments I passed earlier, taking up an invitation to meet a priest who has apparently befriended the gypsies. They come to him with their problems and he listens. Minutes later I find myself sitting in the midst of a large clearing beside a crackling fire, in conversation with the very antithesis of my previous experience of the clergy, complete with a dense shock of grey hair and a hand-rolled cigarette dangling limply from the corner of his mouth, Competing with the sound of taped flamenco playing on a tinny and hopelessly distorted car stereo, we drink cheap red wine and talk about the changing patterns of life for the travelling people. And the hard choices ahead, in a fast-changing world which threatens to overwhelm the gypsies’ whole cultural identity. Much later, back at my hotel room his impassioned words remain with me.

The following day sees the first day’s ceremonies re-enacted, this time graced by the sacred presence of the ancient and neatly dressed effigies of the Saintes (who for the rest of the year remain in the church) carried proudly above the heads of the crowd. This is the big one, and anything can happen. Manitas de Plata, veteran world-famous guitarist, friend of Picasso and much-loved by his fellow gypsies, puts in a personal appearance for the crowds. And not for the first time either, judging by the faded press cuttings which he displays proudly to the admiring onlookers. His pale eyes flash as he spots a striking woman with a dark smile and a traffic-stopping dress of dazzling aquamarine, who I recognise as the fortune-teller I’d seen earlier performing a reading for an American visitor. I wonder whether she’s ever dared ask the cards about the destiny of her people, and what the response might be.

© Roger Moss www.saintesmaries.com