Lords of Little Egypt: Mai Zetterling Among the Gypsies

CROWD: Vivent les Saintes Maries!

Vive Sainte Sara!

THEY SING A HYMN

It's said that the first Gypsy who ever came to Europe

landed here in France.

Her name was Sarah.

She was a servant of the two holy Marys

who were escaping from Palestine after the death of Jesus,

and it was Sarah who first came ashore

and stole food and clothes for them.

That's why several thousand Gypsies,

Juanita, this English Gypsy, among them,

come every year from all over Europe on a pilgrimage

to Saintes-Maries,

where, usually, you don't see many people,

only the white horses and the wild bulls and the cowboys.

THEY SHOUT IN FRENCH

COWBOYS SHOUT IN FRENCH

It was Juanita who told me the story of Sarah

as we came out here to watch the French cowboys

rounding up their bulls for a contest.

She also told me why the Camargue,

which this strange marshy land is called,

is such a right place for the Gypsies to come to.

It's mainly because the black bulls and white horses

make you think of the Gypsies,

who were often horse dealers in the old days.

In fact, Juanita still is one.

But the Camargue is also a good meeting place for them

because of the atmosphere,

which seems to fit, at least, my idea of what the Gypsies are like -

sinister, lonely, hard to understand.

They seem to belong to another continent -

perhaps Africa, as people thought

when they started travelling in Europe 500 years ago,

or perhaps India.

If you ask any question about the Gypsies,

the answer is always "perhaps".

I remember that as a child

I was brought up to be frightened of them -

"The Gypsies will come and take you,"

people said, if I was naughty -

and I was told that they didn't only take children,

but they stole things, they told lies, they were witches,

they were cannibals - and they were filthy, too.

So whenever I saw them in fairs in Sweden

looking so dark and terrifying

I used to run as fast as I possibly could.

But I was always sorry I did,

because, whatever my mother said about them,

they were romantic, as well,

and I still don't know if it's true what people said about them.

The other day, Juanita and I went to one of the bull games

they have down here.

A player has to take a ribbon from between the bull's horns.

The Gypsies don't take part in this contest, but they do watch it.

And to start things off in Saintes-Maries today,

the French have another game.

FANFARE

THEY PLAY A MARCH

BELLS CHIME

The camp stretches all along the seafront,

and Juanita and I were lucky to find a place for our caravan.

We didn't have a proper Gypsy one, but then, nor did the others.

5,000 Gypsies, but only one painted caravan and one horse in the place.

No money in horses now, so they deal in old cars,

which they often live in while waiting for a buyer.

Our next-door neighbours were fairground people,

travelling France with a few stalls.

These old women had several sons, and lots of grandchildren.

How did they manage?

"Ah," they said, "we love children -

"and anyway, they grow up into men

"who look after us and keep away the bad luck."

They hadn't much space, they were all on top of each other.

They always had the problem of deciding where to go next,

and never knowing where they would find money to feed all the family -

but they think that nothing very serious can happen to them

as long as the family sticks closely together.

Even with all their work,

their struggle to survive comfortably

in a world that isn't too friendly towards Gypsies,

they feel they're lucky, and they say so.

I asked this old woman

why she liked such an uncertain sort of life.

"Liberty," she said.

She didn't know where she was going, or where she had come from.

Oh, yes, her father had sold horses in Spain, Italy, North Africa,

but before that there was no past.

She knew nothing of India or Egypt -

but if pride and independence were anything to go by,

you could see that she belonged to the same race

as those Lords Of Little Egypt,

as the Gypsies called themselves when they first came to Europe.

Those Gypsies had pretended they were noble pilgrims from the east,

and they were welcomed everywhere.

Now the story is different.

They have to work for a living.

The families stared into each other's camps,

but they didn't mix much at first,

until the eve of the procession

when they began to turn towards the church

where the statue of Sarah stands in the crypt.

BELLS CHIME

Some Gypsies put their trust very deeply in God,

and more primitive and hot-blooded ones like the Spanish

have just a superstitious feeling

that Sarah can do something for them -

bring them a son, for instance -

and they also come to light a candle

and pin some object, like a photograph, to her gown.

Others don't bother at all.

They're here to do business,

and stay clear of the small altars that are set up,

in little nooks between the caravans.

Still more and more Gypsies -

even at the last moment, they're flocking into Saintes-Maries.

Meanwhile, Juanita and I went to visit some people we'd met -

a family which lived around France, but were actually Russian Gypsies.

The father had once been to Liverpool,

and remembered two words of English -

"Good morning."

The streets were getting crowded,

and people eating outside were chattering even faster than usual.

Gypsies always have plenty to say to each other -

and we had plenty to ask our Russian friends,

though we still didn't know how far we'd get,

as Juanita only knows English Romani.

ALL CHATTER IN VARIOUS LANGUAGES

We had seen before that the different families

didn't always get on well together.

Now we were finding that they didn't always understand

each other's dialect of Romani -

and I couldn't help thinking

that if they didn't really understand or trust one another,

how could those of us who weren't Gypsies ever hope to?

Those Russians, they were very keen on talking,

and it wouldn't have gone half as well if it hadn't been for Juanita.

If they are not among their own people,

the Gypsies can be very reserved.

Last year in the far north of Sweden,

I met some Gypsies and I mentioned Saintes-Maries to them.

They had no chance of going there -

it was too far away, and they have no money -

but, for a moment, they got so excited about it

that they had no resistance to me any more, and they became friends.

And every year, in Europe,

the Gypsies come to this far corner of France

if they possibly can.

Why, for instance, does Juanita want to come?

Because it's the one place where the Gypsies really seem to belong,

and it's good to be able to go and meet them there -

and, personally, I feel more at home in the Camargue

than in many parts of England. Mm.

But there aren't any other English Gypsies here?

No, that's because most of them either don't know about it,

or if they did, they couldn't get a passport,

because they've got no birth records.

You've got to have a record before you can get a passport.

And many of them couldn't afford the journey, anyway.

But I wish they could come,

because there's already a great feeling of gaiety here,

even if things don't really start until tomorrow.

COCK CROWS

And all through the morning, the day of the procession,

I was finding out what they were like - or trying to.

Perhaps it was the holiday feeling,

perhaps the Gypsies were all getting used to each other by now,

but this morning, the families seemed to be on much better terms.

And it was the children who made friends first.

They learn to look after themselves very early in life.

I asked if school was compulsory for them.

"Oh, yes," they said.

And did they enjoy school?

They'd never been, they replied.

And their parents were exchanging news about old acquaintances,

travelling in other countries

who hadn't been able to get to Saintes-Maries this year.

It was worth sending a message to them,

even if it might not be delivered for several months.

SHE CRIES

DOGS BARK

They all seemed to be very easy-going,

but, in fact, you never quite know - they're unpredictable,

one minute lying quietly round the campfire,

the next, full of life,

suddenly treating you with great friendliness,

then leaving you out in the cold.

And even among themselves, when they are excited,

you don't know whether they're going to have a fight

or throw their arms around each other

or just laugh.

But what is certain, they keep very clean and they work very hard,

even on a holiday like this.

The camp was still full of them,

though some had by now drifted off to the procession,

which was to take the image of Sarah from the church,

down to the sea where she originally landed.

MAN WHISTLES

CHATTERING IN ROMANI

CROWD: Vivent les Saintes Maries!

Vive Sainte Sara!

ALL SING

Still, not all of them had joined in -

they were still working, as usual, in the camp,

getting themselves ready for the evening

and not paying too much attention to the noise of the procession.

ALL SING

BAND PLAYS A MARCH

ALL SING

Like many of them,

this fortune-teller didn't bother with the procession.

"Oh, it's just a walk to the sea and back," she said,

"but just wait and see.

"Later, when the fair opens and the dancing begins,

"that's different. That's for everyone."

ALL CHATTER IN FRENCH

WOMAN SINGS

THEY PLAY FLAMENCO MUSIC

FRENCH SONG PLAYS

HE CALLS IN FRENCH

SHE SINGS ALONG IN FRENCH

THEY PLAY FLAMENCO MUSIC

HE PLAYS FLAMENCO

THEY PLAY FLAMENCO MUSIC

SHE SINGS IN OWN LANGUAGE

MAN SINGS

LAUGHTER AND CHATTER

Then suddenly, the next day, they were packing, all at once.

Many of them had said they would definitely be staying a few days,

but somehow the word had gone round,

and now they were all on the move.

Last night, in the cafes, on the streets, to the music,

all of the families who had been a bit suspicious of each other

had become friends, just for a day.

Now, they were going their separate ways.

One of them had said to me, "It may be lonely sometimes,

"not to belong to a place, but we have a family and we are free."

Freedom. It always came back to that.

Put in the prisons during the war, they lost that freedom completely...

but they gained a friend, this priest.

The Gypsies helped him when he was a chaplain in a concentration camp.

HE SPEAKS IN FRENCH

In 1948, he was officially asked to help the Gypsies

by becoming their priest.

He believes that the church can do much

to give them better conditions in France -

camps to live in, as in Holland,

concrete foundations for their caravans, jobs.

There were no Dutch Gypsies here.

Perhaps they're already too set in their ways.

He likes the Gypsies because they are straightforward

and really honest -

even if they do pick things up which people leave lying about.

With a mobile chapel in a caravan, he follows them wherever they go,

Some to village fairs in the mountains,

others to begging in the cities,

some trekking from town to town

selling copperware or mending furniture.

Others to try their luck in new countries -

Belgium perhaps, or Italy.

Somewhere new.

FLAMENCO PLAYS

MAN: Ole!

I talked quite a lot to that Gypsy woman

who in the camp was called

"the fortune-teller with the golden teeth".

I found out that she'd been travelling in Europe,

in Scandinavia, 30 years ago,

and she still spoke very good Swedish -

and she told me one thing that I will always remember.

It made me see that the Gypsies just don't think that our way of life

is good enough for them.

She also told me that she was living in Marseilles with her family

and, obviously being so well off

with her solid gold rings and bracelets on her arms,

I asked her if they had a house there.

She gave me a sort of puzzled look and then she started laughing.

SHE REPEATS THE PHRASE

By which she meant that you begin dying

when you live in one house or stay in one place for too long.

Perhaps you do.

CICADAS CHIRRUP