The first time I visited Avignon was over 40 years ago. Hitching lifts (we never seem to hear much about hitch-hiking these days) and catching trains, I embarked on a solo trip around France in my early 20s. It was then that I disembarked the train at Avignon with my rucksack and tent weighing heavily on my back, in never-before-experienced Mediterranean heat. I set off the wrong way for the campsite. By the time I’d realised, I was already becoming tired. I turned back and found myself asking two men for directions who were sitting on a blanket on a patch of grass underneath a road bridge.
They kindly told me the way and gave me some grapes. I had with me a bottle of gin and opened it to share some with them. They were clearly very poor and possibly homeless. I sat with them for short while. The conversation began to have mildly threatening undertones, so I decided that I should move on. I reached out to pick up my gin, but one of the men took it away from me. He insisted that it was now theirs and that he would not give it back. After a short exchange of words and disagreements, I saw that he was now wielding a knife and nonchalantly rubbing his fingers and thumb up and down the blade. I then struck a deal. I told them that if they were to give me a swig they could keep the bottle. They agreed, but not before giving each other a curious look and a nod, clearly not expecting this stand-off when I was so obviously the underdog should there be any physical exchange. So I took my swig, gave them the bottle and walked away in the direction of the campsite. As I was heading off, I could hear their voices in the distance, shouting that they were my friends and that I could go to them if ever I needed anything. It all sounded a little dubious to me, and I had no intention of taking them up on their offer.
Pont Saint-Benezet, Avignon
A few minutes later, a white Range Rover pulled up alongside me at the kerbside. Its occupants were four bare-chested men. Not the kind of vehicle I would like to get into for a lift, I thought. “Wanna lift?” One of them said – or words in French to that effect. “Not bloody likely!” I thought, although my response was worded differently. This did nothing to offer me any comfort after the trauma of my encounter under the bridge a little earlier. I didn’t look back.
Well, I didn’t look back until I had a new encounter with a young girl and her mum as I was crossing the road bridge over the River Rhone (just next to the famous incomplete Pont St Benezet). Asking if I was going the right way for the campsite, the young girl of about 16 years asked if I was English and, if so, could we speak in English as she wanted to practice. I’m not English, of course, but it’s close enough if you’re talking to a foreigner who will rarely fully understand. She informed me that I was very close and that it was in sight just over the other side of the bridge. Nearly there at last. I thanked her, and as I began to walk away, her mother uttered something quite fast and frantically that I couldn’t decipher. The young girl called me and asked me if I understood what her mother had said. She then explained that there are many bad people here in Avignon, and they will take your things and kill you! By now, I knew enough. Even though the campsite was privately fenced off, I didn’t sleep well that night.
MARK D PRITCHARD writes... 