When I was in the States for a brief period in January 2009, I planned to take a trip to Chicago, Grand Rapids, and Detroit. I wanted to visit my friends the Hunefelds in Chicago, then fellow board members from the Association for a More Just Society in Grand Rapids, and then my college roommate Mark Hakim outside Detroit. Mark and I got tickets for a Michigan basketball game.
I postponed the departure date for the trip because of bad weater in the midwest. Bad weather in the midwest in January means temperatures of minus 38 degrees F with wind chills bringing the feel down to minus 60. The cold temperatures also bring on ice storms, and difficult driving conditions. My grandmother, aunt, uncle, and sister prevailed on me to leave later to avoid the worst of the storms. Meanwhile, the weather in Oklahoma was up into the 80s.
Driving a rental car from rural Oklahoma to Chicago is not easy. The nearest car rental agency to my grandmother's house is two hours away at the airport in Oklahoma City. As my grandmother was 89 at the time, she doesn't like to drive, and we don't like her to drive, that far by herself. When she drives to Norman (outside of Oklahoma City and home of my aunt and uncle), her neighbor Catherine, age 77, often accompanies her, on the theory that they will keep each other alert and aware. My grandmother used to drive up to Norman fairly often for doctor's appointments, but she has found doctors in Ardmore (it is debatable whether or not this is a good thing). So her trips to Norman now are for the used book store, the Golden Corral, Dillard's, and my aunt and uncle.
To get to Oklahoma City, I planned a trip up to Norman, where my grandmother would pass me off to my aunt and uncle. They, in turn, would drive me to the airport to pick up my rental car. From there I would drive fourteen hours to Chicago.
My grandmother, Catherine, and I drove up to Norman to eat at the Golden Corral, a favorite for both of them. It is a treat for Catherine and grams to get to eat at Golden Corral because there is none in Ardmore, and my aunt and uncle do not like eating there. Oklahoma is a fat state and the customers at Golden Corral can remind my aunt and uncle of that fact. Trying to eat healthily at the Corral can prove challenging, but it can be done. Notwithstanding their preferences against the Golden Corral, my aunt and uncle met us there to enjoy lunch and then my grandmother and Catherine made their way back to Ardmore.
The next morning my aunt and uncle took me to the Oklahoma City airport. I had made a reservation for unlimited miles for a bit over a week for about $250. Though I use this agency often, there were some unexpected charges and terms with the rental. The most significant change was that I was not permitted to take a rental car outside a state that bordered Oklahoma. While Missouri borders Oklahoma, and I could get to St. Louis, that still isn't close enough to Chicago. The consequences of driving out of the approved territory were paying 75 cents per mile and getting put on the "do not rent" list. Knowing that the odometer and the GPS in the car would make it abundantly clear if I went over the state lines, I started calculating the real cost of the rental. With the out-of-territory costs, and the additional fees, the rental would cost me about $1000, plus gas.
$1000 for a rental is not an option for someone who is unemployed and homeless, who was renting a car to save money on the trip. So I declined the rental and checked down the aisle at the other agencies. Because it was a same-day rental, none of the other agencies were able to give a much better rate.
I went upstairs to the airline counters. I stopped at American Airlines to ask if I could use miles to fly to Chicago.
"I don't know - can you use miles?"
"Can you check to see if I can book an awards ticket for me?"
"We can't do that here. You need to call the AAdvantage number."
"Can you call that number for me."
"We don't have that number. You'll have to find it yourself."
"Can you check to see how much the fare is to fly to Chicago today?"
"That's $313."
"Thanks. Have a good one."
After this representatively unsatisfactory encounter with American Airlines, I walked down the aisle to Southwest, the other airline with direct flights to Chicago. Southwest had similar prices for flights to Chicago. Representatives from both airlines seemed quite surprised that I was interested in buying a same-day ticket. Apparently it is uncommon in Oklahoma City.
I went downstairs to the baggage claim area and called my sister to check online about redeeming my miles. As I was giving my information to my sister, the following announcement came over the speakers: "Please evacuate the airport. The airport is on fire. Evacuate the airport immediately." I continued to speak with my ssiter and paid little mind to the announcement as no one else seemed to be minding it. As my sister looked through the listings, an alarm continued to sound and airport officials started streaming out. The car rental counters emptied. Passengers flowed out of the airport. There were no airport officials directing anyone where to go or asking anyone to leave. There were just the announcements directing people to leave: "The airport is on fire." I told my sister that I would need to leave the airport. Outside I found out from my sister that it would cost $200 plus 25,000 miles to book the ticket. I decided to pass . . .
Although there were never any announcements, the airport apparently re-opened because people flowed back into the airport. The airport did not burn down. I smelled no smoke. But the airport had been evacuated - I don't know what happened.
At this point I called my aunt and uncle to pick me up. I figured that these were signs that I was not supposed to go to Chicago. The ultimate sign to me was the announcement: "the airport is on fire."
My aunt rarely brings her cell phone with her. My uncle brings his with him, but doesn't always turn it on, and even when it is on, he doesn't always hear it. I left a message on my uncle's cell and at their house. Then I got on the phone to let my friends know I wasn't coming. I called my grandmother to let her know I would be back - she was so happy because she was worried about me traveling in the bad weather, and she would also miss me. I rang back my uncle, who answered the phone, probably the first and only time that he has answered the phone. He and my aunt came and picked me up. Otherwise I would have spent all day at the aiport, until they got home at 5 pm. So I spent the night in Norman - and did not go to Chicago.
domingo, 31 de mayo de 2009
miércoles, 6 de mayo de 2009
The Shooting at 4th and G SW
My grandmother's favorite movie series is Death Wish. In these movies, Charles Bronson plays a vigilante out to avenge the death of his family or girlfriends, or to rid the neighborhood of thugs. My grandmother appreciates the "justice" achieved when Bronson takes out the bad guys. She wishes that there were more vigilantes in the world today; it would be a safer place.
In the first Death Wish movie, the murderers follow Bronson's wife and daughter back to their apartment on New York City's Upper West Side and murder the wife and rape the daughter. Bronson's apartment is in 33 Riverside Drive, on the corner of West 75th Street, across from Riverside Park. When we first watched the attackers go into the building I thought it looked familiar. As the plot unfolded and we saw more shots of the block, I realized that I had been in that building - many times before. My Bible Study met there for several years and I went there every Friday night. When I told my Grandmother that I lived about half a block from that building and that I had been there many times she told me that she was so relieved that I was no longer in New York. Obviously I was living in a very unsafe place since Bronson's family was attacked a short distance from my house. I assured her that New York was very different now as opposed to 35 years ago when the first Death Wish movie came out. I had never been shot or seen a shooting in New York.
A few days after we watched a Death Wish marathon, my grandmother and I were sitting in her den in the small town of Ardmore, Oklahoma. It was evening and I heard voices in the front yard and looked out the windows. My grandmother lives on a corner lot and can get a large volume of foot traffic. I initially thought maybe children were playing in the yard, but I couldn't see anyone. I listened more closely and determined the voices were fighting men's. After some time the voices disappeared. My sister called and my grandmother and I got into a conversation with her.
Two loud bangs interrupted our conversation. I got up to look out the windows again. We both realized that the bangs were gunshots. I told my grandmother I was calling the police, but as I prepared to do so, we heard the first responders arrive. Out the window I saw two ambulances, two fire trucks, and about five squad cars descend upon our corner, lights whirling. I described the activities to my grandmother, who remained in her armchair, and to my sister, who was still on the phone. I watched neighbors walk from all directions toward the intersection. As is often the case at of accident sites or crime scenes, there is often a lot of activity, but little substance. The lights on the vehicles continued to turn, the neighbors moved back and forth to try to get more information, but at the actual site nothing much was happening, at least from our vantage point. From time to time a vehicle would leave. The fire trucks were gone. One of the ambulances left. Some of the squad cars departed. In the remaining ambulance I saw them load up something and peel away. But I could not see inside. A few police cars remained until late in the night.
Information was slow to be released. We learned from a neighbor that the shooting took place a few houses down. Though we don't know those neighbors, we believe that the women there were prostitutes and/or drug dealers. Apparently, two men came to the house and had a dispute with each other. That dispute carried over into our yard. One left (we had heard the quiet after the argument ceased). He then came back with a friend, and a gun. They shot the other man and then fled. The police got descriptions of both men, as well as their names and photos.
One of the assailants looked, according to my grandmother, like "a fine young man with his whole life in front of him." He was 19 years old, clean cut, white, and wholesomely attractive. She was disappointed that instead of getting a job and making something of himself, he was going and doing something like this. As far as we know, he has been on the run since the shooting occured in January. According to another source in town, he came from Texas. The local socio-political theory goes as follows: all problems in Oklahoma come from Texas. (As my grandmother's town is near the Texas border it often encounters these problems first.) In turn, all problems in Texas first come from Mexico. The exception is drugs. It is not fair to blame the influx of drugs from Mexico on the Mexicans because if there were no demand in the US, the Mexicans would not traffic the drugs.
The other assailant was a black man in his early 20s. We don't know if it was him or his friend the "fine young man" who was arguing in our yard. He fled the scene and the cops could not find him right away. However, a few days after the shooting, this assailant went to the Carter County courthouse for a hearing in an unrelated case. The court officials recognized him and thought that maybe he was the guy they were looking for - the one who fled the scene. He acknowledged that he was the suspect and they placed him under arrest. I guess he showed up to court with the optimistic hope that no one would recognize him. As it happened, no one in the court had made the connection beforehand; they were not waiting to bring him into custody. It seems almost by chance that the court officer recognized him, or otherwise he would have eluded detection. In a town of 25,000 people, it seems the police should be able to recognize people with prior arrests, and check to see if there are any current cases pending against them.
The victim of the shooting went to the hospital and the reports in the following days revealed that he was in stable condition. No other information was released - we don't know if he was a "fine young man," or his age, or why he was at the home of the suspected prostitutes. We also don't know if or when the hospital released him, but we never saw a death announcement in the news - we take that as a good sign.
The suspected prostitutes have moved out of the house. The owners have started renovations after they inspected the house and discovered that the toilet had fallen through the floor and the roof was not intact.
After all of this I pointed out to my grandmother that the only time in my life I had experienced a shooting outside my home was in Oklahoma - never in New York or anywhere else. So maybe Bronson's character had the misfortune 35 years ago to lose his family to violence in Manhattan. But my violent spot was Oklahoma. I do not plan on becoming a vigilante, though.
In the first Death Wish movie, the murderers follow Bronson's wife and daughter back to their apartment on New York City's Upper West Side and murder the wife and rape the daughter. Bronson's apartment is in 33 Riverside Drive, on the corner of West 75th Street, across from Riverside Park. When we first watched the attackers go into the building I thought it looked familiar. As the plot unfolded and we saw more shots of the block, I realized that I had been in that building - many times before. My Bible Study met there for several years and I went there every Friday night. When I told my Grandmother that I lived about half a block from that building and that I had been there many times she told me that she was so relieved that I was no longer in New York. Obviously I was living in a very unsafe place since Bronson's family was attacked a short distance from my house. I assured her that New York was very different now as opposed to 35 years ago when the first Death Wish movie came out. I had never been shot or seen a shooting in New York.
A few days after we watched a Death Wish marathon, my grandmother and I were sitting in her den in the small town of Ardmore, Oklahoma. It was evening and I heard voices in the front yard and looked out the windows. My grandmother lives on a corner lot and can get a large volume of foot traffic. I initially thought maybe children were playing in the yard, but I couldn't see anyone. I listened more closely and determined the voices were fighting men's. After some time the voices disappeared. My sister called and my grandmother and I got into a conversation with her.
Two loud bangs interrupted our conversation. I got up to look out the windows again. We both realized that the bangs were gunshots. I told my grandmother I was calling the police, but as I prepared to do so, we heard the first responders arrive. Out the window I saw two ambulances, two fire trucks, and about five squad cars descend upon our corner, lights whirling. I described the activities to my grandmother, who remained in her armchair, and to my sister, who was still on the phone. I watched neighbors walk from all directions toward the intersection. As is often the case at of accident sites or crime scenes, there is often a lot of activity, but little substance. The lights on the vehicles continued to turn, the neighbors moved back and forth to try to get more information, but at the actual site nothing much was happening, at least from our vantage point. From time to time a vehicle would leave. The fire trucks were gone. One of the ambulances left. Some of the squad cars departed. In the remaining ambulance I saw them load up something and peel away. But I could not see inside. A few police cars remained until late in the night.
Information was slow to be released. We learned from a neighbor that the shooting took place a few houses down. Though we don't know those neighbors, we believe that the women there were prostitutes and/or drug dealers. Apparently, two men came to the house and had a dispute with each other. That dispute carried over into our yard. One left (we had heard the quiet after the argument ceased). He then came back with a friend, and a gun. They shot the other man and then fled. The police got descriptions of both men, as well as their names and photos.
One of the assailants looked, according to my grandmother, like "a fine young man with his whole life in front of him." He was 19 years old, clean cut, white, and wholesomely attractive. She was disappointed that instead of getting a job and making something of himself, he was going and doing something like this. As far as we know, he has been on the run since the shooting occured in January. According to another source in town, he came from Texas. The local socio-political theory goes as follows: all problems in Oklahoma come from Texas. (As my grandmother's town is near the Texas border it often encounters these problems first.) In turn, all problems in Texas first come from Mexico. The exception is drugs. It is not fair to blame the influx of drugs from Mexico on the Mexicans because if there were no demand in the US, the Mexicans would not traffic the drugs.
The other assailant was a black man in his early 20s. We don't know if it was him or his friend the "fine young man" who was arguing in our yard. He fled the scene and the cops could not find him right away. However, a few days after the shooting, this assailant went to the Carter County courthouse for a hearing in an unrelated case. The court officials recognized him and thought that maybe he was the guy they were looking for - the one who fled the scene. He acknowledged that he was the suspect and they placed him under arrest. I guess he showed up to court with the optimistic hope that no one would recognize him. As it happened, no one in the court had made the connection beforehand; they were not waiting to bring him into custody. It seems almost by chance that the court officer recognized him, or otherwise he would have eluded detection. In a town of 25,000 people, it seems the police should be able to recognize people with prior arrests, and check to see if there are any current cases pending against them.
The victim of the shooting went to the hospital and the reports in the following days revealed that he was in stable condition. No other information was released - we don't know if he was a "fine young man," or his age, or why he was at the home of the suspected prostitutes. We also don't know if or when the hospital released him, but we never saw a death announcement in the news - we take that as a good sign.
The suspected prostitutes have moved out of the house. The owners have started renovations after they inspected the house and discovered that the toilet had fallen through the floor and the roof was not intact.
After all of this I pointed out to my grandmother that the only time in my life I had experienced a shooting outside my home was in Oklahoma - never in New York or anywhere else. So maybe Bronson's character had the misfortune 35 years ago to lose his family to violence in Manhattan. But my violent spot was Oklahoma. I do not plan on becoming a vigilante, though.
miércoles, 28 de enero de 2009
The Crazy Cow
I arrived in Lutina on a Saturday. To get there, you take a 12-hour ferry ride from Marseilles, on the southern coast of continental France. From the ferry dock in Bastia, on the northeast coast of Corsica you take the train a couple hours to Ponte Leccia, where the islands' two train lines meet. Forty-five minutes of driving through winding mountain roads brings you to the beautiful mountain town of 20 people.
It took me a month to realize that 20 people lived in Lutina. On my first day I met the Campana family: father Jean-Mathieu, mother Barbara, daughter Antonia, and son Francesco. I also met Felipe, the Colombian in charge of me and the other volunteers (known as wwoofers - the volunteers through worldwide opportunities on organic farms). After that, every few days I would find a new person - they appeared to emerge from nowhere. The French word "lutin" means "elf." Based on this derivaton and the mysterious emergence of the town's residents, my friends at the farm came up with the theory that the true residents of the town are elves who emerge from their underground homes.
One person who did not live with the elves was Paul. Along with Jean-Mathieu and Felipe, Paul ran the farm, but he lived 30 minutes away with his wife. It was not until my first Tuesday that I met Paul. Saturday and Sunday were days off and Monday we made "fromage de tete," a type of pate made from the bits of meat hanging on to the bones after the butchering of the pig. Tuesday brought us to the introduction of working with wood. Paul and Jean-Mathieu are experts in treating diseased trees, particularly chestnut trees. One method of treating the diseased trees is to chop off the diseased limbs. Paul and Jean-Mathieu sell the branches as firewood, which is a good commodity in Corsica, where it seems like everyone heats with wood. The farm had over 50 orders for the standard size of 3 cubic meters of firewood. (With 6-8 volunteers on the farm we were able to fulfill about 4 orders per week - gathering the wood from the forest and then chopping and cutting it.)
Paul is a delightful person. The morning we, the volunteers met him, he made sure to get to know a little about all 8 of us volunteers. He said that we would begin preparing the wood that day. Before we would be able to do that, though, there was a cow stuck in the cattle guard blocking the one-lane road into town. Although I was not quite sure what we would be doing, I jumped into the back of a pickup with half of the volunteers, the other volunteers jumping into the other truck. We drove a kilometer down the hill to the cattle guard, where indeed a cow had its hoof stuck in the cattle guard. On the other side of the cattle guard, waiting to come into town, were three cars from "France 3 Corse," one of the television stations. Wow, there is so little going on in Corsica that they send out tv crews to film a cow stuck in a cattle guard. (As I found out later, it turns out the tv crews were actually there to do an interview with the miller.) Behind the France 3 Corse cars was a pick-up. Behind the two wwoofer trucks, Felipe was driving one of the departing wwoofers to the train station. Behind Felipe were the baker, who made deliveries three times a week, the postman, and our neighbor Luc, who was taking his son to school. So, in this town of 20 people, at 9 am in the morning, there were 10 vehicles. Never before and never since did I see so many vehicles at once in Lutina.
Paul, Jean-Mathieu, and the wwoofers got out of the vehicles and Paul approached the gate next to the cattle guard to allow a path for the cow to exit when it broke itself free. Unfortunately for Paul, the cow broke itself free as Paul was opening the gate. The cow, disoriented, and none too happy at having been stuck in the cattle guard, saw Paul's movement and charged at him. And hit Paul and knocked him to the ground. Paul yelled, "povre moi, povre moi," and "allez-y." Seeing the raging cow, the wwoofers jumped back in the pick-ups. The cow charged into Paul again and Jean-Mathieu retrieved a sickle from the truck. The cow charged into Paul a third time and Mathieu came after the cow with the sickle and yelled at it to get away. The cow then charged at Mathieu, who backed away, and avoided the cow, which turned its attention to Paul, clutching his leg on the gound. Mathieu charged the cow again, which retreated and crossed over the cattle guard, without getting stuck. The cow passed behind one of the France 3 Corse cars and the reporter opened her door to block the cow from crossing over to Paul.
At this point, the scene seemed much safer and people emerged from their vehicles. Mathieu called his wife Barbara on his mobile phone. Felipe tended to Paul who was moaning and rocking on the ground. We moved Paul to the pick-up to clear him from he road. The France 3 Corse reporters started jaking and laughing. By this point Barbara had descended to the accident site and she let the reporters have it. This was not a joking matter - her friend was seriouly injured. She then started yelling for the cow to be shot. Although no one knew whose cow it was (there are no cows in Lutina, but most cows in the area are free range), it was clear to Barbara that the cow was crazy, dangerous, and needed to be eliminated. We held off on killing the cow, but Barbara still had fury to unleash on France 3 Corse. The reporters were out of their cars chatting and laughing, but their cars were blocking the road from the firemen (occupying the role of the American EMTs) driving in from La Porta, the "big" town of 200 4 kilometers away.
The reporters relented and backed down the hill following the pick-up. At this, the road cleared a little, and the cow started moving, approaching Lutina, and, us. By this time the cow appeared more subdued and it was not going to run up into the back of the pick-ups, the postal truck, or the bread-mobile. Anxiously, we waited in the back of our vehicles as the cow passed. It was at this moment that DeDe, the wife of the jam maker, the longest resident of Lutina, and big talker, decided to find out what the cause of the traffic jam. Seeing her approach, we all yelled get out of here, to which she responded, "quoi?" This went on for several minutes, she getting closer to us, we yelling louder. She finally heard us or saw the cow, and turned around.
At this time the firemen pulled up the hill and examined Paul. The diagnosis was that the cow was broken Paul's ACL (or another type of tissue connecting the leg muscles - my French skills were not quite good enough to figure this out exactly.) After about 30 minutes, the firetrucks pulled away with Paul inside, to take him two hours to Bastia. The rest of the vehicles dispersed and the population of Lutina decreased from about 40 down to 15.
I never saw Paul again. He was in traction for the next six weeks.
I also never saw the cow again. At some point it wandered off out of Lutina, without us noticing.
We did not start working with wood that day. Mathieu went to the hospital with Paul. Felipe had to drive to Bastia as well as Gonzalo had missed his train at Ponte Leccia and needed to catch a ferry.
Instead, I went on a hike to Ghiucatujhu, 2 kilometers away, with three other wwoofers. We needed to get away from Lutina, from the horrible site of a bloody man rolly on the ground with a cow charging at him. On our hike however, we saw cows eyeing us saw along the side of the road. We watched with anxiety. None charged at us. And so we had no more troubles with cows . . . that day.
It took me a month to realize that 20 people lived in Lutina. On my first day I met the Campana family: father Jean-Mathieu, mother Barbara, daughter Antonia, and son Francesco. I also met Felipe, the Colombian in charge of me and the other volunteers (known as wwoofers - the volunteers through worldwide opportunities on organic farms). After that, every few days I would find a new person - they appeared to emerge from nowhere. The French word "lutin" means "elf." Based on this derivaton and the mysterious emergence of the town's residents, my friends at the farm came up with the theory that the true residents of the town are elves who emerge from their underground homes.
One person who did not live with the elves was Paul. Along with Jean-Mathieu and Felipe, Paul ran the farm, but he lived 30 minutes away with his wife. It was not until my first Tuesday that I met Paul. Saturday and Sunday were days off and Monday we made "fromage de tete," a type of pate made from the bits of meat hanging on to the bones after the butchering of the pig. Tuesday brought us to the introduction of working with wood. Paul and Jean-Mathieu are experts in treating diseased trees, particularly chestnut trees. One method of treating the diseased trees is to chop off the diseased limbs. Paul and Jean-Mathieu sell the branches as firewood, which is a good commodity in Corsica, where it seems like everyone heats with wood. The farm had over 50 orders for the standard size of 3 cubic meters of firewood. (With 6-8 volunteers on the farm we were able to fulfill about 4 orders per week - gathering the wood from the forest and then chopping and cutting it.)
Paul is a delightful person. The morning we, the volunteers met him, he made sure to get to know a little about all 8 of us volunteers. He said that we would begin preparing the wood that day. Before we would be able to do that, though, there was a cow stuck in the cattle guard blocking the one-lane road into town. Although I was not quite sure what we would be doing, I jumped into the back of a pickup with half of the volunteers, the other volunteers jumping into the other truck. We drove a kilometer down the hill to the cattle guard, where indeed a cow had its hoof stuck in the cattle guard. On the other side of the cattle guard, waiting to come into town, were three cars from "France 3 Corse," one of the television stations. Wow, there is so little going on in Corsica that they send out tv crews to film a cow stuck in a cattle guard. (As I found out later, it turns out the tv crews were actually there to do an interview with the miller.) Behind the France 3 Corse cars was a pick-up. Behind the two wwoofer trucks, Felipe was driving one of the departing wwoofers to the train station. Behind Felipe were the baker, who made deliveries three times a week, the postman, and our neighbor Luc, who was taking his son to school. So, in this town of 20 people, at 9 am in the morning, there were 10 vehicles. Never before and never since did I see so many vehicles at once in Lutina.
Paul, Jean-Mathieu, and the wwoofers got out of the vehicles and Paul approached the gate next to the cattle guard to allow a path for the cow to exit when it broke itself free. Unfortunately for Paul, the cow broke itself free as Paul was opening the gate. The cow, disoriented, and none too happy at having been stuck in the cattle guard, saw Paul's movement and charged at him. And hit Paul and knocked him to the ground. Paul yelled, "povre moi, povre moi," and "allez-y." Seeing the raging cow, the wwoofers jumped back in the pick-ups. The cow charged into Paul again and Jean-Mathieu retrieved a sickle from the truck. The cow charged into Paul a third time and Mathieu came after the cow with the sickle and yelled at it to get away. The cow then charged at Mathieu, who backed away, and avoided the cow, which turned its attention to Paul, clutching his leg on the gound. Mathieu charged the cow again, which retreated and crossed over the cattle guard, without getting stuck. The cow passed behind one of the France 3 Corse cars and the reporter opened her door to block the cow from crossing over to Paul.
At this point, the scene seemed much safer and people emerged from their vehicles. Mathieu called his wife Barbara on his mobile phone. Felipe tended to Paul who was moaning and rocking on the ground. We moved Paul to the pick-up to clear him from he road. The France 3 Corse reporters started jaking and laughing. By this point Barbara had descended to the accident site and she let the reporters have it. This was not a joking matter - her friend was seriouly injured. She then started yelling for the cow to be shot. Although no one knew whose cow it was (there are no cows in Lutina, but most cows in the area are free range), it was clear to Barbara that the cow was crazy, dangerous, and needed to be eliminated. We held off on killing the cow, but Barbara still had fury to unleash on France 3 Corse. The reporters were out of their cars chatting and laughing, but their cars were blocking the road from the firemen (occupying the role of the American EMTs) driving in from La Porta, the "big" town of 200 4 kilometers away.
The reporters relented and backed down the hill following the pick-up. At this, the road cleared a little, and the cow started moving, approaching Lutina, and, us. By this time the cow appeared more subdued and it was not going to run up into the back of the pick-ups, the postal truck, or the bread-mobile. Anxiously, we waited in the back of our vehicles as the cow passed. It was at this moment that DeDe, the wife of the jam maker, the longest resident of Lutina, and big talker, decided to find out what the cause of the traffic jam. Seeing her approach, we all yelled get out of here, to which she responded, "quoi?" This went on for several minutes, she getting closer to us, we yelling louder. She finally heard us or saw the cow, and turned around.
At this time the firemen pulled up the hill and examined Paul. The diagnosis was that the cow was broken Paul's ACL (or another type of tissue connecting the leg muscles - my French skills were not quite good enough to figure this out exactly.) After about 30 minutes, the firetrucks pulled away with Paul inside, to take him two hours to Bastia. The rest of the vehicles dispersed and the population of Lutina decreased from about 40 down to 15.
I never saw Paul again. He was in traction for the next six weeks.
I also never saw the cow again. At some point it wandered off out of Lutina, without us noticing.
We did not start working with wood that day. Mathieu went to the hospital with Paul. Felipe had to drive to Bastia as well as Gonzalo had missed his train at Ponte Leccia and needed to catch a ferry.
Instead, I went on a hike to Ghiucatujhu, 2 kilometers away, with three other wwoofers. We needed to get away from Lutina, from the horrible site of a bloody man rolly on the ground with a cow charging at him. On our hike however, we saw cows eyeing us saw along the side of the road. We watched with anxiety. None charged at us. And so we had no more troubles with cows . . . that day.
martes, 27 de enero de 2009
To Kill A Pig
The main product on the farm in Lutina is chestnuts. However, Jean-Mathieu also has a herd of around 100 pigs. These pigs are "free-range," meaning that most of the time they roam the moutainside and they can disappear for days at a time. During those sojourns, the female pigs would mate with male sangliers. The half-breed babies born from the wild boar fathers sometimes join Jean-Mathieu's herd. If not, they remain in the woods with the sangliers and Saturdays and Sundays they have to avoid the hunters. It seems that every Corsican is a hunter - fatigues and shotguns are in everyone's closet and they come out on the weekends.
Slaughter season in Corsica lasts from November until April or May, occuring about once per week. I arrived a fews days after the first slaughter and a few days before the second. The first slaughter is a big occasion throughout the country. Corsicans wait months and months for the arrival of one of the types of sausages - figatelli - at the beginning of the season. Restaurants on the mainland bring in patrons by hanging the figatelli in the doorway and front window.
When it is time to slaughter the pigs, Mathieu rounds them up from the mountainside and gathers them into the pen. It may take several days to gather them all, especially if the sanglier are mating with the female pigs; the fierce sanglier are protective of their mating partners and don't let them leave. I got to be a pretty good pig caller at the farm. In the US, pig callers are known to say "soo-wee, soo-wee." In Corsica, there is no "soo-wee," but rather "caw-caw-caw," repeated multiple times until the pigs are rounded up to enter the pen. I mostly rounded up the porcelets, as the piglets were more easily able to stretch under the gates and were more adventuresome and mischievous. Also, they were incredible cute. The other volunteers and I tried not to get too attached to them - so we gave them names like Hitler, Pol Pot, and Sarkoszy.
After rounding up the pigs into the pen, Mathieu, his friend and neighbor Jean-Andre Lefevre, the volunteer head Felipe, and the farm oddball Gerard had to grab each pig ready for slaughter and tie it up. This was the hardest part of the slaughter process. The pigs fought against this, squealing, struggling, and running away. Although they might not have known they were about to be slaughtered, they naturally do not want to be restrained.
Slaughter season in Corsica lasts from November until April or May, occuring about once per week. I arrived a fews days after the first slaughter and a few days before the second. The first slaughter is a big occasion throughout the country. Corsicans wait months and months for the arrival of one of the types of sausages - figatelli - at the beginning of the season. Restaurants on the mainland bring in patrons by hanging the figatelli in the doorway and front window.
When it is time to slaughter the pigs, Mathieu rounds them up from the mountainside and gathers them into the pen. It may take several days to gather them all, especially if the sanglier are mating with the female pigs; the fierce sanglier are protective of their mating partners and don't let them leave. I got to be a pretty good pig caller at the farm. In the US, pig callers are known to say "soo-wee, soo-wee." In Corsica, there is no "soo-wee," but rather "caw-caw-caw," repeated multiple times until the pigs are rounded up to enter the pen. I mostly rounded up the porcelets, as the piglets were more easily able to stretch under the gates and were more adventuresome and mischievous. Also, they were incredible cute. The other volunteers and I tried not to get too attached to them - so we gave them names like Hitler, Pol Pot, and Sarkoszy.
After rounding up the pigs into the pen, Mathieu, his friend and neighbor Jean-Andre Lefevre, the volunteer head Felipe, and the farm oddball Gerard had to grab each pig ready for slaughter and tie it up. This was the hardest part of the slaughter process. The pigs fought against this, squealing, struggling, and running away. Although they might not have known they were about to be slaughtered, they naturally do not want to be restrained.
Once the pigs have been restrained, a process that may take 30 minutes, the actual slaughter is quick. The pig is tied up spread eagle with the legs above the head. Mathieu shoots the pig in the head from close range. Then he slits the throat and drains the blood, which he then uses to make blood sausage. The pig is then untied and brought to the ground. At this point the animal still looks like a pig. Then comes the flamethrower. The stench of burning flesh makes it clear that this piece of flesh before you is no longer an animal, but rather a piece of meat. One person holders the torch over the body, while another uses a shovel to scratch away the hair from the body. The nauseating smell pervades the air for what seems like an eternity, but eventually the animal is shaved and it can be restrung.
At this point Mathieu slices the belly down the middle from top to bottom and the innards bulge out. Over the next few hours he meticulously cuts, sorts, and cleans the organs. Some will be marinated, cooked, and eaten. This meant many meals of lung and testicles for me when I was on the farm. Other organs are used to make sausage - the famous figatelli. When the body is gutted, the head and legs are removed and then the cuts of meat are prepared. These are sold to friends and at markets, or bartered for other goods and services.
The next full day is spent preparing sausages, some of which are cured for days or longer.
In my last day on the farm we had a barbecue of pig ribs made from the pig slaughtered the day before. Even though I don't like eating pig, the fresh ribs were delicious. I had not eaten pig for about 10 years before arriving in Lutina. The taste of swine usually sickens me. In fact, after eating almost nothing but pig for several days on the farm I was laid out in my bed for about 24 hours. While the pig served on the farm was tasty, I do not plan on eating pig again any time soon. Daily helpings of pancetta and lung are too much for me.
Far worse than the slaughter of the pig was the castration. The males are castrated some time between reaching adulthood and slaughter. The castration makes them grow faster and improves the taste of the meat (as the hormones can alter the meat's taste). Also, it can lessen hostility among the male pigs. The process of castration is the same as for the slaughter up to the point of stringing up the pig. Instead of shooting the pig, Mathieu, takes a knife and slices off the relevant areas. This is done with no drugs for the pig, so it squeals and struggles during the whole process. The squeals make me squirm because I don't want to think about what the pig is losing and the pain it is suffering. Surprisingly, within 15 minutes after the pig is released it seems to have adjusted to its state, expressing no pain or discomfort and resuming its place in the pen.
The evening of each slaughter, Jean-Mathieu goes to the pub to celebrate. The pub is in the town of Ghiucatujhu, 2 kilometers from Lutina, and only opens for about four hours a night. Being in the pub is a true Corsican experience. Men and women of all age groups gather and discuter beaucoup. Unlike some areas in the Mediterranean, it is common for women to visit the bars. Amid the smoke and pastisse, four men play cards together. The game is not known to me. For four hours, the slaughterers drink together to celebrate, or perhaps to forget about the trauma of the slaughter. Mathieu is extremely professional in all he does. Regarding the slaughter he says, "c'est la vie." He understands that in order for us to eat, these animals will die. He kills the pigs quickly and with the least amount of pain possible.
miércoles, 21 de enero de 2009
Two famous Corsicans
The Mediterranean island of Corsica has two famous sons, one better known than the other. The lesser known is Pascal Paoli (pronounced "pow-lee"), the father of Corsican independence. Corsica was ruled throughout history by the French, the Genoese, and other Italians. In the second half of the 18th Century Paoli led the Corsican movement for independence from the Genoese. Paoli, from the town of Morasaglia, about 30 minutes by car from Lutina (site of my farm), was as much a political philosopher as a fighter. After obtaining independence from the Genoese, the Corsicans adopted Paoli's constitution, the most democratic constitution at that time. In fact, today Corsicans insist that Paoli wrote US Constitution. This is an overstatement, although America's founding fathers did look to the Corsican constitution for inspiration in drafting the US Constitution. Paoli's influence in the US is evident in towns named Paoli (pronounced "pay-oh-lee"), including the Paoli in suburban Philly near where I grew up and in Oklahoma not far from my grandmother's. Unfortunately, the Corsican Constitution did not last very long, as France took over Corsica ten years after it obtained independence from the Genoese. Genoa never acknowledged Corsica's independence, and in a political move transferred it to France. French troops moved in and Corsica has remained part of France for nearly 250 years.
The political moves that resulted in French rule in Corsica paved the way for Corsica's second and more famous favorite son. Napoleon was born in Corsica's largest town, Ajaccio. Throughout Corsica there are streets, plazas, and buildings named for both Napoleon and Paoli. For Corsicans, Paoli is the better regarded of the two. There are tourist sites devoted to Napoleon, but the island's relationship with the Emperor is conflicted. I was trying to figure out when Napoleon's birthday was and what festivals Ajaccio had for the anniversary and I was told that that day was a great day. I asked for whom that was a great day, and the Frenchman told me that it was a great day . . . for Napoleon.
The political moves that resulted in French rule in Corsica paved the way for Corsica's second and more famous favorite son. Napoleon was born in Corsica's largest town, Ajaccio. Throughout Corsica there are streets, plazas, and buildings named for both Napoleon and Paoli. For Corsicans, Paoli is the better regarded of the two. There are tourist sites devoted to Napoleon, but the island's relationship with the Emperor is conflicted. I was trying to figure out when Napoleon's birthday was and what festivals Ajaccio had for the anniversary and I was told that that day was a great day. I asked for whom that was a great day, and the Frenchman told me that it was a great day . . . for Napoleon.
jueves, 15 de enero de 2009
Two babies
In leaving Asia I stopped in Singapore for a few days to visit some friends. I met Debbie Lee about 18 years ago at nerd camp - we spent one high school summer taking classes at a college campus. Debbie is Singaporean, but was living in DC at the time because her dad, a government employee, was stationed in the States. Since then we have remained friends, even attending University together for a year at University of Michigan. After Debbie's year in Ann Arbor she moved to London to attend medical school. In her studies she met a British bloke, Jon Gifford, who has since become her husband. After living and working in the UK for a few years after finishing medical school, she and Jon moved to Singapore in the last year. The move to Singapore coincided with the birth of the couples' first son James Gifford. James has large, dark, intense saucer eyes and soft brown hair. He lives with his parents and grandparents, auntie Pat and uncle Lionel in a three-bedroom flat in S'pore. This is the same flat I visited when I first traveled to Singapore in Christmas 1996 (breaking my mother's heart to miss Christmas with her for the first time ever). James is an adorable child and is fortunate to live with two doting parents and two doting grandparents.
Another friend couple of mine has a life course that has intersected with the Giffords. I went to law school with Matt Easter. During law school, Matt was dating Alice, whom he met in college. Matt and Alice married the week after we graduated from law school. After practicing in New York for a short time, Matt entered the foreign service and was sent to China. Matt and Alice returned to DC to work at the State Department, but have now been sent to Singapore, Alice now working for the embassy as well. Matt and Alice are both very interested in China and these assignments have been great matches for them. Alice arrived in Singapore pregnant, and slightly before Matt.
I put the Easters in touch with Debbie, whose pregnancy was slightly prior to Alice's. They are both Christian couples in their late 20s/early 30s, professionals, and have young babies. Sara Easter was born in Singapore a few months after James Gifford. Sara is a sweet little girl. The three Easters came over to the Lee-Giffords and we all enjoyed tea together thanks to the generous hospitality of auntie Pat and the household. Auntie Pat and uncle Lionel get very excited with the babies in the house and are very welcoming. My short visit to Singapore was a great time to visit friends familiar and new.
Another friend couple of mine has a life course that has intersected with the Giffords. I went to law school with Matt Easter. During law school, Matt was dating Alice, whom he met in college. Matt and Alice married the week after we graduated from law school. After practicing in New York for a short time, Matt entered the foreign service and was sent to China. Matt and Alice returned to DC to work at the State Department, but have now been sent to Singapore, Alice now working for the embassy as well. Matt and Alice are both very interested in China and these assignments have been great matches for them. Alice arrived in Singapore pregnant, and slightly before Matt.
I put the Easters in touch with Debbie, whose pregnancy was slightly prior to Alice's. They are both Christian couples in their late 20s/early 30s, professionals, and have young babies. Sara Easter was born in Singapore a few months after James Gifford. Sara is a sweet little girl. The three Easters came over to the Lee-Giffords and we all enjoyed tea together thanks to the generous hospitality of auntie Pat and the household. Auntie Pat and uncle Lionel get very excited with the babies in the house and are very welcoming. My short visit to Singapore was a great time to visit friends familiar and new.
miércoles, 14 de enero de 2009
Luang Prabang
When I left Cambodia, I was thinking I should have scheduled my itinerary to give me more time in Cambodia and to skip Laos. I was really enjoying myself and there were more things Iwanted to see. After one day in Luang Prabang, I was sold on Laos. After spending 10 days there, I was still not ready to leave.
Luang Prabang was an old emperial capital and is still home to the largest number of Buddhist monks and monasteries in the world. Because of this rich heritage it is protected as a UNESCO World Heritage site. It is set on a peninsula along the Mekong River and mountain ranges ring the city. According to friends, five years ago Luang Prabang was untouristed. Today, there are plenty of Internet cafes, travel agencies, and English-speaking restaurants. However, the town still retains its charm and lovely, laidback pace. The Buddhist monasteries and the rivers give the town its character.
One friend, a Korean diplomat, recounts a saying from the region: The nicest Vietnamese is still meaner than the meanest Laotian. This is not to say that the Vietnamese are mean, but to distinguish the incredible hospitality of the Laotians. Little agitates the Laotians I met - smiles and patience are typical. Even in negotiating in the market, their character is quite distinguishable from their neighbors. In Vietnam, the vendors approach you and call out to you. The starting negotiating price is often at least twice the fair market value. Negotiations can be heated and confrontational. If you say no, the vendors will chase after you and give you a discount. In Laos, you have to approach the vendors. The starting price is about 30% above fair market value and if you walk away, the vendors wish you a good night, but don't try to press the sale.
The location provides stunning sunsets and sunrises. Before sunrise, the monks gather at their monasteries. Each monastery then processes into town and joins a long procession of all of the monasteries. Each monk carries a food bowl and people kneel on the side of the street and put bananas and sticky rice in the bowls. Locals sell rice and bananas to the tourists and because of the large number of tourists the bowls overflow, so that the monks end up emptying out the entire contents of their bowls as they process.
Because of Luang Prabang's location, many of the activities revolve around the river and the mountains. My two favorite activities were riding the elephant and kayaking on the Mekong. The elephants have retired after 40-50 years of carrying cargo and now give rides to tourists. They are large, but still smaller than African elephants. I rode on the head, grabbing the ears, feeling the bristly skin, feeling every movement as it plodded through the jungle and the river.
In kayaking down the river I saw the daily life of the Laotians. Fishermen threw their nets. Families harvested rice in the paddies. It was so peaceful and lovely - each turn brought a new vista. There was no schedule, no billable minutes, no breakdown of the subway, no mobile phone. Only mountains, the river, the boat, and me. I enjoyed my last experience in Laos, but I didn't want my time there to end.
Luang Prabang was an old emperial capital and is still home to the largest number of Buddhist monks and monasteries in the world. Because of this rich heritage it is protected as a UNESCO World Heritage site. It is set on a peninsula along the Mekong River and mountain ranges ring the city. According to friends, five years ago Luang Prabang was untouristed. Today, there are plenty of Internet cafes, travel agencies, and English-speaking restaurants. However, the town still retains its charm and lovely, laidback pace. The Buddhist monasteries and the rivers give the town its character.
One friend, a Korean diplomat, recounts a saying from the region: The nicest Vietnamese is still meaner than the meanest Laotian. This is not to say that the Vietnamese are mean, but to distinguish the incredible hospitality of the Laotians. Little agitates the Laotians I met - smiles and patience are typical. Even in negotiating in the market, their character is quite distinguishable from their neighbors. In Vietnam, the vendors approach you and call out to you. The starting negotiating price is often at least twice the fair market value. Negotiations can be heated and confrontational. If you say no, the vendors will chase after you and give you a discount. In Laos, you have to approach the vendors. The starting price is about 30% above fair market value and if you walk away, the vendors wish you a good night, but don't try to press the sale.
The location provides stunning sunsets and sunrises. Before sunrise, the monks gather at their monasteries. Each monastery then processes into town and joins a long procession of all of the monasteries. Each monk carries a food bowl and people kneel on the side of the street and put bananas and sticky rice in the bowls. Locals sell rice and bananas to the tourists and because of the large number of tourists the bowls overflow, so that the monks end up emptying out the entire contents of their bowls as they process.
Because of Luang Prabang's location, many of the activities revolve around the river and the mountains. My two favorite activities were riding the elephant and kayaking on the Mekong. The elephants have retired after 40-50 years of carrying cargo and now give rides to tourists. They are large, but still smaller than African elephants. I rode on the head, grabbing the ears, feeling the bristly skin, feeling every movement as it plodded through the jungle and the river.
In kayaking down the river I saw the daily life of the Laotians. Fishermen threw their nets. Families harvested rice in the paddies. It was so peaceful and lovely - each turn brought a new vista. There was no schedule, no billable minutes, no breakdown of the subway, no mobile phone. Only mountains, the river, the boat, and me. I enjoyed my last experience in Laos, but I didn't want my time there to end.
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