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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Plain of Jars

The town of Phonsavan, Laos has nothing of interest for the traveler. It is cold and gray (bring layers). The buildings are all concentrated on the town's two roads and have the unappealing architecture of the 1960s Communist style. There are two restaurants in town. The ATM went in just a few months ago and the Internet cafe stays open only as long as there are customers, closing usually by 5:30 (and not 10 as noted on the sign).

Just outside of town, though, are the visit-worthy collection of archeological sites known as the Plain of Jars. The "jars" are stone vessels the size of a man. I stood inside The jars are made from stone quarried five miles away. It is believed that they were hollowed out and decorated using stone tools, since metal tools were not available at the time of creation. There are three sites near Phonsavan that each contain hundreds of jars. These sites are collectively known as the Plain of Jars. Only portions of the sites are open to visitors because areas proximate to the sites contain unexploded ordnances. The approved path is lined with white and red markers: the white side indicates that it is safe to walk; the red side indicates that the area has not yet been deemed clear of live explosives left by US forces during the Vietnam War. There are other sites with jars that are currently closed to visitors because they have not been cleared.

The jars date back some 3,000 years, but their purpose is unclear. One theory is that the residents used the vessels to store rice. This is ridiculous because nomadic populations wouldn't store rice in enormous quantities in inaccesible locations in jars that would require enormous efforts to create. A second theory is that the jars were used for funerary purposes. Given the importance of funerary practices in human cultures, this is a plausible theory. However, there has been no evidence of human remains found in the jars. A third theory is that there was another religious purpose for the jars, which is another plausible explanation.

The jars are located in seemingly random formations. But they are set in lovely landscapes. Also, they are display interesting designs. It is worth the 10-hour one-way bus ride to Phonsavan from either Luang Prabang or Vientiane.

Languages spoken

On this trip I have spoken an impressive number of languages, sometimes out of necessity and sometimes out of courtesy, namely, the following:

Afrikaans
Bahasa Malaya
Breton
Corsican
English
Estonian
French
German
Italian
Ixil
Kakquichel
Khmer
Krio
Korean
Lao
Mam
Quiche
Spanish
Thai
Vietnamese

What language is next?

Siem Reap

The best thing I have seen so far in this set of travels is the Angkor grouping of temples. The Khmer rulers constructed these temples during the height of their power, approximately 1000 years ago. As Hindusim and Buddhism each enjoyed periods of dominance in the Khmer kingdom, some of the temples are dedicated to one religion, some to the other, and some contain imagery from both. The temples are particularly impressive because of they are largely intact and are mounumental in scale. There are dozens of major sites spread across approximately 60 kilometers.

Archaeologists have allowed the elements to take over certain sites. This practice is best known in the ruins featured in the movie Tomb Raider. The archaeologists made this conscious choice in order to show visitors the state of the temples when they were rediscovered in the last century. Silk trees are firmly rooted in the crumbling stone walls.

The best-known of the sites is Angkor Wat. It is the most visited site in Cambodia. You approach Angkor Wat by walking on a causeway over a moat. Beyond the outer entry temple are impressive gardens. Two reflecting pools in front of the inner area offer stunning views of the reflected towers at sunset and sunrise. At 5 am sunrise 500 Brits, Germans, Russians, and Japanese jockey for position in front of the left reflecting pool.

Beyond the pools, a set of stairs leads to the outer four sides of collonaded arcades with incredible relief sculptures from Hindu mytholody. It took me over an hour to make my way through the reliefs. The interior courtyard contains five temples, one at each of the four cardinal points, and one in the middle. This layout represents a complete realization of the geography of Hindu mythology. The stone towers resemble stylized beehives with incredibly detailed, ornate decoration.

My favorite temple was in Angkor Thom. It consisted of several dozen towers, the top of each which featured a six-foot tall human male head on each of the four sides. The heads are not immediately noticeable, but as I approached closer I saw them and became fascinated with them, spending nearly two hours exploring the site.

Along with the human heads I was particularly interested in the elephants, and soldiers in line on bridges before temples, found throughout multiple sites.

River festival

Each year in mid-November, Cambodia celebrates a three-day river festival. This festival follows the independence day on November 8, which marks the independence of Cambodia from the French colonial government. The main celebration takes place in the capital Phnom Penh and Cambodians come from all over the country to celebrate. The city of 4 million welcomes 2 million visitors for the river festival. During the day teams of men compete in boat races down the Mekong. The longboats are filled with up to 80 men, in two rows, all dressed in identical single-colored uniforms. These men come from the same region or village and travel with family and neighbors who cheer them on during the river festival. With the power of 80 men rowing in unison the boats move quite quickly through the water.



Along the banks of the Mekong hawkers sell balloons, toys, and food. On the first day of the festival I saw a military truck pull up to a group of hawkers and grab the wares off the back of the tuk-tuks (motorbikes with a carriage bolted to the back). Those who were able to get their bikes started rode away without suffering too much loss, but others with engine troubles saw all of their wares go to the thirsty soldiers.



At night, the river plays host to a parade. 20-foot tall floats of light power up the river to the delight of the millions of spectators on both sides. In the background fireworks light up the sky. Elsewhere in the city there are concerts and other celebrations. The first night I watched a concert presented by the Christian humanitarian organization World Vision. It seemed like the performers were well-known Cambodian pop stars. Since my Khmer language skills are poor, I couldn't really tell you much about the concert.