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.