Islands

I lucked the heck out! I was invited by a polyphony singer to what I thought was going to be a concert. Turns out she had invited me to observe her group's private practice and the process of their new accompanist on the Violin and Cello compose their music. This group is entitled Isulatine and is one of only a couple ALL female groups. The practice was held in a small church, great accoustics. The group is about to put out a CD (I have ordered one) and they sound remarkable. The practice started at eight and I took in this creative process until around 1 in the morning when they finally called quits. It was a great oppertunity to get some up close artsy photographs and to ask questions about the music lifestyle. An intimate peak into the behind the scenes of this music! I was glad that their was a band dog also that kept me company in the back of the FREEzing church....Anyhoo....I am getting ready to leave my comfertable little paradise here.....beware I have been islandafied....

tonight, a bar celebrating it's 80th anniversary....more music.....

gotta run....just had a quick minute to jot.....

Posted by Teagan Walden at 11:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

please excuse the typos due to the french keyboard and time is alot of money in this cafe.

so i have been propelling around the island; the reality of the end sinking in and inspiring movement and motivation.

a busy few days in corte with multiple concerts, the most immpressionable was a three generation polyphony performance. Three groups performed; the first was a group of nervous; akward students who once they started; the eerie beauty broke through their gymn clothes and i even cried durring one small boys solo. The other group was 12 middle age handsome men, their music certianly a contrast to that of the first: soon they were joined by some elders, more traditional country folk songs: the end was a moving series of chants and solos where all the young and old embraced themselves in a huddle/circle, then each had a chance to lead the group, at this point the whole audience stood:

i was formely invited to attend an african dance and music party put on by the small african community in town; traditional clothes; drums and dance. i shook it like no other; my shoes got accidently stolen by one of the female dancers; i admit the gold sandles matched her outfit, but but but.........

i hiked way up into the mountain belly....climbed a tree and belted out songs to the back up of granite echo; the tree was a critic, tossed me out of it from 13ft up. I stumbled home with bloody knees and a swollen ankle!! i have learned how to say i fell out of a tree in french; very useful. mom, i am fine just a little humbled.

so i have headed to the south of the island for some sun and camping. Found some somewhat sad and decrepit towns fading away on heavenly beaches and cliffs: Illegally camped; was woke up by young good looking policeman who laughed at my broken french story winked, then pointed me in the direction of an abandoned shepards hut that would be safer and more hidden. Found a legal campsite a few nights later, the owner owned the beach and tons of rolling wildflower exploding hills: he offered me a drink and said pick anywhere, i was the only camper: later i found out he is a retired bandit, he told stories of war and hiding, i beleived him because he looked as if life had thrown him a few, he growled his words and carried a petite old pistol: he tried to get me to stay and help him paint, fix up the place for the tourists; he was prepared to pay well: i met one of his workers, a goofy overalled frenchman who said he would take me to see the prehistoric monuments instead and urged me to keep moving: this frenchman was forty five and for the past 25( years had been travelling all over europe, he even walked across morrocco: he played me his flute and lead the way to menhirs and ruins i wouldnt have seen otherwise. we talked travel and life choices all the juice and regret or lack there of sprouting from an off the beaten path lifestyle. I adored him and was sad when he set me on my way; a map and cd in pocket:

Was picked up in Sartene by a deaf german with a rental car, spoke perfect english and we drove to The southernmost point; climbed huge boulders live with horned beetles and trickster lime green lizards taunting you with thier vibrance as they vanish into trap doors in the mountin

came to bonafacio and my love for this island has just been soaked with gasoline and set wildly aflame; this is the most striking lanscape and town i have encountered yet: i will tell more when i return to the university and have more time:

i am about to experience corsicas roots it is good friday and i am heading to the most famous of ancient spiral processions

the goods will be acoming

Posted by Teagan Walden at 11:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

Music festival hit Corte this last week. The whole town was a buzz as a series of carnival tents were constructed at the base of the mountains right where the two "rage'n" rivers meet. The festival was a combination of musicians and artists from the mainland of France, Morroco and of course local Corsicans. The outcome was of remarkable success yet not without the tension of Corsican's power to sternly seperate themselves.

The most bold example of the tension was visually displayed on one of the main walls of the University. The day before the festival, artists busily painted over a 50 ft wall where Corsican Nationalist Graffitti was splattered most half hazardly. The painting was in preperation of some visiting artsits, a team of 8, who would produce a new mural for the wall. Durring the two days of the festival these artists worked hours on end with a wild array of spraypaint colors producing images of mountains, dragons, and other creations with expert careful hands. The whole display was supported by a DJ blasting music as a small crowd danced and children got down and dirty with tons of pastels and large pieces of construction paper. I would walk by every few hours durring the day and watch the progression of this intracite mural. This piece however drasticly different from anything I had seen on the island and not at all in harmony with how the Corsican's graffitti their towns. The imagery full of vibrant color and with a richness seemingly not appreciated elsewhere on the island, it was art for art's sake and lacked a connection with corsica.

I wondered how the Corsican's would recieve such a gift after I found out that none of the Artists were from the island.

My main interest durring this festival was but of course the strange buffet of music that was presented in all the cafe's and glorious carnival tents. I headed out the first night with my camerea and recording equipment and started in on the maze of shows hidden in petite cafes.

The first was a drumming group with a wild african dancer. This was an enthusiastic group but only watched by a small group of obvious outsiders. I wanted to find what the Corsicans were watching.

My second cafe gave me just this. After spotting an eccentric Corsican Polyphony singer who I adored for her bitter harshness. I followed her into a crowded room blaring with the familiar accordian and fiddle of the more french influenced harmonies. The room was sticky and smoky, but the harsh Corsican faces were radiant with laughter as children danced wildly and everyone was clapping along. The saxaphone player teased the air with his blares and the singer with sad droopy eyes sang with a circus flare. They allowed me to photograph them however, recordings were not appreciated. Durring this performance an interesting addition showed up towering outside the door. A group of French and Russian Stilt Walking Clowns (who later I would become quite close to) strutted up the street. I noticed that alot of students abandoned the music, along with some of the other foriegners, however most the corsicans sat, loyal to the music. I was torn but didn't have to wait long for the stilts performers decided to take their oppertunity and enter the tiny cafe! I couldn't beleive it as these monsterous figures entered the space not fit for the the people already in. The eccentric polyphony singer glared at them as she tried to keep them out. This was a distraction to the music and their comedy act was not completely appreciated. I loved it however, wildly snapping photos and curious how the musicians would respond. The drummer stopped but the accordian squeeked and sqwalled with appropriate sounds of chaos.

A child began to hysterically cry and the stilts retreated back out to the now darkening streets of evening.

The clapping resumed again but the mood in the room had changed and some seemed upset by the ridiculous intrusion. Certianly there were different vibes flying about, some enjoying the un-island-esque festivities while others preffered to sip their drinks uninvolved.

The music ended and I jumped quickly out of that place, following the stilts to the next stage of music. This was just a man with a guitar who sang requests, he was backed up by two half hearted bong players. They let me record and I sat back observing as the room thickened with a diverse crowd. Requests were mainly for french songs that everyone seemed to know and enthusiasticly sang along with the man. A few english songs were sang but with a certian sarcasm I didn't know whether to take as insulting..hehehe...

This act faded into a female singer, who was rudely ignored, her voice not able to compete with the crowd growing slowly more wild. I recorded her for a bit but agreed she lacked the umph.

I recorded a Corsican chant and then it was time to head across town to the tents where CANTU POPLI CORSE - the most notorious polyphony group on the island was getting ready to rock. I was thrilled and giddy, I was so lucky to hear these legends (and for free!) I made my way down and was surprised to see the large tent overflowing with people. It seemed the whole town was out, old ladies sat with their partners, tons of Corsicans (the most I had seen in one place) along with the whole student body. This was truly the act of the night. I switched on my recorder and pushed my way through the swelling crowd. I decided to ignore glares and crept right up front kneeling before the stage displaying a huge moors head flag. The music had already started and I was overwhelemed by the size of the group 9 singers in all! a fiddler, an accordian, three guitar players, a couple bases, the group was huge and glorious! All extremely handsome, middle age men swaying to the hypnotizing music. This group was considered a modern polyphony group, more rock than the simple acoustic chants. I was knocked off my feet! There were two main chanters, backed up by the 7 others, all had one hand pressed against their ear as they harmonized and belted out the delicious sounds of Corsica. I almost forgot to take photos as the music slipped into my being. This was something quite powerful, definetly different than the small chants with guitars by fires in local bars.

The crowd was right there with them, every song accompanied by claps, whistles and I dreamily watched the proud and happy faces of the locals, whole families wooing over the handsome musicians.

You could feel the radiant energy in the tent and I danced hollered and with paranoia kept checking my recorder, I wanted this all on tape. They played away for hours, and after they stopped the crowd chanted for more and they returned again with a song I had heard many times before, a song that through this group had begin to become somewhat a national anthem. The lights splattered these men with hues of blue, purple and red, the tent packed with a overflow outside, ears pressed close to the outside - no one was missing this event.

After this group which really impressed me, leaving me exhilerated and in awe - I had witnessed the pulsing heart of the music of corsica today. I noticed that all the elderly couple slipped away, smiling and heading home, soon all that remained seemed to be a few of the younger corsicans (not alot) and a whole slew of the foriegn students and artists. The music went on until sun rise. Different groups blasting away in different tents connected by glowing trails of white lights.

I recorded, danced and became aquainted with the clowns and performers. They were here just for the festival, first time in Corsica. Felt welcome but certianly a strange enviroment. They were primarliy here to entertain the children, which I was fortunate enought to seem them do the next day. All the schools had been let out to come and observe the art and festivities. The first time since my arrival that the streets were busy and all the bakeries open, even through the dead hours of siesta.

The music continued and I attended some lectures on Tourism (all in french but I got some out of it all) and picked up tons of information on the enviromental issues of Corsica and signed some petitions protecting birds (I guess as a student I could participate!).

The festival left the town dead (I left for an escape to Italy for a few days which would be a whole 30 pages I will spare for stories when I return home). Soon after the festival the politics of the town heated up. Two days after the mural had been finished, a gift to Corte, Nationalist demolished it, repainting most of it white and replacing the crude sketches of Pasqual Paoli and Nationalist expressions. A protest by students demanding more Coriscan to be spoken at the university was met by tear gas throwing french police. (I was away in Italy but was told that I wouldn't have been able to photo anyway...I would have been attacked).

The festival was put on by the University and was one of the most lively things to hit Corte in a long time. While appreciated by the buisnesses and students, an air of disaproval, evident in the destruction of art left behind shows a certian disregard for outside influences. Strange....I try not to judge harshly but wonder how a town can let a small yet powerful group of extreme nationalist reflect the whole attitiude of the town. I know the loudest voices are not a the majority and am confused at the tension.

Tomorow night I attend another polyphony performance....I can hardly wait to get more wonderful recordings and to observe the power of music to transform people....it truly is the main outlet for people here and they embrace it with the enthusiasm I think such art deserves. participant observers is every person when music is concerned here.

I will write more soon as I gather my notes and get some more interviews....... I am floating in a mass of bizzare experiences and can hardly contain my joy at the wonders I have been discovering.

Posted by Teagan Walden at 11:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

The island has been pulsing with intensity due to the upcoming elections this month. Corsican's are experts at putting up fliers, faces of politions peer out of every corner and on every tree, dramaticly framed by nationalist posters of blaring reds and the trademark moore's head of bold black. The local movie theater has been transformed into a meeting place of the community, mobs of suited middle age men making loud statements in Corsican to ever increasing crowds. The bars have become more crowded, tables covered with political propoganda and there is undeniable tension in the air.

A visit to the large village of Ajjacio proved to reveal an even deeper emotion. Meetings gaurded by armed police forces, students wearing the Corsican emblem flags like capes parade around the National Palaces.

In the spirit of such political festivity I have decided to gain a much stronger understanding of the progression of polititcs on the island.

Corsica is home to the first democratic constitution of independance in the whole world!!!!!!!!

A political leader, Pasqual Paoli (The university I am at was created by this man and holds his name), wrote up his first drafts of a statement of independence for Corsica as early as 1755. He came to power after Corsica had been battling the Geonese for independence for 42 years of intensive resistance. Giving a voice to the rebel patriots, he created a document that was an advanced political philosophy never attempted admists the absolute monarchs of the time.

This document, refined over time - became a complete decleration, thirty two years before the U.S. When speaking to a French student here in Corte from the mainland, he was shocked to learn of the Corsican Independance, for in his mainland education it had never been mentioned. This document which was the bases for the likes of French documents to come.

It makes since that this constituion was so succesful here on Corsica, because of the Corsican political temperment. Every position declared by election, every man over the age of 25 voting (unique for the time). The start of a liberal goverment. "Here representative democracy was tried out, decades before the French and American revolutions, in conditions that denied all the princely heritage of Europe." (Carrington).

It is extremely evident that politics are taken with serious, heavy hearts. The Corsican's ideals, principles that they have forever held instinctually are easily integrated into political representation. I have observed how the communities here represent a real practicing society acting on ideas of freedom, sovereignty of people, arbitrarty authority, abscence of privellege (power structures), that other places only write and talk about.

I have grown accustomed to the seemingly bland surrounding of simplistic archetecture and city design. As an american I find it extremely exotic, however in comparison to other European structures the houses, citadels and cities scream function. While researching the politics I have found statements made by leaders declaring, "We need neither scultpors or jewellers, but carpenters and blacksmiths!". Urban life was fought against, and still is, the battle for a simple life. Politicians today are still discussing the advantages of improving buildings and expanding villes. Free, sturdy men working from the soil, not dependent on outside forces, operating their "administration" from their own mountain.

"Idle Arts!".....I have come to realize that despite music, there are not alot of extravagent art communities on this island. Painters, photographers and other artists create representations of.....the island and island life. While visiting a historical museum in Ajjacio I stumbled across a well advertised art exhibition. A majority of the musuem had been closed and transformed (as is a common theme on Corisca, spaces serving multiple puroposes) into a Gallery for a 75 year old Corsican painter. Propped up against displays of First Empire pottery and Napolean garbe lay 60 or so large paintings. Each one of Corsican scenery, those recognizable cliffs and crumbling towers, and of Corsican life. I began talking to the woman sitting at the desk of the gallery, telling her why I was on the island etc. She became excited and grabbing my hand pulled me into a room I had not entered and there before me lay half a dozen large paintings of Polyphonie singers. Their stance,one hand over the ear, is distinct. After admiring the emotion in the paintings the women revealed that she was the artist. I became excited and started asking her questions as we paraded aroud the gallery, I kept pointing to different pieces inquiring about where, who, why? I learned that the paintings of people were mainly her family (Surpise Surprise). A few from memory, like one of a women in traditional costume hunched over a river, she told me it was her grandmother doing laundry in the river before running water was a commoditiy. While I enjoyed these paintings they were all extremely funtional, almost illustrations to a book about Corsica, lacking the artistic flare I so enjoy in art.

I am discovering that to some degree even the music here is like that, each song has it's function in island life.

It is tres bizarre to be in such a rich culture, but one which values function over flare and is truly centered on their existance on this island.

I apologize for jumping around with my subjects, I have so much soaring through my mind and have been attempting to digest such complicated issues in these past weeks. The more this island reveals to me the more I become aware of it's contradicitons. There is no clear statement on any issue to be made, and as an outsider my judgements and interpretations are constantly put to test.

I headed this entry beginning with the word Racism. This has been a huge issue I have been exploring recently inspired by startling Graffiti. I had started photographing the graffiti of the island, a unique surface for political statement. Also an art which serves it's function and has none of the intricate designs or talents seen in other parts of the world.

So I was observing these writings and came across some bold statements which translated to ARABS GO HOME, or DOWN WITH THE ARABS, or MOROCAINS DON'T BELONG!

I have been fortunate to have become quite close to the student arab community here in Corte and have discussed quite passionatley with them the effects of such an attitude. Corsican's while liberal in there political philosophys, and while screaming liberation and freedom have deep rooted racism. They (and certianly not all ) are not accepting of any other race.

While walking with a Morrocain friend I witnessed first hand such taught hatred as a young girl passed with her mother. The young girl grabbed he mom's skirt, pointing at my friend, screaming Terrorist Terrorist! The mother just kept walking and never even glanced at us.

The Corsican women I met blamed foriegners for the divorce on the island.

This is not a one sided issue and it becomes even harder to judge when one knows the history of abuse by foriegners to the island, and how Nationalism requires solidarity and a strong community.

I am aksing alot of questions and trying not to impose my experiences on any of this. I will start to gather the pieces of this puzzle and hopefully understand how a community can proudly display Graffiti screaming FREEDOM and LIBERTY next to that of ARABS GET OUT!

A music festival is to be here in Corte for the next three days....perfect for my study, along with conferences about island tourism, and Nationalist strategies. I plan to be an acitve participant.

Island life.....! Whew...getting into the thick of it all!

Posted by Teagan Walden at 11:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

So this third week I have started to feel the effects of insular life. The slow pace of the Corsican culture eating into my being and attacking my sense of productivity. Lightening storms and snow greeting my hopeful waking eyes. The stagnance of Corte, my base mountain town, eating away at my motivation - routine making even the most magnificant mountain hazy in a knowing eye. So alas I decided to fight the mondane....risk facing head on with nature's fury and embark on a exploration of the unknown. Bags packed, train scheduled I was off to the coast ville of L'isle Rousse! Arrived with the blazing sun, spat out at a station right on the shore, a flavor of brighter days to come. Floating on freedom I enjoy one of my few hot meals on the island and celebrate with a glass of wine. Immediatly this village stood out from my previous experiences, people smiled genuinly and I couldn't get away with lifting my bag without someone offering assistance and a symphathetic grin. I paraded around this town floating on the kindess (maybe a little wine too). The whole ville framed by a white sand beach and on either side two ruins of Geonese towers. I headed first for the furthest, massive hill revealed a private beach with an abandoned hut below the cliffs. Glowing with midday warmth I was drawn to this spot, sliding down granite slabs to this special hidden hideaway. I watched snails, snapped to many pictures and enjoyed hours of hiking with not a soul in site. The other side of the ville offered ruins which actually had two stories, climbing crumbling stairwells I ate lunch in this ancient abode watching the sun set as the town scrambled about below. L'isle Rousse like most of this island had no hotels to offer rooms, the month before tourist season is dedicated to repairs and holliday for the owners. I reluctantly boarded the NIGHT TRAIN for Calvi (the more frequented and known of the beach towns). Feeling wild and inspired by Jack Kerouak I slept on the beach, wrote lyrics by the moonlight and woke with the sun,sand in hair to explore this town. The most entertaining Citadel with every entrance to the mazes of canals and walkways open, climbing narrow stairwells and scaling towering lookouts, red sheets dramaticly flying in the wind of an otherwise abandoned network of walkways. Calvi also had the feel of preperation for the coming attack of foreign invaders (tourists like myself), hotels being splashed with fresh coats of bright color schemes so appropriate for the Medditeranean sun. Late that afternoon I sat on a bench watching old men roll ciggarettes and women pushing the most fashionable little babies in massive stroller contraptions. I had to make a decision. Stay another night on the beach or head to Bastia, one of the larger towns for some supplies I needed and a museum. I decided in the theme of Destiny to flip a coin. Heads Bastia (becasue it was certianly the more sensible course) and tails (Beach Bum heaven! The season had not started and miles of beach was abandoned and for the taking!). The first flip revealed heads, damn (eyeing the glorious picturesque banks of the sea) "Best two out of three" I say out loud, "no disrespect Destiny!"...Second flip revealed another shiny head, so it was decided....Bastia here I come.

On the train I have the great fortune of being joined by a large, loud, and proud Corsican Nationalist who on discovering my American heritiage stood up on his imaginary soap box, fist pounding the air, and lectured, lectured lectured. Mind you, all in Corsican, I was able to pick out political figures names, dates and an occasional obvious bash on France and the likes of other powers. In the heat of the moment he grabs my hand and demands I scream LIBERTY ; "Dit liberte! Dit Liberte maintanant!" I stare him down with a matched intensity and invoking the bluesy snarl I love so much I hurled out an enthusiastic and low LIBERTE! Previous to this I had calmly observed his antics and was desperatly trying to understand.....he seemed satisfied and a little taken back...sat down for a minute before starting up again.

I was amused and only slightly intimidated. Fortunatly two Elderly women in the back of the same car come and sit by me. Both in their late 60's maybe even 70's. The hush the man and then ask in French where I am heading...I say Bastia, they inquire about my accomodation, I shrug, not sure. Immediatly they eye a woman near by who then comes over and translates in English for me (so that there would be no confusion) The two woman ask for you two stay at their house tonight, outside of Bastia, they will take you to the train station in the morning. I turned suprised to the women, one glares at the tyrant of a man next to me, and follows it with a sweet "Corsican Hospitality!". I saw no harm in two old women and gratefully accept. At their stop we get off and I am soon to find they speak no English and preffer Corsican over French.

A long drive up into the hills form the train station reveals a large house with an extravagant garden. We get out and I follow the Corsican women into an 18th century home with intricate tile floors, 6 chambers and a living room with a grand fire place. They immediatly lead me into a room, immaculatly clean with two double beds. I lay down my burdenous bag and am led to the bathroom where they draw me a hot bath. Meanwhile they are talking my ear off, I smile and nod, comprehending some but certianly not all of their babble. They are sisters, the husband of the sister with seemingly the head of the household was recently morte. The house had been in the family for generations, and they were lucky for that becasue they were very poor. I had a hard time seeing this with the luxerious dark oaks, victorian furniture, chandaliers and collection of gorgeous paintings. (Family heir looms, everything kept and protected). After a bath I take in my rooms details. Lace curtians pulled back revealing an herb and vegetable garden, a victorian vanity, a framed picture on the bed side table along with a roseary and dried flowers. The picture I later learned was the sister's mother. The floor was amazing, but freezing on my feet, I was grateful when they knocked handing me house slippers and an invitation to dinner. A quick glance back at the room revealed to striking blue of the Virgin Mary in an intricate frame above my bed. I felt as if I had stepped into a time warp....this feeling would never lift.

Dinner, a delicious soup of broth and rice, fresh bread, apples, and oh, yummy, the traditional Corsican fromage (cheese) smothered in homemade fig jam and wine. At dinner I was able to interpret their disdain for Super Markets (THe French Casion Chain) which was destroying the Corsican way of life and making them ill with pesticides. They swore by personal gardens and the act of trading with your neighbors for what you cannot grow. They showed me dramatically the process of making the cheese and how to pick out the best Corsican wine. Simple, flat bottomed bottles are never good, the others are worth a try!

The head sister, I didn't beleive to be the eldest but she was certianly the most healthy. She made and served the food, carried in the fire wood and did most the talking. Her eyes held a powerful mysticism which kept me transfixed. Her expressive communication was of incredible help to my comprehension of her french. The other sister had a harsh voice and very thick Corsican accent which I had to struggle to even begin to answer her.

After dinner, we moved into the living room, curled next to the stone fire place Julia, the head (I never learned the other's name) opened up a bottle of liquor, aged 20 ans. I was shocked and felt privalleged, pointing out that I was barely 20 years old myself. The liquor was sweet, chestnut and came from a labeless bottle.

Julia then took out a huge family album of yellowing black and white photographs and enthusiasticly showed me generations of her family on Corsica. I could hardly still my heart as I looked at the chiveled faces of great grandparents, grandparents and 5 generations of wedding pictures. I saw Julia herself at 19, wedding gown in the "mountain town" of her birth. I saw all the children and pictures of her Grandmother as a school child, the class picture. She pointed out a deformed girl and spoke of what I interpreted as a scandal behind the child. (I gathered some sort of imbreeding, and death). She became teary eyed at some pictures and enraged at others....speaking of her children's downfall due to divorce and the effects of marrying foreigners. Her generation was one ofthe first to start to spread out marrying Italians, Mainland French, etc. This she beleived is why divorce has become so prevelant.

I noticed that all the paintings on the wall were mainly of the island itself, of recognizable cliffs and forests. She had many pictures of family and most her discussion surrouned just that. This confirming that family is most of a Corsican's life.

After the liqour the elder sister and I were served tea, and I was asked to sing. I was more the willing and by the fire belted out Patsey Cline, she had been in my head since my arrival. The eldest sister seemed to really enjoy it, Julia just nodded approvingly and cleaned up the tea with her intense eyes.

As it grew late Julia led me back to my room, very formally told me to keep my blankets tight, for the house grows very cold with no fire.

I fell into the best slumber of my visit thus far with the radiant eyes of Mary staring down at me and the brisk air massaging my lungs.

6 in the morning I was roused with a hearty petite dejuner of cafe, tea, bisuts and a overflowing plate of Kewi and bannana from a neighbor's plot. They motioned for me to eat and eat, I needed energy for my large pack. Julia slipped me a postcard with her address and phone number. Demanding that if I return to Bastia I will stay with them. The other sister packed me a luch and as I later discovered even slipped me 10 dollars in my bag.

I kissed the eldest sister goodbye, she warmly hugged back, winking.

Julia, more formal dropped me off at the train station, handing me a ticket to get to bastia and a brisk kiss on the Cheek. Bon Voyage!

I was left standing, stunned at the station amazed at my luck an privelage to have been given the real taste of corsican hospitality. I felt energized yet could hardly beleive what had just happened.

Destiny had put me on that train and the women, maybe not liking how the man was treating me, took me for another look at Corsican life. I will never forget their elegant home and long winded stories. We communicated with no English and they seemed to be doing what they felt neccisary. Plucked off the train after only a couple words these women gave me an experience of a lifetime.

I am sending these angels chocolate and poetry.....

They have truly shaped my vision of this island's people.

Posted by Teagan Walden at 04:06 AM | Permalink | Comments (7)

I am just writing a quick note to let everyone know I am OK. I just got back from touring other parts of the island, hiking etc. I have some amazing stories but am falling over tierd and can't imagine spilling them all out maintanient (now). So I leave this as a teaser to the remarkable events that shall soon unfold before your reading eyes,.......

Keep an eye out for the up and coming Teagan adventure titled....Destiny!

Posted by Teagan Walden at 02:57 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Woke up early and made my way to the Musee de la Corse, to meet the director of phoniques (music) in Corsica.

A wonderful passionate character, a disheveled, intellectual radiating with a genuine openess. I attempted to explain my studies, and the islands program in general. Our educational system is very different from here and Evergreen is an extremely alien concept. Navigating our websites helped with this explination. I was extremely intrigued by this man, Monsieur Bernard du Pazzoni. He was surprised that I wanted to know about him, about his research and ideas. "Porqui? (why?) When I asked him what and how he got to this point of research." Luckily after less direct questions it all came out,

As a student back in 1981 he began an in depth look into the fiddlers/violinists of Corsica. He expressed the feelings as a student of not understanding, the whole picture, of what he was studying. Not knowing where it was taking him. He just felt a strong pull towards these musicians and the traditions of such. I understood, for I find myself in a process of researching what I cannot at this time fully comprehend. He spoke of the musicians he worked with as a student, whose stories he only has in memory, for at the time he could only afford to record little bits of the music, no dialouge. He expressed sadness at the fact that many people's stories will forever be forgotten, the museum came to late and many of the masters are morte (dead). The museum was but a small idea/project in the early nineties and didn't commence until 1997. A lot of the traditions invovled with Corsican music started to slip in the mid sixties as corsica started to embrace the modern world. So some of the last true traditionalists practicing their music within real life started to decrease by the late 80's.
I felt fortunate to look upon photographs in his private collection, of the men he had learned how to play (he is a fiddler himself) with.

A man that appeared again and again in the photographs was a Felix Quicici - the first ethnomusicologist to ever research Corsica. He came and made the first audio recordings in 1966. Bernard saw this man as his mentor, his eyes radiant as he struggled with the words in english to express their relationship.

After we wrestled over explinations of both our interests threading together the commonalities, it was time to ecoute (listen). We walked back into the storage room, where thousands of cassette tapes and hundreds of cd's were locked away. He showed me more photographs of Felix along with the first phonograph, the original phonograph that came to Corsica -it was Felix's. Did you know that the phonograph was originally created for the purpose of making feild recordings?

He grabbed a few CD's and back to his office I followed. As he put in the first one he smiled and said that fate was to decide what we were to hear. He had chosen the music by destiny, "Destinie chossiez". While different traks played he pointed out in the massive catalouge the dates, names and places of the recordings - he knew each artist by voice.

He attempted to describe the complexities of Corsican music. "There is not one music of Corsica!". The Valleys and ville seperated by mountains inspires difference.

We then listened to a Corsican telling a Folk Story. The complexities of just the language was revealed when the storyteller would speak of a person of power, president or doctor for instance, the language took on a more italian bravodo....the actual rythm of the language changing. Bernard would point out when the story was involving a corsican character versus one of power.

We looked at copies of photographs containing some of the origianl instruments, I was told of the mysteries, how some of the instruments were only photographed once and since forgotten. There is also alot of mystery surrounding the origin of some of the instruments, for instance some of the flutes are almost identical to those found in India. Just one hole and a slightly different shape seperate them.

We also talked about the strange connections between The music of the Greek islands and that of Corsica. He wants to find out why these similarities occur, but knows it is a difficult question to answer.

I expressed amazement at all the similiarites, especially with india, he shrugged and said "We (People) are all the same".

I felt so fortuante to be talking to this man, and had so many things to ask him. His energy was comferting and his interest so genuine. But alas, I had already eaten up a large part of this man's day and felt I needed to depart.

I sadly bid farwell, taking in one last look at the brown leather vest, plaid shirt and corderoys. His wild hair framed a twitching face, he said I could return again with more questions.... I know I will.

Posted by Teagan Walden at 03:25 AM | Permalink | Comments (5)

Bon soir mon amis!

So this wild island has more in store for the willing Teagan! I have rested up and walked this town of Corte till every stone has felt my footstep.
I dance around wild eyed singing sweet songs of my country (Patsey Cline - "I go out walking, after midnight, out in the moonlight, just like we used to do!"). The Polish girl belts out old russian gypsie songs she learned by the fire as a child.

On Sunday I awoke with the sun, taking the 1/2 hour trek through town up, up and up to the look out towering next to the Citadel. I take in the intricate design of this ancient fortress, following a catapillers sunday sway, I breathe in a new day. Starting the week, the church bells roar - non stop ringing for the half hour before church. I follow the call and join the procession of locals into the L'Eglise, built in 1530. The rays of light bleed in through the windows, these saints immortalized in stain glass - an elegant chandalier holds lit candles. I slip into the second to last bench, avoiding the curious stares. Holding a book of ancient hymns I hum along with the organ as this congregation's voices float around. This is one of three churches in town, I plan to compare the music and feel of all. I look foward to the candle lit evening services....

I eat cheesecakes baked on chestnut leaves, framboise jam, poulet pate, and more bread than I should. Honey dripped on white cheese with white chestnut pomme wine (yes, I have betrayed my red wine miliatism and am enjoying the sweetness of white).

I have met a group of French musicians from the mainlaind. They get together a few times a week to play music. They play as I sing, I drum as they sing, we share songs of our childhoods. They enchant me with their artistic charm, open to teaching, sharing as our music breaks all language barriers.

I walk along one of the many rivers, acompanied by a stray dog, these musicians, and whistles. Stumble upon a crumbling shepards hut - racing up to it and almost inside before I notice ---- the remains of slaughtered goats, horns lay seemingly arranged in a pile of fur, the sun bleached spine beautiful in this dusty room.

Walk further, following the tracks of wild pigs, avoiding their droppings and hoping they arn't too near.

The river calls me and I find the perfect spot....a calm pool, toss off un neccisary layers and in i go. Alone on this one, "Crazy American Antics - it's too cold!". "Il-fait froid!"

Woke up one morning with a wild hair, boarded a train north, up into the mountains, Vezzavone. A small abandoned town with a trail head to waterfalls. Walked into the depths of this mountain, the sun betrayed my desires. Met by a vicous hail/thunder/lightening storm I was forced to seek refuge under a large rock/cave. Bolting back down the trail into town I pulled madly at locked doors. A savior came, opening the small ticket booth - wood stove, rocks piled agianst door for protection against wind - and four hours until the next train.

Back in Corte I meet a Charismatic Greek from Athens. She has been here two years, working on her doctorate - a comparitve study of Traditional Corsican music to that of her own culture's. She expresses many frustrations, a perfect contact for my studies. She has connected me with the Director of Music at The Musee de la Corse. I am to meet the one man on Corsica that knows everything about Corsican music, and has access to the recording archives. I cannot wait and spend hours writing questions and preparing to meet him.

Margritta - the Greek student has recorded some collaborative music with local corsicans, she sings to me in Greek and promises to show me some traditional dances. We talk of curses and the challenges of being accepted in this closed mountain town. I have received a protective eye from Turkey and words of advice from many who fear the powers of jealousy via the evil eye.

So far this french island has blessed me with an international array of eccentric and kind indivudals.

I feel as if I am exactly where I need to be.

I am blessed and thank you all for your support and thoughts!

"St. Christopher protect!"

May the violet forests reveal....

Posted by Teagan Walden at 12:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Bonjour mon amis!

What a trek is was to finally set foot in this "paradiso". A plane, a magnificant ferry, a speeding renault car, a train, another petite renault and finally I am in Corte, Corsica. I landed on the island late Tuesday night, stepping off a ferry the size of a downtown office building. There were five stories to this grand floating contraption. Many different lounges of different themes, a sun and sky deck, along with privee rooms for the "privee". I slept curled up on a velvet couch, exhausted and stinky, staring out at the expanding sea envious of it's freedom and purity. The ferry took 5 hours and then I was spat out on the coast of Corsica in the workers city of Bastia. Hauling my backpack and livre (books) I was quite the spectacle, inspiring smirks and snorts from the other passengers. They disembarked with their petite chiens (dogs) and petite suitcases. I gave up on navigating the nameless streets and caught a taxi to my hotel. That night sleep was tres bon, I broke the ashtray in the room but the attendant insisted he drive me to the train station anyway. He refused money and demanded I have a cafe before my journee.

The train, my god! I have never been barelled violently through such amazing scenery! I was literally crying from the awe, surrounded by tobacco and henna stained hands I sat at the edge of my seat "oohing and aweing". The tiny two car train takes you up through mountain after mountain then pulls you deep into valleys with rushing rivers, waterfalls and forests of maquis rich with deep rouges and lavenders. I loved the tunnels which took you right into mountains then dragged you out on granite cliffs with massive drops to your side.

I arrived a couple hours later in Corte - the university town. I screamed "Je Suis Ici"! Met by a french girl from Ajjacio, I got stuffed along with my grande sac into her petite car. She proceeded to give me a hurried tour of the town, all in french and her car sped with the pace of her words.

She took me to the office of housing, there I had a comical experience signing tons of papers with a Corsican who spoke no English, we both knew the papers were a formality. Who knows what I signed!

My room, a cute studio with a bathroom/shower. Overlooks the main univesity square, french windows reveal mountains and fashionable students smoking fume and sipping cafe.

So after all this I lay down and passed the heck out.

Thinking I would stay in bed for days. However I was mistaken. A persistant knock continued on my door. I ignored it for as long as I could until I rose, disheveled and confused. Opening the door I was presented with an enthusiastic BONJOUR, then in english an introduction of my neighbor. She insisted I come over for tea, I thought I was dreaming but followed.

The girl, not french but Polish, spoke english as her second language, french as her third. She was excited to have someone to speak english with for she had only been here three weeks and knew few English speakers.

Her energy brought us through cups of green tea and bisciuts with framboise jam. Before I could refuse she was taking me all around town on foot, to the best bakeries, produce and views in town.

She had dinner plans, I insisted on returning back to my room (just seeing my sleeping bag and bed in a radiant glow of warmth and holiness). "Oh No, No, No" She insisted, no one alone in their room. Pulling my hand we were off to an apartment where I was introduced to three (spelling?) Catalinans (Spaniards but they made the distinciton very clear) and an Italian raised in France. We ate, and ate and ate and drank and drank, until I dragged my overwhelmed, swimming mind and body to a much needed slumber.

The next morning, an invitiation from the spaniards got me up with the sun, for a third day in the row. and I was stuffed into another petite car (this one italian and rented from Sardinia). The four of us were off and I was in store for a day of spanish on this french island and complete otherworldly landscaping surpasing my visions of this paradiso. We toured the whole tip of the island known as Cap Corse, through cliffs, small windy mountain roads blocked by goats, cows and ducks to the ruins of Geonese watchtowers. I was nauseus beyond help the entire time due to the roads, but content because I felt like I was dreaming. (a common theme these past few days). I have nothing in my mind to compare what I have seen. The plants and colors, Scale and diversity has pounded out a whole new section in my brain to catalouge these sites. The spaniards talked amongst themselves for most the time so I was left alone, curled, nose pressed against the window, to let my mind dance.

This truly is an ancient place, with mysticism and beauty that strikes deep into my being.

To think, this is only the beginning.....

I miss and love you all!

Posted by Teagan Walden at 11:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

I sit at the edge of my seat, drooling with dry excited eyes at images of my destination. Dreams plauge my anxious sub concious as I struggle to ignite the fire of excitment!

Checking the packing list....

Next entry I will be on the island!

Posted by Teagan Walden at 01:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

This marks the beginning of what promises to be a vibrant and rich source of Teaganisms and adventure tales. I toss out the pen and begin in the computer lab in Olympia Washington, just having learned of this virtual journal. Exactly one month to the day before departure I welcome all mon amis, and family and strangers to the travelouge of Teagan Marie.

Posted by Teagan Walden at 06:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)