Le Franco Phoney

French imagery in advertising, roundabouts and even pizza boxes is something I’ve discussed many times on this blog, but this image is the most provocative I’ve seen in a public place. Apologies for the lack of quality: I took the picture temporarily on my phone a few days ago and the poster has since disappeared.

So, here we have a poster for the Lalu nightclub in Le Grand Bornand, featuring smurfs (called ’schtroumpfs’ in French). I remember Papa Smurf there in the red, and Lady Smurf is of course the woman next to him. The post says ‘Smurf me’ in French (they’ve made ’smurf’ into a verb), so I guess it’s a party where people dress up as smurfs. And what is that smurf doing below that, with the scissors and the comb? Is that hay being taken away? No. Look more carefully, and if you’re pre-teen, just skip the rest of this entry: it will only add to the teenage angst that you’re destined for.

I’d say to look closely, but you don’t really need to. Can you see anything amiss in this poster? Anything slightly wrong, considering the poster was placed at the height of a kid’s eyes? That’s not hay that the smurf is carting off. It’s pubic hair. That’s not a hill with a house in the distance, it’s a breast. As you can now see, there isn’t much left up to the imagination in this poster.

Admittedly, I stared at this poster, pointed out to me by my friend, for a good minute or so without noticing anything odd. If this poster was in the nightclub itself, I wouldn’t even blink an eye; but it was placed outside the lift ticket office in Le Grand Bornand, right by the ski stand, where parents tell kids to wait with the skis, and as I mentioned, right at kid height, with all these cute, lovable smurfs on display to attracts kids’ attention. Perhaps most kids just overlook this for the love of smurfs the way I did. Still, could any other country be so open to Hairdresser Smurf giving a human an alternative Brazilian? And is that really how you make a human into a smurf? I reckon Painter Smurf with his can of blue paint would have a strong opinion about that.

The word refuge in English is often associated with a place to take shelter by those who need it. Although the word looks the same and is pronounced in much the same way in French, the meaning here in the French Alps relates mostly to that of a typical mountain hut that provides food and shelter for travellers. Some are literally just a hut with bunk beds and some form of running water , working on an honesty box system to cover the cost of wood for heating and maintenance. Others are fully-operational restaurants that provide big meals, a sip from the typically Savoyard bottle of home-made booze with a dead snake inside, and heated accommodation with an indoor toilet. The indoor toilet is particularly handy in the cold winter months.

The refuge I went to last week was somewhere in between these two extremes. Refuge de Bombardellaz provides hearty food without the gimmick of a snake in a bottle, although I didn’t see what the accommodation was like as the refuge only took us an hour to get to from the car park at Les Confins. The refuge is only open in summer, which explains the outdoor tables, but I can’t help thinking how at least some of the wide path to the refuge would be great to slide down on a snowboard.

Click on the image for a bigger version

Having never been to this refuge before, my friends and I were equipped with a map, which was handy, because although the way is marked at most track intersections, the signs are missing from some, and we needed the map to check. The first signpost at the car park said the refuge was 55 minutes away.  We had a lunch booking in half an hour, but we figured the sign’s time estimate was for the elderly, families with young children, or injured people. No worries: half an hour is plenty of time! After half an hour, we passed a sign that said the refuge was 35 minutes away. What? At this point, I realised that we were, in fact, lower than the lowest common denominator of walker: we were the unfit. On we marched. After a further 30 minutes, the next sign said it was only ten minutes away, and to be perfectly frank, it would have been only ten minutes away had the road been flat. It was not flat. It was all uphill to the refuge. Ten minutes of walking up a hill turned into five minutes of walking, five minutes of stopping to catch my breath after pretending to be interested in a nearby flower, three minutes of walking, another few minutes of stumbling, and then a final push once the refuge was in sight. Now quite late for lunch, I felt cheated by the signs — and perhaps a little guilty about my level of fitness. The staff welcomed us warmly despite our tardiness.

As the wide-angle photo here shows, the refuge provides views of the peaks of La Clusaz, the neighbouring valley of Le Grand Bornand, and the mountains all around.

Lunch eaten and heart rested, we walked along a more narrow path that led down towards Le Grand Bornand until a crossroad gave us the choice to climb back uphill to Les Confins. Despite both walks ending in these treacherous uphill challenges, they were otherwise easy and enjoyable. Chuck in the reward of a hearty lunch with beautiful views and you’ve got a pretty good day out.

Oops! One of the cows falls over backwards!

Human-shaped fireworks burn while the parade of weird objects continues.

Now it's the elevated cow's turn to burn, with band looking on

Statue-still people from the parade now standing on the roof too, including one with a disturbingly pointy hat.

Despite the ongoing warm weather, the summer season in the Alps has come to an end, coinciding, not coincidentally, with school holidays. Le Grand Bornand likes to end the season with a fête. Of course, I went. Surprisingly, the crowds were bigger than for le Tour de France, and parents were made to park their baby buggies in a special baby buggy area before continuing to the heart of the entertainment, holding their babies. Seats were not allowed. Just after none o’clock, when darkness had fallen, the streetlamps were turned off, everyone was told to stand, and the fun began.

It started off well enough, with these two giant inflatable cows lobbing themselves towards each other, forcing the crowd to part (this is why chairs and baby buggies were not allowed). After a few cow tips, they met, hugged (or wrestled?) and then the fireworks started. In the foreground, I noticed the live band standing on top of build, beating their drums to some Spanish tune. I wondered if any of the other countries I’ve lived in would allow a band to stand near the edge of a tall building with no apparent safety equipment. I love this country!

The inflatable cows disappeared and these strange shapes on sticks started parading through the crowd, choosing their own path. This involved small fireworks on the way through, and once again, I found myself wondering if this would happen elsewhere. Fireworks in the shape of people were lit against a wall, and the band played on. What did all this mean? What were the strange parading objects meant to represent? As the odd parade banged, burst and snaked through the crowd, one of my friends, who had seen last year’s end of summer fête said to me: “It’s nowhere near as random as last year.” I’d really like to know how it could be any more random than it was.

The shed behind me suddenly made a noise. Actually, there were fireworks on its roof. I was right under these great, low-exploding fireworks that really made me feel like I was engulfed by sparks on every side. It was magnificent! All concerns of randomness went while the fireworks continued for much longer than anyone expected.

The grand finale was even better. At first, I thought something had gone wrong. One of the fireworks on top of the shed didn’t seem to go off, but it seemed to ignite a neighbouring firework which then flew directly toward the band. I envisioned the band catching fire if they didn’t run away quickly. However, all fears were allayed when the firework actually flew directly behind the band, and right onto the giant Catherine wheels which had been set up behind them. Bang, bang, bang: off they go, and nobody needs to sue France for death, burning or falling from buildings. The band continued and the guys who had been traipsing around in the parade were now human statues in front of the Catherine wheels. Look closely and you’ll see one with a white, pointy hat. How on earth did they get away with that?

When the fireworks stopped, a few formalities were made (eg, pre-recording of cute-sounding kid thanking everyone for coming), the street lights were turned on again, and parents were virtually running back to the baby buggy park to put their dead-weight, sleeping kids back into their baby buggies.

So, that’s summer officially over. Unofficially, it’s boiling hot and lake is calling.

On Friday night, La Clusaz hosted the inter-village games known as Les Gamineries des Aravis which involves participants from the local villages (La Clusaz, Le Grand Bornand, St. Jean de Sixt, Thônes and Manigod) as well as a team of tourists. As you can see from this photo, the event features It’s a Knockout-style games, with events such as this one with two team members trying to knock a team member off the other surfboard. Other events included:

• blindfolded rollerbladers having to pick up two small, water-filled balloons and deliver them safely at the end of a go-cart style course (helped by a team member yelling which direction to rollerblade in);
• dizzy contestants carrying glasses of wine (of course! it’s France) over to a barrel and successfully emptying the glasses into barrels (the majority fell over before getting to the wine glasses);
• a trivia quiz with questions about the local area;
• four team members with their right legs fixed to a plank of wood and their left legs fixed to another plank, navigating a course with bike ramps and corners; and,
• tug-of-war in flippers, goggles and snorkels on a beach volleyball court.

Points were scored and teams cheered. A local school or group were selling home-made cake for a flat €1 per slice. The winning village holds the event the following year, unless it’s the hosting village, in which case the runners-up get to hold it. With this knowledge the locals were out in droves, wearing village colours. Le Grand Bornand were the winners in these stakes, with large numbers wearing matching pink Mexican hats and ponchos, and pink glow-sticks for after dark. They had air horns (annoyingly loud), a bass drum (a relief after the air horns) and cow bells (downright quiet compared with the air horns and bass drum). But did their solid presence help Le Grand Bornand win? Who won? It was the team who answered the question about the width of a local bird’s wing span. Which team was that? The tourists. The tourists beat the locals at their own game! However, the games must be held in the Aravis valley, so the team who came second were nominated to hold the games next year. Who was that? La Clusaz. But La Clusaz held the games this year which means they can’t hold them again next year. So, the team who came third were nominated to hold the games next year. Who was that? Manigod. So, while the announcer confused us all by announcing Manigod as the ‘winners’ in third place, the supporters cheered and made their way to the bar. The tourists probably went home with a slice of €1 cake.

Yesterday, I was lucky enough to watch le Tour de France simply by driving five minutes down the road to le Grand Bornand. I could have watched from the end, but I’ll be doing that today in Annecy. Instead, I joined some friends on a little rise next to the track which gave us a great view of the race. This photo is one of the many floats that drove past before the cyclists came through. I’ll post more photos on my next entry, once I’ve checked out Annecy.

Watching the floats go past is actually, for me, more interesting than the race. I know some people reading this have just lost all respect for me, but please let me explain. I do have the utmost respect for the cyclists: I can’t imagine riding even 5km of the course they rode today. However, they whizz past so quickly that it’s all over very quickly. The floats last for at least forty minutes and involve cheesy dancing to cheesy music, lots of freebies chucked at the expectant crowd, an obligatory fire truck spraying the hot crowd with water, and, most importantly, bizarre behaviour from the onlookers. Today, I watched a little kid wrestling with an adult for a plastic inflatable baton. The adult had no qualms about using all her strength against the little boy who gave in quickly. A little girl was also involved in a scrap with another woman, and the woman won. What did she win? A plastic device with a branded balloon attached. I think the plastic device is meant to help kids blow up balloons. The woman also had no problem wrestling it off the litle girl, and seconds later, she walked past me and back to her husband grinning about her new children’s toy. Amongst my five friends, two were going for the freebies, and both came out with scraped skin during scrambles to pick freebies up from the ground. Other freebies included: spotty red hat with supermarket logo; washing powder sachet; sweets; hat for sleeping in; and fridge magnets. Obviously wrestle-worthy items.

I’d also love to rattle on about the influx of cyclists on the roads matching the influx of tennis court usage in England during Wimbledon, or a French friend saying that he wonders if this bike race is really worth it because of the local road closures it causes (insert image of my jaw dropping to the floor as I reflect on all those friends back in Australia who set their alarm at stupid hours just to watch the stages in comparison to a few road closures putting out the locals who are so lucky to have this tour on their doorstep). I could rattle on about these things, but I have to go and watch the next stage of le Tour de France now. I’m making the most of it even if my French friend would rather not.