Le Franco Phoney

Following on from alternatives #1 and #2 (cross-country skiing and snowshoeing), today I look at the ski ‘resort’ of St Jean de Sixt. “How is that an alternative to downhill winter sports?”, you may ask. It’s a fine line, but I’m willing to prove that it could be considered an alternative.

But before I get to that, look at this lovely sign! It’s one of a few dotted around the place and reveals the odd history of the resort. This jerky old drag lift is one of two lifts in the area. The other is a rope tow for beginners, while this one started life closer to the main road to La Clusaz back in 1962. The entire lift was moved to its current position in 1971, and I’m guessing the signs were not updated. This particular sign says that it’s forbidden to ski outside the tracks.

On the day that I went to the resort with a friend, there was only one other customer. He was using the beginner slope, but left soon after, and we had to wait for the man in charge of this longer lift to get back from his lunch break before he cranked it up for the afternoon rush. In fact, we were the afternoon rush. In two hours, nobody else arrived and the lift was due to close soon after!

The pistes from the top include a green, a blue and even a red. They’re all very short but lots of fun. My friend even tried a tree run through the dense forest with some success. Who knew there was off-piste right here in St Jean de Sixt? There’s even a whole web page devoted to the resort, including a map and lots of photos.

So, why am I classing this place as an alternative to downhill winter sports? Because getting down isn’t the challenge at all: this drag lift —with a 62° slope half way up, a jumpy cable that sends you flying a few times during the ride up, and a flat section that means you have to leave the tracks despite the sign demanding you don’t — is the real sport. And so, I’m classing the ride on the drag lift as an alternative to downhill winter sports.

I talked about the art of the haggle at French garage/car boot sales (called a vide grenier ) in the past. Haggling doesn’t come naturally to me, but last weekend at the St Jean de Sixt vide grenier, I found myself haggling with the big guns.
Pictured is a ski binding. A ski technician friend spotted a pair of skis with these bindings on them, and said that the bindings alone were worth more than the €30 price tag on the skis. Since I needed a pair of bindings for some new skis, he suggested they’d be a cheap alternative to brand new bindings since the technology hasn’t changed much in recent years. I could trash the skis at that price. While we were standing there, a man asked the seller if he would reduce the price of a neighbouring pair of skis. The seller said no and the man turned to walk away. The seller changed his mind and asked for €25. The man offered €20 and after scoffing from both parties, the seller accepted, mumbling about it under his breath.

I figured I could also get this pair for €20, so I picked them up. The seller, aware that my friend and I had seen everything, promptly wrote out a sticker for €50 and slapped it on the skis I was holding, mumbling some more. I protested and said I’d pay €20. He was a big man – both in height and girth, and had a scary look on his weathered face. He snatched the skis from my and slammed them back against the wall they had been leaning on, saying I could have them for €30 and no less. Had I been by myself, I would have been so afraid of this scary man towering over me that I would have scampered away. Instead, I scoffed like a French man and said no because he had just sold the previous pair for €20. He scoffed back, so I scoffed some more, shrugged and turned to walk away. He picked the skis up and thrust them towards me, agreeing on €20. I said thanks and he didn’t reply. I handed him a twenty and he sarcastically said I may as well have it back since the skis were practically free, then ignored my friend who bothered to say goodbye. I didn’t even try. Upon closer inspection of the skis, they’re in almost new condition, with great edges, bases and top sheets. Bargain!

So, one angry French man later, I have a working pair of bindings and a decent pair of skis too. It was worth almost weeing myself after all.

I know you were all panicking about the cows going up the hill in September, so I wanted to let you know that this week, the same cows descended. The warm weather allowed them to graze in the field just up the road one last time before heading down the valley to lower fields and eventually into a shed for winter. Welcome to October in the Aravis. How do I know they were the same cows that I mentioned in September? By the bells.

Hearing the clanging of the bells coming down the road gave me plenty of time to grab a camera and get a close-up of a bell. This one has the Savoyarde flag with studs representing the white cross (le croix de Savoie). Below the flag is Bambi! Okay, maybe the craftsman had a particular type of deer in mind — no doubt the ones that I sometimes see at night around these parts — but when I see them, I say “Oh there’s Bambi”. This also works with any large-winged bird for me (“Look, an eagle.”), even if it’s an owl.

The Bambi thing all started in a bubble/télécabine/gondola in Méribel one day, when some Italians said something to me in Italian and pointed down. Realising I didn’t speak Italian, they said “Bambi” and pointed to a brown, horned thing below. For a moment, we all spoke the same language. A few days later, a Bambi was below the same lift, so I used the same word to point it out to the French people sharing the bubble with me. For a moment, we too spoke the same language even though I knew no French back then. Bambi allowed us to share an experience that we otherwise would have missed.

The cows, however, need no such international word. The clanging bells announce their arrival without any tourists pointing and calling them Bambi. Pity.

Not much happens here in September, so this weeks’ two big events were some cows walking down through St Jean de Sixt and some cows walking up through town. While I watched them amble past, I noticed a few things. Based on this picture:

First up, see that cow in the bottom right corner? She’s the one heading for the hedge. She then got her horns into the hedge (I think she was rubbing her face in it) and one of the cow minders had to threaten her with a stick to move her on.

Secondly, check out the udder on the one at the back there. Can you imagine walking with that between your legs? I hope they didn’t have to go far.

Thirdly, the detail on the belts of those big bells around their necks is perhaps a little difficult to see, but they were gorgeous. A few had a red croix de savoie stitched in, and one had a bright red love heart, although I’m not sure the cows love walking up and down roads.

Most impressive is the sound. Unless you’ve witness cows wandering past you when the bells are on, you simply cannot imagine the loudness of those bells.

Finally, I’ve no idea why the cows were going up the hill instead of down. At this time of year, the farmers collect their cows from the high pastures which are now getting cold and producing less grass, and move them closer to their winter farms, lower down where it’s warm. In around a month or so, the cows will then go back into the farm sheds for winter, where they’re stuck until springtime. Thankfully, the farmers remove the bells.

This week, I braved yoga in French. No worries: a fellow Aussie with better French language skills was joining me so there was safety in numbers. With a camping mat under my arm, we headed to the class in the centre of St Jean de Sixt. I should have chickened out when the teacher spied my mat and said it was too thick for yoga. Instant yoga fail! Thankfully, she supplied mats, but as the last two to set up, we were at the front of the class. This scuppered my plan be at the back, where nobody would spy me misunderstanding the instructions or toppling over attempting to do the tree stance (pictured). I tried yoga one other time and after five minutes of failing to do the tree, I left, embarrassed, and much to the relief of all the zen people in the room.

The first few stances were okay. The third one was, of course, tree. Everyone in the room but me stood calmly on one leg. I wobbled and failed to hold the position until I realised I’m left-footed. I swapped legs and held the position for up to ten seconds at a time — a major improvement. After what seemed like an hour, she told us to change legs. Oops. I carried on with the same leg. Meanwhile, I didn’t even notice that my friend had been told off for using the wrong leg at the start. Perhaps our determination to use the wrong leg prompted her to ask in a loud, clear voice if she needed to speak in English. All eyes turned in our direction and we shook our heads and smiled as if we were both totally at ease with the yoga-based French words we’d never heard before.

A girl a few along from us took deep breathing to the extreme. She sounded like she was attached to a ventilator. No problem normally, but my Aussie friend had been diving that morning and I imagined the oxygen tank must have sounded similar. It took all my concentration to hold in the laughter and not look at my friend in case we both got the giggles. As if to test me further, a truck idled in the car park outside with orange lights flashing, lighting up our relaxingly dim room like a disco. I concentrated on my aching arm muscles to again suppress the laughter, although ventilator girl would have no doubt smothered it anyway.

Will I go again? Yes, but next time I’m getting there early so I can go up the back and as far away from ventilator girl as possible.

When I was a kid, a pony ride involved getting on a pony and having some horse-loving teenager lead the pony around a paddock. I always wanted to gallop off by myself, but I was far too young to know how to. No worries in France. These are your options.

First up, we have the Northern version. These poor little ponies get attached to a piece of metal where they walk around and around on asphalt with overweight kids on their backs. They looked so bored. Worse still, the beach was just down the road, and I imagined their little pony eyes seeing the water and imagining running free on their little legs along the sandy beach.

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At the other end of the scale is La Clusaz. Even if the helmet is oversized, at least it was offered here, and it seems nicely co-ordinated colour-wise. Pictured are my visiting friends who were told to follow the path of the other ponies through a trail amongst trees with stream flowing beside it. The slight risk of getting lost was far more enjoyable for both rider and pony than the version up North.

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Meanwhile, here in St Jean de Sixt, we’ve by-passed ponies altogether and gone instead for donkeys. For one day only, the donkeys were available for hire. Rather than riding the donkeys, the kids had to direct them around a small course (such as the wooden logs pictured, which the donkeys were meant to walk over). This donkey was more interested in the tasty weeds than walking, but the kids seemed pretty amused.

The great thing about living in the French Alps is that the local villages put on all sorts of entertainment for families to lure them away from the beaches or from other mountain resorts. At the moment, four of the villages (St Jean de Sixt, La Clusaz, Le Grand Bornand and Manigod) are holding the Aravis et Compagnies festival (ending tonight), which involves various sports or physical activities for kids and adults to try. So, why the birds?

St Jean de Sixt is holding “air”, which means trampolines and wind-powered mini-boats and lots of jingling and clanking from wind-powered instruments. I checked it out and found the birds just sitting on their respective hay stacks, looking a bit scared by the commotion around them, although the owl looked a bit high.

The security was typically French, with just one blue rope keeping the birds and kids safe from each other. It worked, and it was great to be so close to the birds without anything hampering the view. When the birds were brought out to fly, the public were given very clear instructions on where to stand and what to do. One kid didn’t listen. The eagle flew from the woman back to the man (pictured two left from the red flag in the top photo), and a kid ran towards the man just before the eagle reached him. The man had the microphone and yelled at the kid and pushed him back forcefully while the eagle landed on his arm. Obviously, he pushed him back for the kid’s own safety, but I’m not sure the kids around him understood, with their mouths open in horror as the man yelled over the microphone. Maybe a blue rope would have been useful during the exhibition.

Meanwhile, in La Clusaz, a mini mountain bike course is open to all (they’ve got “Cycle” this year), while Le Grand Bornand has high ropes all over the place (“cords”), and people can turn into hippies up at Manigod with “nature attitude” providing information on herbal remedies from local plants, yoga and more. Pity it’s ending just as the sun is due out.

Yesterday looked like a great day for a walk, so we packed some lunch, water and sunscreen and headed for le Lachat de Thônes, at 2,023 metres above sea level (more than 1,000 metres higher than St Jean de Sixt, where we walked from). My first clue to not leave the house should have been the struggle I knew I’d face in keeping up with two muscly, long-legged blokes. At different times, they patiently waited for me under the shade of trees while I caught up, puffing and hot with the clear blue sky allowing the sun to heat up everything. By the time we reached this bizarre sign that the wood has grown around, I was still positive and looking forward to the nice views at the top. We stopped while I took a photo of the tree trunk, again cooling down in the shade of the trees, before climbing the mostly steep track once more. I should have recognised the weird tree thing as a sign to turn for home. We kept walking.

Then the clouds came. Then the rain started. Then the (loose) rock climbing began. We could see our goal just a few hundred metres away, but with me nervous from the rock climbing and one of the boys hungry, we stopped for lunch, with a huge drop of rocks below us and trying to get some shelter from the heavy rain and wind under one rocky outcrop. So here we were, at almost 2,000 metres, in the middle of a storm and completely exposed to the elements, far away from anyone or anything but rocks and ants. The weather report had predicted nothing but blue skies all day long. A walk that should have taken about two hours up and a bit less back ended up taking us six and a half all round, thanks to my slowness on the way up, stopping for lunch, and faced with slippery mud and plants between the rocks on the way back that led to a number of falls. The pale blue paint to mark the way was invisible at times and we had to guess the way — not ideal in a sea of rocks in every direction. I would have loved to have taken some photos of the journey, but my camera was too wet to use. At least the rain kept down the fly numbers, and by the time we reached the first farm, the rain had stopped, the flies had returned and we dried out a little. Hooray! Spirits renewed, we headed for the bakery. We had five minutes to get there before it closed when more rain started hammering down on us. Torn between shelter and bakery, we waited a few minutes then ran — right past the now-closed bakery. Empty-handed, tired, wet, muddy, and with blisters on my feet and a splinter in my hand, I was never happier to see my front door. An unpredicted thunderstorm started soon after we walked in the door and lasted until after midnight. I should have enjoyed the walk blah blah blah, but I really didn’t. While the boys stopped in the pelting rain to look at an ‘interesting’ rock with a sea shell fossil embedded, I hungered for a comfy couch and hot chocolate. Every time they said: “Isn’t this flower/rock/landscape/mud/beetle amazing?”, I just wanted to say “No, the fact that we’ve stopped with rain pelting down on us at 1,500 metres, apparently not at all concerned about the risk of injury or death on these rocks and the slippery mud on the steep hill down is amazing.” I’m starting to think I’m a city girl after all!

UPDATE: I found a tic on my leg this morning (Friday), and one on one of the boys’ torsos. Thankfully, the other boy is a pharmacist and he got them off with the heads intact.

At first, you might not notice anything missing from this photo, but if you were walking past it regularly, you’d notice the absence of the mannequins. I’ve written about them lots of times, but they’ve been missing for a few weeks now, and there’s a good reason. The man responsible for the mannequin scenes, George Davy, passed away a few weeks ago. He was allowed to add his mannequins on this plot of land instead of the roundabout (for purported health and safety reasons of crossing onto the roundabout from the road). Apparently, he cheekily extended the area little-by-little, leaving some of the villagers less than impressed. However, the turnout for his funeral was large, and I’m sure that both he and his scenes will be missed. Nobody seems to know what will happen to his little plot of mannequin land, but it looks like its short era has come to an end. RIP, George Davy, and thanks for bringing a bit of fun to St Jean de Sixt.

My mum arrived a few days ago, and I’m enjoying seeing France through her Australian eyes. She’s reminding me of all the great and odd things about France that I’ve become so used to that I barely even notice. The scenery is the most obvious of things, with chocolate box-style chalets dotted around and hills of grass topped with white snowy peaks. Beautiful and enormous, I’ve grown to take the scenery for granted.

Meanwhile, she loved our visit to the post office. “Wow,” she said, “THIS makes a nice change from MY post office visits in Australia!” Why? Because the guy behind the desk said hello to us both, then asked how we were, then chattered away while weighing my two items of mail, then licked each stamp and attached them for me, then popped the envelopes in the mail outbox before finally tallying up the total. He also said goodbye and wished us a good day as we left. I’d never really thought about it before, but I can’t imagine any Aussie Post worker licking my stamps or posting my mail.

On a less positive note, there’s the roads. Clinging to her seat, my mum was terrified as I drove around bendy, narrow mountainous roads at a speed that she didn’t think possible. I’m not a fast driver, nor have I ever had an accident. Gripping her seat, she had to look away from the drop on one side of the road which had no barrier to prevent any cars from just dropping off the side. She’s lucky there was no fog, like on the road pictured, or random obstacles such as herds of sheep or tractors. Down in Annecy, we left a three-lane, well-made motorway/freeway and took the off-ramp directly onto a pot-holed mess of a road that had no road markings until beyond the first small intersection. “It’s like we’re in the sticks,” my mum said, while the car bounced between pot-holes, “except this is still the centre of town, right?” We certainly weren’t far away. However, back at home in St Jean de Sixt, it’s clear that we are. “I don’t hear any car horns,” she said to me, suspiciously. She’s right: outside of peak season, the only time the car horns go are for weddings on Saturdays, when the procession of wedding guests behind the happy couple toot their klaxons the whole way to the reception. She’s got that to look forward to at the end of this week — along with the clanging Sunday church bells which start at 8am.