Postcard from Corsica – Corsicans

You can tell a lot about a place from the strength and attitude of its separatist movement. In certain, civilised, parts of the world the separatist movement is much less about bombing and much more about the sale of flags, mugs and tee shirts all bearing the symbol of separatism, usually a flag as this is so popular with the tourist trade. Some separatist movements, usually from the poorer parts of the world where there are less X-Boxes per capita and so people sit around fermenting discontent and apple based home-brew beverages in the evenings rather than playing Halo, do blow things and occasionally themselves up and this is generally considered by all to be a bit off, as it does nothing to help flag sales.

Corsica has a thriving separatist movement, judging by the amount of Moor’s Head flags on display. I’m not sure if there is any actual bombing, I suspect that all the plotters are too busy manufacturing and then flogging their flags to indulge in a spot of light terrorism. Terrorism would, in any case, be quite hard to distinguish from the general level of background violence on the island.

Violence is everywhere on Corsica. Not the pushing, shoving, spitting, hair-pulling violence one sees in the playground or after chucking-out time in town on a Saturday night, but rather the threat of violence. The local brand of knife (and that should tell you something) is called ‘vendetta’, one of the tee shirts has a picture of the island with an AK47 superimposed on it and something written in French which I’m pretty sure was either ‘freedom for Corsica’ or ‘fuck you, I’ve got an AK47 and I’m from a small, pissed-off island’, I’m not sure. Although, in essence, the two remarks are interchangeable.

Everyone on the island has a gun. Actually, I would guess that everyone on the island has two guns. The first gun will be an ancient, but beautifully lethal hunting rifle, which is carried out into the countryside and used to hunt wild boar and settle feuds with your neighbour. The second gun will be hidden under the floorboards, will be an AK47 or something quite dreadful left over from the war and is being kept ready for the uprising. This means that there are two guns for every person and as a rule of thumb, it’s advisable to keep an eye on any society with more guns than people.

Sitting by the pool at the villa in the afternoon, one would hear the crack, crack, crack of somebody trying to reduce the wild boar population on the island. Coming from a city where gunfire is still frowned upon as a method for pest control (although if I had my way I’d take out the Trafalgar Square pigeons with a cluster bomb), this is fairly disconcerting. One can only hope that the hunter has a good aim, is not as drunk as I was by three in the afternoon and isn’t the bloke I inadvertently nearly ran over that morning when I was doing the croissant run out to bag himself a tourist.

Everyone on the island is very polite. This is because everyone on the island has a gun, or possibly two, and probably a hand grenade or two left over from the war. It’s also because the island has its own knife factory and it’s also because the knives are called ‘vendetta’. The message is clear, if you are rude to me, my descendent will some day kill your descendant in a hunting accident.

Given the proliferation of guns, knives, alcohol and wild boar with tusks on the island, it comes as something of a surprise that the most dangerous thing to do, even more dangerous than hunting drunk, is go for a drive. The roads twist and turn round every bend waits a goat, cow or pissed-up Corsican driving towards you at speed and on the wrong side of the road. It does not do to respond aggressively when this happens, as goats can be malevolent, follow you home, and keep you awake at night with the gentle clang of their bells.

Mr Whippy's Corsican cousin; Mr Wrong.