Southern France and Ze Olde Punk Village - Sud de la France

Temps: Première moitié de Mai
Lieu: Sud de la France

TO ENGLISH READERS: if you have any trouble reading French, there's an english version of this blog entry just a bit further down the page just for you!

Bon, ça fait un bout de temps que j'ai pas fait de mise-à-jour en français sur ce blogue, or pour celles et ceux qui ont de la difficulté en anglais, je leur en dois un. Faut comprendre que j'ai pas toujours le temps suffisant à ma disposition pour rédiger un texte dans les deux langues... et puis ça a aussi à voir avec ma motivation de le faire.

Bref, la meilleure façon de se balader à vélo à travers la France, c'est bien-sûr en passant par les petits chemins de campagne qui apparaissent en blanc sur les cartes routières. Sur ces routes on y trouve les meilleures paysages bucoliques et sauvages que la France peut fournir, et c'est plutôt agréable que de passer à travers tous les petits villages de ce qui reste de l'arrière pays. Les routes nationales (en rouge ou jaune sur les cartes) sont de véritables autoroutes à deux voies, stressantes, bruyantes, parfois dangereuses, et définitivement désagréables , or j'ai préféré quitter les grandes voies pour serpenter parmi les montagnes et les prés de la campagne, où j'ai pu facilement trouver des endroits où mettre ma tente (ou dormir dans une grange), me faire donner de la bouffe dans les boulangeries ou restos, ou bien d'en trouver dans les poubelles de supermarchés ci et là. Comme je l'ai compris en Espagne, c'est plutôt facile de se faire donner de la bouffe dans des commerces, mais les chances sont plus grandes si on le fait avant la fermeture, et surtout si on demande directement aux gérant-es, car les employés-es ont beaucoup de pression sur le dos par rapport à ce genre de choses.

C'est donc après un agréable périple à travers la douce campagne, et être resté à Montpellier trois jours que je me suis rendu à la destination que que je cherchais depuis bien avant mon vayage, la Vielle Valette. En passant, belle ville qu'est Montpellier... mais justement un peu trop propre et parfaite à mon goût. On m'a dit que le plus gros de la ville c'est développé durant les derniers 20-30 ans, seulement à cause du favoritisme politique du gouvernement qui a tout investi ses projets dans Montpellier plutôt que dans la capitale de la région, Béziers, à cause que cette dernière a eu cette réputation d'être profondément communiste. Et Béziers est justement une de ces villes laides et sales à la Française, en claire contradiction avec Montpellier qui a plutôt l'air d'un gigantesque musée à ciel ouvert, ou quelque chose comme ça... mais pas grand chose à voir ou faire, en fait, et je n'y avait rien de plus à cirer.

La Vieille Valette est ce petit village d'anarcho-punks perché au creux d'une vallée, dans un racoin perdu quelque part au Nord d'Alès, et un peu à l'Est du village médiéval de St-Ambroix, dans la belle région des Cévennes. On pourrait appeller ça une communauté utopiste, basée sur des principes d'autogestion et d'une certain refus du système capitaliste dominant de la civilisation occidentale. Après environ 15 ans d'existence, j'ai eu plutôt l'impression que leur utopie -ouverte et très largement ficellée- fonctionne, mais si c'est loin d'être pour tous les goûts. J'y suis resté au plus une semaine, après avoir réalisé que les dynamiques entre les gens (dont moi) dans la place n'étaient pas
ce qu'il ya avait de plus agréables. Rien de trop grave, pas de scandales, seulement un peu trop d'intensité interpersonnelle, et d'individualisme exacerbé qui ne fait que donner l'envie de ne pas rester plus longtemps... J'ai quand même fait quelques agréables rencontres, dont une gentille et énergique fille d'Amiens, et une chatte qui était toujours après moi (ce n'est pas une métaphore de vous-savez quoi).

J'ai continué mon chemin à travers les montagnes de l'Ardèche, passé une mémorale nuit à squatter dans une maison abadonnée sur un haut col d'un vallée de montagne, grignottant, lisant et écrivant mon journal alors qu'il pleuvait dehors (j'ai souvent cette synchronie de tomber sur un abri au moment-même où il se met à pleuvoir), et ai rejoint la demeure d'un jeune couple, pas loin de Valence, qui m'a gentilment hébergé quelques temps.

Le reste est à suivre, car je dois une fois de plus repartir...

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Time: first half of May

Location: Soutern France

After an almost restless journey through the rest of Catalunya, southern France and the region of Montpellier, I finally found the place that stands for being the Shambala of anarcho-punk culture in that part of southern Europe, and even Montreal (since it's in a commune in my hometown that I first heard about it): la Vieille Valette.

I was welcomed by the people living in this place in a somewhat disinterested manner, but since this is a place where tons of punk travelers end up spending time or just visiting (I call that "anarcho-tourism", and some call it "riot tourism"), their tidy hospitality was no surprise to me. I first arrived in a parking campground with a bunch of colorful camper buses and vans, among beautiful sandstone carvings, and some people drinking and smoking. Then I went up in the valley and finally reached the town center, where I met an old couple of belgians who did'nt care much about socializing with new people. I eventually visited the place and figured out where were the guest houses by talking to villagers there and there. They actually have two large guest houses where you can have a warm and dry (and hopefully clean) place to sleep when they have no music fest around to fill up the rooms with crusty punks. My time spent in one of these house was mostly very peacecul, and even could enjoy the company of a cat... a pleasant circumstance that happens to me sometimes on the road.

My personal impression on la Vielle Valette was somewhat mixed. Although the people there are well organized and have been developping this small village for about 15 years, some of them does'nt seem to have gone over their own personal demons, being in conflict with their internalized culture of repression and self-hatred, their own severe mother or patronizing father or whatever, so they still have ruins of their own personal segregation as people willing to be free individuals in a tyrannical society, and never really grow up from being the tormented teenagers they've been But they do have a lot of curiosity for all things related to natural sciences, mainly concerning the knowledge of plants and biodynamics as well as a strong will to build, create and engineer original designs of living space (they did a wonderful job repairing old broken stone buildings, and in a way that surely rivals the greatests architects).

These are punks who might probably not have found a sustainable way to build a new relationship with Nature (including their own nature too), but have definitely grown up, in a scientific and artistic way, to find their place among it it, so I guess that makes them sustainable. But their way seems more like "green" colonizing -in the sense of roughly recreating a familiar way of life (the urban punk way, in this case) with a somewhat dogmatic respect for the environment- than creating a new form of social organisation that builds upon the idea of adapting to the natural environment, and to other individuals as well. Autonomous, they mostly are, but communists, not a single quark of it. Anarcho-primitivists, some might call them like that... especially for being devout upholders of washing their butts the "muslim way" when they shit (using solely water and their hands), but since these people have found ways to still use technology to their advantage (although the more conventional technologies, like solar panels, gas stoves, tractors, etc), that'd be too over-simplistic.

I mean yeah, I did had a hard time with my punk neighbor who played extremely loud metal/hardcore music from his sound system for like 2 days without a single interruption (now I DO like hardcore music, but NOT when going to sleep and waking up in the morning with the same thing... especially not in such a beautiful natural environment), but it's not the music or its intensity that disturbed me the most, but the fact that it's exactly the same form of self-absorbed egotism that's so common to that shitty White male-dominated capitalistic civilization out there... Only in a social space where people can't easily open to each other can you see that kind of extreme behavior aimed at communicating something. And there, I have'nt felt seen or heard somebody actually communicating with another. Of course you'll get across people talking for hours every single night, but they just don't communicate.

Put simply, I really did'nt felt like they succeeded to free themselves from civilization, or to just go into a diverging path that leads them somewhere. They have no path, actually... the only path you'll find around there is the one that begins to the left of the community pool in the town of Rochessadoule (North of Alès, a bit East to St-Ambroix), and ends somewhere near the big common kitchen right in the center of the Vieille Valette, where people fill their bellies, listen to loud music and get always wasted in the evenings.

But then again, I'm not gonna criticize their way of life, even if I don't like it much... They are still a shining example of a "community" living outside of the grid, where at least relations of authority, domination and exploitation would'nt have any air to breathe to live any longer than the few seconds it takes to be coldly ridiculed and shut off, and that, that's really something precious that don't see everywhere... Harsh, but an uncompromising harshness that keeps them away from turning into somekind of cult, or some shitty eco-capitalist, pyramidal tribe of sorts.

Seriously, I can't, and don't WANT TO change their way, since they seem to have found the appropriate balance (between freedom and structure) for what they are, and what they need in their life. All I need is to move on somewhere else at some point, and keep observing, until I find the right right place I'm looking for...

From weeding in unlikely places... to squatting in Voltaire's gardens

Geneva, the whore of international politics and one of the main high-security
chests of Western capitalists, was once a city of rich revolutionary culture, and of freedom of lifestyle. In a not-so-distant past, it served as a political refuge for countless anarchist adventurers and communist organisers (including Bakunin and Rosa Luxemburg), and for high profile intellectuals as well seeking to escape totaliarianism, such as Hannah Arendt. In more contemporary times, this used to be Europe's "Squatsville", with an estimated 200 occupied buildings everywhere in the city just a few years ago. But politics really can change things, and just as a soviet totalitarian regime can literally destroy a society in eastern Europe, it can be in a devastating way. Geneva's administration was taken over about 4-5 years ago by a conservative despot who gave himself the mandate to totally eradicate ALL clandestine occupations in the city within 6 years, and this was only an aspect of a grand scheme of transforming Geneva into somekind of international park (or the host of the upcoming world government's administration?)

In Geneva there is that huge house that used to be the residence of Voltaire's gardeners, during the years where the famous humanist philosopher lived in the manor right next to it, the "Délices". This is a beautiful building with its outisde walls completely taken over by crawling plants. It was squatted for some time, but it was transformed a few years ago into a legal cooperative student residence (gaining such legal status was appareantly the best way for this communal space to not be brutally closed down by authorities... this is Switzerland; a highly (in)secured country of systematic policing).

It really feels good to stay here... a bit of like home, even after a mere 2 nights. The green area in the backyards (where a tiny trail gets you straight to the Voltaire museum nearby) is beautiful and makes you feel comfortable to just sit around and cheer up with the regulars of the house, consisting of about 30 people -mostly "punk students"- who just spend most of their time enjoying life in a very relax and ludic manner, and sleeping with whoever they feel like without making it an issue of love, possession or domination. It's the second time I come to Switzerland, and I feel like people in this place are very liberated in their "love" affairs, and more importantly in a balanced way between guys and girls (sexual liberation just isn't worth considering about without the idea of genre equity, anyways...). People kinda openly talk about the sexual aspect of their lives, without shame or exhibitionism, and on the other hand there does'nt seem to be much

Just as in most squats, people eat recycled stuff, and relations of authority or patriarchy between individuals -even the more implicit ones- are simply not to be found, or at worst very well kept in the background.

BUT I've been, once again, shocked by the individualism and laissez-faire of the people, which leads me to that that strange story of ordinary madness that happened today...

Barcelona: Punk Wonderland

Time: second half of April '08
Place: Squattsville, Catalunya


This is the place where for a few decades, not so long ago in History, the whole christian/capitalist order was about to be totally brought down to its knees for the benefit of a society without despots and the despotism of private property... or for a proletarian conception of "liberty" in other words. Some called it the Spanish Civil War, others with a more sociologically-aware analysis like me would call it something like the first Spanish Rebellion Against Industrial Capitalism. According to some, this whole embryonic social revolution was thwarted and repressed by two political forces who were antagonistic mostly within the veil of their political creeds: the pro-bolchevik socialists (backed by Stalin's regime, mostly by bringing cheap guns to revolutionary forces) and Francisco Franco's fascists (nationalist and monarchist organizations, deeply backed by the catholic church, the monarchy... and capitalists, of course). Today, seems like the same old triangular conflict for land and liberty keeps going, but in a strangely discreet, underground manner. The corporate order is as predominant and oppressive as ever, while the actual socialist government seems to be stronger for closing down squats and rounding up local Black Panther-wannabe street gangs (yes, appearantly the bros' are here too) than fighting an all-out war against a two decades-old corporate dominion and its devastating consequences on society as well. All in all, everything, at least on the surface, looks like the "old regime" is still holding its tyrannical grasp on communities, but things are far from being black and white, fortunately, and there's still some good revolutionary potential there and there if you look at the right places. And this is where I leave that socio-political analysis of mine for some meatier travel storytelling...

NOTE: From now on, I'll write in a GREEN text color any relevant info and other useful tips for all the travellers who read this blog and might visiting the places where I've been.

Squatting in Barcelona: From Las Vagas to "the Glory Hole"

In a twist of fate of the kinds that happens often when you're travelling relying mostly on your brain, muscles and especially communication skills, I got to be introduced to squatting in Barcelona by the most appropriate persons that I could dream of. Back in the place of many radical tales and legends that is Granada, I met these colorful, pennyless travelling libertarians in a park during that crazy Holy Week (where thousands of clueless idiots admiring oddly inclined statues of the Virgin Mary and probably Super Jesus), through a pleasant combination of circumstances (i.e. in the plentiful dumpsters near Trinidad square... ah, all the good things -and people!- you can find in the trash sometimes), who actually turned out to be the residents of two squats in Barcelona. The most diplomatic of these strange folks, let's call him Mr B, gave me the infos for finding "Viva Las Vagas", the okupas he was calling home in Barcelona, a place that already looked like some fairy, mythical house in my mind (and this turned out to be actually as I imagined it, though as much accessible and hospitable).

So after my journey across southern Spain (look at the last blog entry for more details), I kinda jumped the train from Valencia to Barcelona, paying only for a trip to Castellon (or Taragona). As confirmed by my short train ride from Barcelona to some place on the Catalonian coast, it's quite easy to jump national passenger trains (the slowest Renfe trains) if the trip comes across an area with many local stops, and if you're not near the beginning of a train's trajectory (i.e. from the first to the second, or third, stop from a big city). My arrival in Barcelona at night was somewhat confusing, and finding the squat I was referred took me a few hours of search, only to find it locked and empty, so I ended up sleeping in some quiet park nearby. But after visiting the city the following day and getting familiar with the oppressive petit bourgeois tourist presence in its center, I came back to Las Vagas, where I met up with a friendly lady who came for an organizing meeting for some direct action. After a few minutes of funnily shy conversation, Mrs L and Mr S, respectively a funky, arty, shiny American girl from Minnesota and a positively crusty Aussie bloke from Melbourne, two of this bunch of folks that I met back in Granada, came out of nowhere, and after realizing that ongoing Reclaim the Streets organizing meeting was a somewhat waning, we took off to the place that I would be calling home for the next few weeks, so that's the whole story of how I began a short but prosperous life in the okupas named, for some mysterious reason, "the Glory Hole".

This small anecdote can actually serve well to represent how complicated it might be for some travellers without a contact of some specific infos to find a real -and appropriate- okupas in Barcelona. Clueless travellers with not much money and no contacts in the squat community at all should benefit from knowing that there's a great place where to sleep for free in Barcelona if you don't get to find any okupas. It's in the bunkers right on the top of the Guinardo park (Parc del Guinardo). It's an historical site of the Civil War, it's got a magnificient 360 degrees view or the entire city and it's a quiet and somewhat clean place where to squat, although you might get across a few drunk (or stone) punk travellers and you'd better have a warm sleeping bag for those windy nights. There's even a few fountains with fresh running water nearby.

Many okupas here are beautiful places of rich, artistic design, consequent to dozens of more or less permanent travellers who at some point, feel a strong inspiration to decorate and accommodate their living space with love, ingenuity, effort and various pieces of discarded merchandise they collect from the trash or sidewalk. Each of these squats tend to become an original artistic creation as a whole, an impression of the minds and the feelings of those who spent a part of their lives there. While I do not expect the Barcelona squats to gain any cheesy UNESCO recognition, it could be such an historical tragedy if all this underground culture never gets his proper place in modern art and civil History, as it's really worth it, even more than that big fucking ugly church that never gets finished and feels like just another damn urban construction site (okay, that's a bit gross on my behalf, and Gaudi did some beautiful architecture in his life, but that's still a damn church!).

For the most that I've seen (that is, of course, not enough... never enough;) , political organizing seems to be mainly focused around the issue of squatting in such somewhat socially hostile urban environment, where tourism has become a form of terrorism and the police has taken the role of clerics; that is, both by maintaining a rich, an active, rich subculture (this text link leads to an updated weekly schedule of the squat activities, very useful for someone's who's in the dark about what's going on in this community) and keeping the squats alive and open, as even the best known and beloved occupas can end up being threatened of eviction by local authorities, or directly by gypsy mafias paid by the landlords. This is hands down a culture of active resistance, where every aspect of the underground community life is important to keep developing for the movement to stay alive, at least, if not to gain some revolutionary potential someday... once again.

On a less political aspect, living in the Glory Hole, an okupas that's been opened for just 2-3 months before I arrived (the best known okupas have been opened for years), was a great experience of lavish, lively, lovely, yet messy common life with 6-7 other people (most of the time, 2 finnish, 1 czech, 2 'mericans and 1 crusty Aussie guy), full of tons of dumpster consumption goods of all imaginable kinds (even some sweet opioid prescription drugs that makes you stone in a wonderful way! ;). Although keeping the place clean was a somewhat of a heavy issue, I felt an overall happiness of being with these folks of various "marginal" backgrounds, and the overall good atmosphere of the place. why did I only stayed for 3 weeks and a few days in such great place? Well although I had a few interpersonal worries, my main motivation is that that I kinda felt that I was becoming too sedentary in this okupas and getting around on my bike everyday in such a huge and confusing city was definitely too stressful for me. I need a more balanced ratio of Nature and urbanity, and of freedom and structure as well...

This entry was written during my time spent in an autonomous community in southern France, so the next update will be about my experiences in southern France. It might take a while, but you still can email me, meanwhile, to know about what's up with me, or more specific things... Goodbye