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In search of the Figoun dialect in Mons
Instead, we found matchstick model boats in this glorious hilltop village
Mons is a tiny, yet lovely hilltop village on the edge of the northen Var and the Alpes Maritime regions of Provence. We had read that Mons had a turbulent past with plagues, besiegements, destruction and reconstruction. From the fifteenth century onwards it had been repopulated by families from the Genoa region.
This influx, helped by the isolated position of the village, made for a particular dialect, Figoun that, according to the guidebook is still spoken by the locals today. This we had to discover for ourselves.
After a visit to the Tourist Office where we found a source of information on walking trips, bicycling routes, even a sign-up sheet for Mons' one and only tennis court, we walked into the village proper. We thought that the local Bar/Tabac would be the place to eavesdrop as we started our search for Figoun. We went inside and saw two men engaged in a conversation, speaking a language that we can only describe as French with a heavy Provençal accent.
Lacking any knowledge of Figoun we asked the waitress for deux pressions which she fully understood. While sipping our beer, another man came inside. His overalls were covered in masonry dust. Aha we thought, he had to be a local! Alas, his expletive when he discovered that the Tabac had run out of cigarettes, even the foreign ones, had no Figounais characteristic, as far as we could tell. Disappointed but still determined, we left the Tabacless bar and roamed the narrow streets of Mons.
Even though it's a small village, the twisting alleys, curving steps and stone arches make it seem bigger than it is. At one point we found ourselves led back to a street which we had passed earlier. Outside a shop stood a sign with Musée Marine et Montagne. Earlier it had been closed, but now the door stood open. With heightened curiosity (a nautical museum at 800 meters high and at 50 km from the sea?) we boldly entered.
Inside, we found Monsieur Robert Audibert at work on a model boat he was making out of match sticks. He told us that he had been creating model boats and ships, precisely to scale, all his life. A few years ago he retired from his work as a truck driver and now devotes his days to his boats. Every day he spends seven hours in his atelier/museum. An average project now takes thirteen months to finish. All around on the walls we saw newspaper and magazine clippings, official certificates of acknowledgement (did one of them say Académie Française?) and other accolades.
In one interview with a distinctly younger M. Audibert, he was quoted as saying that he hoped someone someday would buy one of his ships. When I asked him if he had succeeded in doing so, he shook his head. Never had he wanted to sell any of his creations. That particular journalist had just not listened, and had created this wish in his own imagination.
We admired the finished ships on display, the faithfully scaled model of the village and the lifelong dedication of this extraordinary man. He had told us that he started this "hobby" at the age of eleven. In the corner, at a work bench, a young boy was carefully scraping off the tips of the used match sticks that came in every day from faithful followers. When asked how old he was, the boy replied "eleven." M. Audibert smiled but added: "it's only his first day. We shall see."
Back outside, we realized that we had forgotten to ask M. Audibert about the local dialect. We had been too taken by the details of his little museum. With one more loop through the village, we decided to get back to the car and leave the mountain with its mysterious and evasive language.
Just then in a bourgeois house on the corner we heard the sounds of children singing in a strange language. Accompanied by a flute and what sounded like a tambourine, the children's voices were strong and certain. The song was mesmerizing - repetitive but with twists. We stood on tiptoe to look inside, but the shutters were closed. All of a sudden, the song stopped. A woman spoke and after that nothing.
Perhaps it was a CD, perhaps a live group of children now studying on the text of the next song. Perhaps they sang in Provençal, perhaps in Arabic. We didn't know either language. We shook our heads. No, it had to be Figoun. No other language or dialect would be sung with such force and pride in this village of Mons. Of that we were certain.
Read more about the Village of Mons.
