Or, Not Spanish, Basque or How a bunch of girls drank me under the table.
I think I’ve discovered the friendliest people in Europe, if not the world. I’ve spent three nights in Azkoitia, the heartland of Euskadi, the Basque country. I came to visit Dafne, a friend I made in Chiang Mai, and her family and friends have taken me in. She works in a bar so filled with smoke that you could probably get high by smoking the ceiling joists (and she’s the only Basque person I’ve met who doesn’t smoke). Her boss, the barman, fed me, gave me a bottle of wine, and entertained me while Dafne was working.
The countryside is very different from the rest of Spain – green, steep hills clad in pines, rich valleys filled with maize, tomatoes, cattle and sheep, and rocky mountains surrounding us in every direction. The people, too, are most definitely not Spanish. Although almost everybody is able to speak castillano, the language of the region is Euskara, a language isolate that is unrelated to any other known language. Azkoitia and the other nearby towns have the highest concentraion of Euskara speakers. I’ve leaned a little. Although it sounds pleasant, it’s hard to read – lots of k’s and x’s. Along with please and thank you (mesedez and eskerrikasko) I can count to ten, and know useful words like ‘parranda’ for party and ‘kafe utsa’ for espresso.
Basque political statements are everywhere throughout the region. Almost every building sports an “Euskal presoak, Euskal herria” poster – a campaign to have imprisoned members of ETA jailed in Basque prisons instead of French and Spanish ones. Nationalist graffiti is also common. It’s strange to be in a place that seems so remote and innocent, and yet has the writings of a group that most of the world considers a terrorist organization scrawled proudly on city walls. It’s a tough issue. Obviously, violence does not improve the situation. ETA was formed partially in response to Franco’s attempt to eradicate Basque identity, and while Spain’s current government is obviously more liberal than Franco’s fascist dictatorship, many still feel the threat of being overwhelmed by Spanish culture and language.
I arrived at the start of a two-day party which seems to use the feast day of St. Ignatius of Loiola (the nearest town) as an excuse to drink an awful lot of kalimotxo (the only Basque word I actually knew before I left Australia). I went out to party in Ezpeitia with about ten of Dafne’s friends, who are all female, beautiful, and can drink a lot more than me. I switched to water about two hours before anyone else, although in my defence, I bet I felt a lot better than anyone else this morning. Most of them wouldn’t speak any English until they had a few drinks under the belt.
I’ve never felt quite as embarrased to be monolingual. One of the most common comments (in Euskara) was “It’s a shame he doesn’t even speak castillano“. I think I’m going to make sure I have at least basic Spanish before I return to this country.
Yesterday, we drove up to the Gurrutxaga family house in the nearby mountains, where Dafne’s grandmother prepared a Basque feast of seafood and traditional nibbles. It felt a lot like Christmas at home – the combination of seafood, champagne and hot weather. Afterwards, we watched a concert on the steps of the Basilica of St. Ignatius of Loiola.
The last few days have been simply fantastic. Good food, beautiful people, a dramatic landscape and pleasant weather. Dafne’s parents, Mailu and Jexux, and her grandmother, Maritxu, treated me like family. On my last day in the country, Maritxu gave me a tour of San Sabastian, and took me to her brother’s restaurant where I enjoyed a three course meal (on the house).
Tomorrow, London.
