Basque friends at a cideria with Basque champion woodcutter 'Olasagasti'

Any article entitled ´Working with the Spanish’ will get into stormy waters if it attempts blanket coverage of the Iberian Peninsula and this is no truer than for the proud Basque people who inhabit the rugged coasts of the North.

Just like the English ‘go on holiday to Europe’ so the Basques ‘go on holiday to Spain’ and in the public Basque-speaking schools (Ikastolas) more hours of English are taught than Spanish! Although business with the Basques usually takes place in either the English or Spanish languages, the Basques do NOT see themselves as Spanish (the World Cup excluded) and this is often the first cultural faux pas to be made!

 Naturally, generalisations can be made and a love of food and wine, family and friends can be found throughout the Mediterranean lands, but the Basques are not Latins and business with the Basques is quite a different kettle of fish than with the more extrovert Spaniards of the South.

Informal and non-hierarchical

From a British point of view, the Basque reserve and informality are easy to relate to. The Basque dress code is usually relaxed and understated, and any overt display of status or position does not impress. Historically, the Basque culture has always tended towards democracy and a flat social hierarchy which is also reflected in the language they use.  When speaking Spanish the informal use of ‘tu’ to address your colleagues and business partners is used far more in the north of Spain than in the south, where echoes of a feudal past can still be discerned in the  more formal and commonly-used ‘Usted’.  

 Are the Basques on time?

I can hear the reply of ‘mañana, mañana’ but NO, don’t be taken in and don’t take the mañana system for granted when heading off for appointments in San Sebastian or Bilbao. Although the timing may be slightly more relaxed than we know it in Britain, the Basques tend to be refreshingly punctual and to the point. One notable difference is that in Britain we like to fill up our posh leather agendas weeks, if not months in advance. Trying to nail down a Basque (or Spanish) business partner for a meeting too far ahead of time may do little more than bemuse their shorter-term mind sets. In these your partner will quite often ask you to call to make an appointment when you arrive in town and then fit you in in the next couple of days.

 This helps me make another point about formal and informal systems. In the Basque country there is a very reliable formal system where your word is your honour and a date is a date. However, when plans go astray for whatever reason you will find that the Basques can be very flexible too and that a few phone calls later appointments can be changed, dates and venues can be swapped, and the new plans will be equally reliable as the old ones. Having run a business in the Basque Country for over a decade these two systems allow a refreshing mix of security and flexibility.

 My word is my honour          

The Basque culture has a strong oral tradition where people are expected to honour their word and, on the whole, the system still works. Basques like to show trust and like to feel trusted and for many Basque shaking your hand on a deal is as binding as any written document. Nevertheless, there is a naturally a fine line between leaving yourself wide-open and nailing down every detail of an agreement in writing, but do at least be sensitive to this deeply-seated Basque code of honour. 

Pintxo bar in San Sebastian

Money is always a quagmire of cultural differences and, in the Basque Country (and Spain as a whole), talk about money and pricing are usually introduced towards the ends of conversations. If a client does hand you over cash then he may feel offended if you sit down and count out the notes in front of him. If you do have to check, be discreet. 

However, there is no better demonstration of this code of honour than in the bustling tapas (pintxo) bars of San Sebastian. With the bar tops laden high with colourful plates of pintxos you are invited to spend the evening grazing, helping yourself to one after the other , ordering a glass of ‘tinto’ or a bottle of ‘Txakoli’, (and then perhaps a couple more pintxos to round off the day). Hours may pass before you nudge through the crowd to get the bill from the waiter who, more often than not, will only have your word as to how many pintxos and drinks have passed your way.

 Business and Socialising

From my experience the Basques do not like to mix business and pleasure. It is either one or the other and the idea of working breakfasts or lunches is generally anathema to them. If you are asked out to lunch by your business colleagues then more often than not the content of the lunchtime conversations should be kept to general social topics such as family, Basque culture, wine, food and football etc. If you have any Basque contacts or business colleagues in common then showing that you are already part of an inner circle is also a clever step to make. However, if strict business talk is absolutely necessary don’t let it creep into conversation until the coffee is served.

Likewise, during meetings, it may feel natural for Northern Europeans to take coffee breaks and saunter back into the meeting room cup of coffee in hand, whereas for the Basques this seemingly innocent act could be interpreted as a lack of seriousness and respect. Food and work just don’t mix. (This attitude to business is a far cry from that of the Danes, Barry Tomalin * and I worked with in Copenhagen. Here, they would start the morning training sessions with ‘hyggelit’ cakes and  coffees but would be talking about numbers and prices before they had had time to wipe the crumbs off their business plans!)  

* I have had the great honour to work with Barry Tomalin in Cross-cultural Awareness Training over the years. Barry is a writer, author and public speaker who is now the director of Cultural training at International House in London and lecturer at the London Academy of Diplomacy. His book ‘The World’s Business Cultures and how to Unlock Them’ is well worth a read. See his website at www.culture-training.com.

Making friends over a Spanish lunch in the Pyrenees

It was at this Mayfair language school that I first learned about Georgi Lozanov´s teaching techniques of Suggestopedia which made total sense of my experiences as a language teacher and as a conversationalist with Polish sandwich boys in my time off. In retrospect these brief conversations with Jan encapsulated much of Lozanov’s thinking. Munching on my ham and pickle sandwich and cupping a warm mug of coffee in my hand I listened eagerly to Jan’s descriptions of Polish life – welcoming a few minutes off from the soulless marketing of high fashion brands. Jan seemed equally eager to talk and chatted away animatedly, in faltering English, evidently moved by the fact that someone was more interested in him than the range of sandwiches he had to offer.

Learning Spanish with the senses – Spanish that makes sense.

Lozanov´s theories on the teaching of a foreign language outline the importance of engaging the whole range of a person’s senses in the teaching process – not only the traditional senses of sight, sound, smell and touch but also those of movement and emotion (etymologically not unrelated).  Lozanov goes on to advocate the importance of establishing a happy, friendly and non-threatening environment where teachers take the role of fun, and empathic (but not necessarily infallible) facilitators who show a genuine interest in their students. In retrospect, thinking of my own experiences learning languages in many different countries, I can not think of a more motivating factor in the learning of a language than the simple but powerful desire to communicate with other people.

Learning languages by the waterfalls of Itxusi

The desire to show our Spanish hosts how much we enjoy the paella they have made for us ….. to tell friends from San Sebastian of the tapas bars we have visited in their city … to learn about the Basque culture from the elderly farmers next door ….  to share our experiences of motherhood with other mothers in the square … to communicate our personality, our humour, our thoughts and sensitivities. In short that human and overwhelming desire to build bridges between one person and the next!

It wasn’t a surprise to me when I came across the experiments of Patricia K. Kuhl, Feng-Ming Tsao and Huei-Mei Liu (2003) on the effects of Foreign Language Experience in Infancy (in this case Mandarin). In their experiments on 9 month old infants they found that the infants acquired a sensitivity to Mandarin if words were imparted by a real person but acquired none if the same words were emitted by a DVD, hence implying that – in infants at least – human presence and social contact is an essential prerequisite for the learning of a second language. To all those language learners who have struggled with DVD’s and language labs doesn’t this make sense? *

Serendipitous meetings in the Spanish Pyrenees

Serendipitous Meetings

As I sit here planning our walking and Spanish language house parties this summer, preparing the house and organising foresters and musicians, lawyers and smugglers to join in the fun, I wonder what has happened to sandwich man Jan? I knew him superficially for a couple of months and it seems so odd that 20 years later I am dedicating this blog to him. But that, of course, is the wonder of serendipitous moments that can change the course of our lives – and surely, the more languages we speak, the more people we meet, the more of these serendipitous meetings are out there waiting.

* http://www.pnas.org/content/100/15/9096.long#sec-2

We wake up reeking of the raw onion on the dressing table …..Amatxi’s solution for Marion’s cough. It works but we reek! As I carry her down the stairs of my renovated Basque sheep shed, situated high up in the Spanish Pyrenees, we indulge in our game of bell guessing. I say it’s a herd of horses but, when we look beyond the gate, Marion cries  ‘MOO’ . I am wrong.  Bell culture here is fascinating. Every animal, every herd is different.

After  breakfast we take a plum and blackberry crumble to Sagrario´s on the neighbouring farm. It is just a 5 minute walk away.  My neighbours go crazy for crumble (lemon curd, chedder cheese and Thai curries also go down well in the hamlet) – and I promise to help Sagrario make one for the fiestas next July. We walk through carpets of sheep’s droppings and chestnuts,  pass blackberry bushes and fig trees with Marion alternating exclamations of ‘NAN NAN’ and ‘CACA,’ (Basque:  FOOD and POO).

It doesn’t matter that we reek of onions.  Sagrario’s house reeks of cows. They practise the old fashioned-farming system with the animals on the ground floor; their very own central heating system. One day I remember Sagrario exclaim ‘qué calor hace aqui’ and, where we would have reached to turn the thermostat, she simply popped downstairs to take the cows out.  We have lunch with the extended family; thick vegetable soup, pork, potatoes (all off the farm) followed by strong home-made sheep’s cheese and crumble! The older men reminisce about their past, log cutting in France … the girls in the fiestas and while Luis, Sagrario´s single brother-in-law fills my glass with local wines, I solve his future by playing Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor with the damson stones on his plate!

 Yet it is never the apathetic who suffer from phobias. It is those who struggle valiantly to remedy the problem, braving a few phrases of a new language and bracing themselves for the reply which finally comes – broken and faltering perhaps – but almost inevitably in English.   One morning, at a bakers in Copenhagen, I remember asking, in Danish, for a couple of  wienerbrød.[1]  The woman replied in English, I battled on in Danish, she asserted herself in English, I gritted my teeth and pursued the Danish, she gritted hers and pursued the English and so we went on until I finally left the shop. 

One of the great barriers we have to overcome is that most other Europeans are, by necessity,  streets ahead of us in learning foreign languages, and in particular English. Many look for any opportunity to try out their English skills and we – demoralised and deflated – understandably give in.

However, this is not the whole picture. Another reason for our linguaphobia is the simple fact that we know so little about our own language.  Most of us have little idea of how English is made up, we know nothing of  pronouns and prepositions, and the word  grammar strikes a note of horror, recalling images of clinical classrooms and military verb drills. Usually, it is only when we come to learn a foreign language that we gain our first real insight into our mother tongue.  This seems to me a little like putting the cart before the horse or – as they say in Spanish – before the ox  (poner el carro delante de los bueyes)!

Putting the ox before the cart

 Unfortunately, from the point of view of the non-native English speaker our general ignorance of foreign languages is frequently interpreted as arrogance. In learning a few phrases of the local language we offer other cultures an important token of respect and show people that we are prepared to meet them on their terms rather than expect them to surrender to our own. From our perspective, no matter how well other people speak English, the ability to speak their native tongue allows us a far deeper insight into the nuances of their culture and the nature of their values. It enables those wonderful, impromptu conversations with locals in shops, on trains and walks around town, and inevitably enhances our ability to build solid friendships and learn more about the world we live in.

I have based our Spanish language courses here in Spain on this philosophy and aim to put the horse back in front of the cart, to demystify Western European languages by revealing their infinite similarities as well as to provide people with the tools to help them make the most of the linguistic journey ahead of them. Language learning should also be fun!  So, if you would rather launch yourself into conversation at the risk of error than remain tongue-tied in the search for perfection, then I encourage you all to confront the ghosts of linguaphobia!

*Except from my book Breaking the Language Barrier.

My neighbour's house, Zubialdea

The Basque house is perhaps better thought of in terms of a family seat, rather than a mere dwelling place of bricks and mortar and for many mountain Basques the mere thought of selling their home, or even a piece of their land, is shameful. In the old laws (fueros) of Navarre, the Basque etxea had the same properties as an embassy or a church; it was out of the reach of the law and, if a family member was wanted for some serious crime, the police had no right to enter the house, having to sit out the long wait until the suspect deigned to appear.

I remember a conversation years ago with my friend Tere who was talking at length about ‘her house’.  The more she went on the less I recognised the family chalet she lived in with her husband in Elizondo. When I tried to clarify the matter it appeared that the simple and unqualified term ‘mi casa’ referred unambiguously to the house she was born in; a large crumbling run-down farm on the outskirts of Arizkun –  NOT the house that she had lived in for the past 30 years. Even in ruins, the house’s ghost and influence live on.

In  the summer my guests arrive in Biarritz (our nearest airport) for their Spanish courses and, once they have overcome the idea of flying to France to learn Spanish, they are then thrown into the confusion of thinking that they have arrived on a German course instead! As we head towards the Spanish/French border and the toothy grimace of the Pyrenees, they encounter a Bavarian-styled landscape of rolling green hills and immense houses with wooden balconies crowded with pink geraniums. The important role of these immense Basque houses is reflected in their size and although these diaphanous 3 or 4 storey buildings appear enormous, it is easy to forget that the family living quarters are usually confined to the first floor only. Whereas in the UK we often have a series of outlying barns, here the house tends to support the whole farming unit within the one structure. The ground floor traditionally housed the stables for the sheep, cows, donkeys and pigs and the top floor was traditionally used for storing the hay, and for drying farm produce such as potatoes, corn, black beans, walnuts, jamon and txistora.

Although today farming has witnessed a huge decline, and those that continue to farm have moved the animals out to newer out-houses, this is not the case everywhere. I remember Sagrario commenting one warm autumn day that it was far too hot in her house. Where we would have simply turned down the thermostat, she matter-of-factly went downstairs to take the cows out! Albeit a rather smelly affair, the design of the Basque farmhouse exemplifies the perfect eco-heating system where the heat from the animals helps warm the living quarters above, and the hay in the hayloft provides the perfect roof lagging.

The Baztan valley - making hay while the sun shines

Basque farmsteads are often quite small units as the terrain of the Pyrenees does not allow for large extensive farming. They would usually produce enough to provide for one extended family but little more; producing their own meat, vegetables, maize, milk and eggs and having their own source of wood. Each household made its own sheep’s cheese and bread and although, today, my neighbours buy in sugar, oil and wine these too would have been easily substituted by honey, animal fat and cider (the traditional Basque beverage) all once produced on their own farm. (Oh, and lets not forget Patxaran, the delicious local sloe and aniseed liqueur!)

Traditionally, the Basque house is inherited by just one of the children, often – but not always – by the oldest boy. Although, in the past, tortuous negotiations would have taken place in the village plaza as the men tried to marry as many of their children as possible into family homes:  “if I let your daughter marry my son and give him my house, then I want you to marry your eldest son to my daughter so that she gets yours”. And so on. It is of little surprise that the Spanish word to get married is ‘casarse’.

The rest of the siblings had to make their own way in life and although they were ensured a bed and food in the family home while they were single, many left the area to become soldiers,  to find work in the Americas, or (more recently) the Alps or to become nuns or priests.  My daughter’s father, Lino, always says that his father’s decision to send him away to a seminary in Pamplona to become a priest had very little to do with his religious inclinations and far more to do with the fact that the vicarage was the last free house in the village!

The fact that traditionally one child inherited the whole has undoubtedly caused much family friction and rivalry over the years and I think it is of interest to mention a comment made by my friend Ana about the psychiatric hospital she works in in Pamplona. ‘There are’ she says ‘a surprisingly high number of eldest sons committed to the wards!’.

 However, things are changing and the honour of being named as the sole heir to the family home is now considered a mixed blessing. Not only does the house come with all the farm work and the draining expense of up-keep and repair, but it comes with a long list of social responsibilities towards the family. The couple who inherit the house are not only duty-bound to look after the ageing parents but also to provide a bed and food for any other unmarried siblings. As there is a very  high number of single men in the Basque country (so high that some avant-guard mayors have even organised camel trains of females to jolly up their ageing male population), apart from her own family, the poor wife may find herself providing for an army of parents, uncles and brothers in law.  Today many of the youngsters opt to move into flats in the village and take up a routine job in a local factory rather then take on the institution of the (beautiful) Basque etxea. 

……………………………………..

Notes on Basque roofs

Here are a couple of notes on eaves and roofs that I didn’t manage to fit into the blog.

If a child died before it was baptised it was not allowed to be buried in the church and so was usually buried beneath the wide eaves of the house.

As you walk through a Basque village you will see that almost no house shares a wall with another one even if the immense walls are just centimetres apart. Although this would have made economic sense, each ‘etxea’ is seen very much as its own very separate family entity; the land beneath the eaves is often the jealously-guarded property of the owners (which can cause legal problems today when new houses are built up alongside the old ).

About 80 years ago, during the times of Atautxi’s parents, a Basque woman was to stay indoors, in quarentine, for the 40 days that followed the birth of her child. If she ventured out to the vegetable patch or (in the event of Atautxi’s mother) to plant the black beans, she was forced to wear a roof tile on her head  – in the way she could justify that she was still under the roof of her house! Amatxi then added that if the mother had taken the baby to the chapel and offered it to the virgin mother before the 40 days were up, she was then allowed to venture outdoors and leave the roof and roof tile behind her!

And to finish off with the a cultural tip to anyone wondering through the countryside of the Basque country 

Amatxi in the vegetable garden of Zubialdea in Ameztia

Here is a piece of cultural advice: if you are ever walking in the Basque countryside and come across an elderly person in their front yard, do take the time to ask them the name of their house and compliment them on how pretty it is. It will be well appreciated!

Sagrario and Ignacio live with their children, Amaia and Iñaki.  Amaia is  a very pretty hairdresser whose boyfriend, Joseba,  is one of the strongest Basque men in Navarra! (especially known for the ancient Basque sport of lifting carts and ‘chingas’ around the plaza). Iñaki is the younger of the two, a welder and mercifully-gifted mechanic. Both have inherited the glint in their fathers beautiful green eyes.  Ignacio’s unmarried brother, Luis, lives with them too. He is always joshing but is painfully shy; a passionate huntsman with hands as rough as bark and a heart of honey. Frightened by women. Very Basque.

Trying some of Sagrario's sheep's cheese

The family of Sumbillanea (for here families are often known by the name of their houses rather than a surname) have looked after me, and my land, ever since I have been here. Most mornings, when Marion was a baby, Sagrario would dispatch Luis off with the sheep and a Tupperware container of pureed home-grown vegetables.  Marion and I would wake to the sound of the bells and try and guess which animals they belonged too. The higher ring of the sheep in the field were the easiest to recognise but, by the age of 2, Marion was usually the first to work out whether there were horses at the gate or cows in the garden. Whatever we found outside the door, Marion’s lunch would inevitably be hanging on the fence.

 Sagrario often talks about her lost childhood. She was first put to work looking after her grandmother at around 3 year’s old and remembers sitting vigil by her grandmother’s chair at the fireside for hours on end while the family were out working in the fields.  Her elderly grandmother appears to have had a form of Parkinson’s disease which meant that she would tip forward in her chair from time to time and need to be righted. This job – together with the task of putting logs on the fire – was among Sagrario’s first responsibilities. She remembers clearly passing the hours with just a pair of scissors and a piece of paper that she would cut into evermore diminutive and elaborate shapes until her parents came home.  She had no toys and so she made her own, and when she played at cooking with her sisters they used the heads of camomile flowers for ‘fried eggs’ and dried brown beech leaves for ‘filet steaks’.  When her parents were out they played other sorts of games, raiding of best clean clothes (kept aside for ‘visits to the doctor’ so she says) and dressing up her younger brothers. At the sound of voices in the yard, they would hurriedly undress them and put them back where they belonged.

Ignacio, Sagrario, Me and Luis at Sumbillanea in Ameztia

Talking over this article with Sagrario yesterday, Ignacio and Luis chimed in about the toys they invented during their youth.

In the lack of anything like a tin-opener, tins were opened by puncturing the top with a knife and rolling back the lid in strips. With two strips rolled back the tins would look vaguely like cows with horns which, when left outside to rust would take on a reddish huge just like a breed of cattle raised on the local farms. The brothers would then attach two tin cows together with a twig to imitate a yoke, and with a small string attached to the front, would play at leading them along the tiny tracks in the hillside that they had carved out with the tip of a hoe. 

The brother who moved his cows furthest along the track without tipping them over would win!

By the time Sagrario was 7 she was sent off to work looking after her younger nieces and nephews at her aunts’ house in the village of Oiz, a lonely 4 km walk down to the valley floor. For the next 7 years she would return home perhaps once a month. In the meantime, while her uncle worked with one of the few tractors in the area, and her aunt helped out at a local inn, she would help look after the house, the children and the cows.  When time allowed, she would attend the local school where the Basque language was banned and where – at first – she understood hardly a word. Sagrario, Ignacio and Luis all agree that the only thing they learned at school was to speak Spanish. Today Spanish is used much more commonly in the villages than it was before.  

The brothers’ recollection of their school days is particularly harsh and, although school was (in theory) compulsory between the ages of 8 and 14, with so much work on the farm they would rarely attend more than 5 or 6 days a month. When they did, their mornings started early and by the time school in Ituren started, they had already milked the cows, led the donkey with the milk down the tortuous 4 km track to the village, returned to the farm with supplies, changed clothes and walked back down to school, where cold and tired they would be reprimanded for speaking Basque!

Marion at Sumbillanea. Views of our house to the left and above it of Sotillenea, where Sagario was born

Sagrario, Ignacio and Luis have helped considerably in Marion’s upbringing. They indulge her and spoil her – evidently intent on preserving the joys of her childhood  – a childhood that they all feel that they were denied.

Thank you, Sumbillanea, for all your help!

The subject (and initial reason for the e-mail), was an article by Francois on the person-language bond between bi-lingual children and other bi-linguals.   

The object of my dilemma (and luckily not that of the Guarda Civil’s) is my Spanish partner, Iñaki!

Until now our farmhouse in the Basque Pyrenees has been the strong-hold of Marion’s linguistic identity. We have lived alone since she was 6 months old when I made a decision to establish the whole house culture in English; BBC TV, the 101 Dalmatians and Pride & Prejudice videos, her Famous Five and Black Beauty Stories, her Heidi audio books etc. Everything is in English. (Admittedly, the pantry shelves of Horlicks, Marmite and Early Grey Tea bags have had a welcome sprucing up with Spanish tintos, chorizo and olives!).

Now, I stress, this has nothing to do with any reluctance to adapt to the local Basque/Spanish community, to which we are so deeply and inextricably connected. It is because we live in such a remote part of the Pyrenees and I know of no other English (let alone foreign) people in the area. The only native English Marion ever hears (apart from the odd trip back to the UK) is the English she hears at home. Her schooling, friends and local village life are held in Basque. Any social life she has with me (as I speak better Spanish than Basque) is in Spanish as are all her interactions with our wider circle of friends from Pamplona and San Sebastian (AND Iñaki!).  

Marion, 3, on Christmas Day already working for our Spanish language company in the stamps and stickers department

Marion now spends the greater part of her time in the Basque-speaking world, however, as soon as she walks into the house I have noticed a complete change in her and even think – although I cannot be sure – that I detect a vague shift in the way she holds herself too. Not only does she automatically speak in English when she opens the door but her internal dialogues switch languages too. Her ‘ay!’ when she hurts herself changes to an ‘ouch!’. Her ‘eh’ when she ponders over something changes to an ‘uhm’. In fact this was very notable the other day when I asked her for the Basque word for butterfly. She started off pondering to herself  in English with ‘uhm’ and then, after a couple of seconds or so’s uncertainty, her pondering sounds shifted to the Basque ‘eh’ where upon she promptly retrieved the word ‘Tximeleta’! It was as if she simply had to change a radio – or language – frequency and tune in.  At home she will sing English songs to herself and her dolls, and will also do her maths in her head in English. At school, and with her Basque friends from the plaza, all this will be done in Basque (and occasionally Spanish).

I have also known her to dream in 3 different languages in the same night.

Although Marion quite clearly associates me with the English-speaking world, I am also pretty sure that she associates it with location, namely that of our family home in Ituren in the Spanish Pyrenees. That was until recently when the English oasis we have created here was put in jeopardy. Enter Iñaki. 

Until now Iñaki lived in San Sebastian. Marion has always spoken Spanish with Iñaki although he does speak English competently.  Now he has started to live with us at our home in Ituren, Marion naturally wants to speak Spanish to him too and, although both Iñaki and I speak in English when Marion is around in a unified stance to uphold the English house culture, Marion finds it virtually impossible to speak to him in anything but Spanish.  We insist, she utters a few words words in English but, by the end of the sentence, she is speaking Spanish again.  She is not angry or defiant, it is simply that her conditioned response to Iñaki – whether it be his presence, his face, his aftershave – I am not sure  – is in Spanish and she seems totally unable to associate him with any other language no matter how hard we try. One interesting observation is that if I ask her to turn away from Iñaki while she is talking to him, and to look at me instead, then she does appear to find it easier to speak to him in English! My experience only confirms François´s findings on the person- language bond.

However, I would like to take this thought a little further. My small company, Pyrenean Experience, runs Spanish language courses in the Pyrenees for adult learners of Spanish. Although a large majority of my guests come from English-speaking countries we often require that our guests speak Spanish exclusively during the lunchtimes and the walks.  Marion often joins in and knows full-well that when my guests are joining us for lunch she must only speak to them in Spanish.  Although she is fully aware that everyone speaks English far better than they speak Spanish, and that communication would be far easier for all concerned if they did speak English, she understands the nature of my work and seems to have little problem maintaining conversation with them in Spanish – no matter how laborious or confusing it may be.   As Francois discusses in his article on the person-language bond, I think the only natural conclusion is that, where my guests are concerned, Marion has not previously formed any special relationship with them in one language or the other and so she has less of a problem establishing a relationship with them in Spanish, regardless of the artificial limitations it imposes on conversation.  

That – I suppose – is one interpretation! The other may be that her sights are eagerly set on the 5 euro salary I often give her for helping me out!

Thank you, François, for your input and your time!

See: François Grosjean’s article in Psychology Today on the person-language bond.

Summer fiestas in Santesteban

So rather than talking about Spanish courses in Spain, let us presume that the real question is how do we go about mixing and mingling with the Spanish people? Love affairs are great (but perhaps not everyone’s ‘cup of tea’ (how British!) and a brush with the law may be going to rather unnecessary lengths to put your Spanish verbs to the test … so let us look at more orthodox methods. A home stay with a Spanish family is a great start and, although one is never certain whether one will find things in common with one’s hosts, if you are lucky enough to hit it off this can be a great way to make new Spanish acquaintances and friends. Another way would be to join activities or interest groups aimed at the local population.

When Steve and Veronica stayed at the cottage this summer, they joined Iziar and Lorea’s cooking course in Santesteban. (Haizea and Lorea are sisters who run my very favourite restaurant Donamariako Benta which can be found just over the hill in Donamaria). Although the course was aimed at local house wives, and I am sure that Veronica already knows how to make a good Béchamel sauce, ( do look out for her recipes on La Recette du Jour), I know that their Spanish came on leaps and bounds with the other Spanish participants from the valley. What about looking up archaeological digs, furniture restoration courses, Reiki courses, yoga sessions, flower-arranging sessions, voluntary work, mountaineering clubs etc. advertised for local people in regional newspapers or on public library walls ( NOT THE TOURIST OFFICE)? Granted, you may need some help with the translation, (and in this case you could ask the tourist office to help), and you may need to take a deep breath (or the odd glass of tinto ) before you walk in the door for the first time … but the Spanish are usually friendly, welcoming people with a good sense of humour and a useful smattering of English for use in emergencies!  

Surely it is worth a try, and you may enjoy yourself far more than on a Spanish language course in a sterile Spanish schoolroom with everyone but the Spanish! 

Walking the hills of Ameztia with Spanish friends

From personal experience, my Spanish took a great step forward when I first came to Spain 13 years ago and joined Haciendo Huella, Alfonso Monge’s weekend rambling groups in Madrid. I was the only English person in the group!

So, unless you have friends or acquaintances in Spain who can introduce you to a Spanish community and Spanish friends, then I would think seriously about what you want from your Spanish language courses. Learn the basics on a Spanish course in the UK and then think laterally about all the Spanish language opportunities a couple of weeks in this wonderful country could provide.. and you may find that you are not looking for a traditional Spanish language course at all!

After a mug of hot broth, (caldo), traditionally made from boiled pork and chickens feet, we climbed the steps to the attic rooms above the town hall and plunged into a frenzy of bells and ropes, of sheep’s skins and brightly-coloured swaddling ribbons. No, don’t be misled by the pretty pinks and baby blues, the lace petticoats and the empty bottles of Patxaran – carnival time in Ituren is NOT a frivolous affair.   

10 litre bells pulled tight on the Joaldunak's back

The atmosphere is serious and the faces of the Joaldunak are tense and pale under their thick Basque eyebrows as they wait for a heavy boot to be wedged in the base of their spine.  Thick ropes are heaved tightly around their girth as a pair of 10 litre copper bells are secured tightly to the small of their broad Basque backs. Years ago the Joaldunak would have lived and slept in their bells during the whole carnival period and, with the ropes so tightly knotted around their midriffs, chicken broth would have been the staple for days on end. ( I can only imagine that Patxaran  - the local sloe and aniseed liqueur – would have found its way through parted lips as well.)

Today is the first day of the Ituren-Zubieta carnivals, the Monday after the last Sunday in January and it is Ituren’s day to host the carnivals and welcome the Joaldunak from Zubieta into our own village square.

Ituren. The Joaldunak follow in the footsteps of their ancestors 1000's of years ago.

This is by far the most important day in the year for our village and the opportunity to ‘wear the bells’ (the word ‘Joaldunak’ literally means ‘the bell-wearers’ in Basque) is a great honour and tremendous responsibility handed on from generation to generation since documents began. Pello ( a local historian) told me last week that there was even mention of a Joaldunak-like character in these parts during Roman times!)

During the rein of Franco, Basque traditions were outlawed completely, as was the Basque language. ( This was such the case that there is now a missing generation of Basques whose parents refused to teach them Euskera for fear of their children being detained in the streets).  However, even during these difficult times, the Basque villagers from Ituren and Zubieta clung tenaciously to their carnival traditions, aided and abetted by the tortuous mountain roads that lead to our villages and the opaque winter mists that shroud our valley floors.

Around 2pm the Joaldunak from Ituren congregate in the plaza, and the leader of the troupe (the enigmatic, Lazaro,) starts off the procession with a call on his horn and a back flick of solid hips releasing a heavy clonk from the Joariak on his back. The rest of the troupe fall into step;  a complicated rhythmic step where the total synchronisation of movement and sound between the troupe members is of vital importance as well as a source of immense individual and village pride.  The men are so acutely concentrated on their movements that they enter into a meditative, trance–like state and their solemn faces contrast markedly with the wild celebrations and obscenities of the beasts and demons, monsters and witches that scatter in their wake.

The chained bear (hartza) and the Joaldunak

The Joaldunak, together with a chained bear (harza) with rams horns, said be symbolic of the devil,  then make the rounds of the village, blessing the village with flicks of horse-hair whips and the ringing of their bells. In times past there may have been real wolves and bears to frighten away from their herds of sheep and cattle, as well as the more intangible forces of evil, disease and infertility. The rituals and dress of the Joaldunak seemed to have changed relatively little over the ages although I believe that there are more youths ‘wearing the bells’ today that ever before – not only because fewer families could afford these immense bells but also because of a growing interest from the youths of the village to continue the tradition.  While the Joaldunak march around the village, the rest of the villagers from Ituren and Zubieta dress up as mozorroak; masked, unruly, anarchic figures and symbols of evil, taunting the Joaldunak who scatter them in their wake. In the past the locals would have traditionally dressed as witches, demons and monsters however their costumes today bare evident signs of modernisation, and the masked figure of an ugly diseased man with a stick years ago may now be a semi-naked Basque youth with a chainsaw. The donkey pulling the cart of animal excrement today could quite possibly be a tractor in disguise! (Much better for the animals I am sure.)

Here is a video of the Ituren carnivals in 1970 made by Basque writer and historian, Pio Baroja. And here is a more recent video of the Ituren carnivals.

I could go on about the symbolism and meaning behind these ancient carnivals and its visceral impact on everyone who plays a part,  or runs for cover under the porticos of the village hall.  It is a very moving, unnerving affair and for some strange reason as I come to understand my neighbours and friends behind the facades and share in their everyday lives, the carnival means more to me year by  year.  My lasting impression this year was the total contrast between the eternal solemnity of the Joaldunak and the crazed grimaces and cries of the mozorak. Are they from two separate worlds? Or are they just two different facets of the same one?