Peoples of the Earth: Basques

Running along the Spanish shores of the Bay of Biscay and extending north to Bayonne in France is a hilly, luxuriant country. The prosperous, rugged people who live there call it Euzkadi-the ancient homeland of Euskaldunak. Although they are subject to the laws either of Spain or France, the Basques see themselves as a race apart; and to Euzkadi they give their real allegiance.

There's an amazing series of volumes called Peoples of the Earth, which I have alluded to before on the blog, published in the early 1970s.  They chronicle a large amount of the curious people groups across the globe, with photos, sketches and text, and the best part is they do so in a fairly opinionated and sometimes a bit bigoted manner. Makes for good reading.

Every time I'm around these volumes, I always pick up and re-read the Basque section. It's full of interesting facts, misspellings, and generalizations--and I love it.  I wanted to post a few of the photos, with their original descriptions, and some of what I found interesting.  If I ever get around to it, I'll make a post on the predictions Our Dear Author made on the years 2000, as well (naked Utopias, anyone?).

The separatism of the Basques persists partly because they live in wild hill country far from the swim of French or Spanish life.

Abbé Lahetjuzan proved in the 18th century that Adam and Eve were the first Basques. And according to a friend of mine, they were from Ataun. Can you blame this little culture, then, for its oversized pride?

One of the first historical references to Basques is from 1120, when chronicler Giraldus Cambrensis says they are a people "thirsty for blood and ferocious as the wild beast with which they live."

The Basques are famous wine-makers. A man at work has a skin of wine with him. The occasional swig makes the day go better.

This is the truth; I still notice when, around 9 in the morning, I am taking a café in a small tavern by my house and a man pulls a stool up to the bar and orders a small glass of wine. Why not? It does make the day go better.

The women rarely leave the isolated homesteads but in decision-making they carry as much weight as the men.

This isolated homestead, the baserri, really is and was the backbone of the family unit, at least in rural areas. Families were once named after the houses, not vice-versa. The neighborhoods into which some of these houses are grouped are called auzoa, a word that was new to me when we lived this past summer in the village.  As the book states "personal contacts beyond the auzoa are rare and when they exist often formal, respectful, cold and slightly tinged with suspicion." OH, so that's what that look was when we had beer and croquetas in the village tavern.

In the ancient city of Pamplona a man competing in a traditional contest raises a stone that weighs 247 pounds. Their athletic dances here performed in Pamplona, owe nothing to the culture of France or Spain. The Basques are a race apart. Basques gamble heavily on contests like this ram fight, which is a favorite spectacle in the port of San Sebastián.

Sports are one of the most beloved pasttimes with Basques, and they sure have some crazy ones. They talk about these stone lifting and tree trunk-chopping contests as if they were normal, because for the Basques, they are. Provincial, but normal.

Basques are fine dancers. In the plaza of an old Basque town in the Pyrenees, enthusiasts dance on after dusk.

This makes me want to create a modern day version of this essay...what would it include? Pintxo pote, exquisite middle-aged Basque women strolling La Concha in clothes from Zara? Basques, those fine dancers, tearing it up in Ezpala?

Is there any group of peoples as interesting as the Basques? Appalachians? Bretons? Leave me a recommendation and I'll look them up while I am around this encylopedias, and maybe even post a pic or two.

A Copa Con...Egoitz Zapiain

It's Tuesday. That means it's time for "A Copa Con...", and this week I sat with Egoitz Zapiain, the third generation cidermaker of Zapiain cider.  Basque cider is quite different than its anglophone counterparts, and it's shrouded in a definite tradition, that of going to enjoy cider straight from the barrels during the season, with a meal of steak, omelettes, cod, cheese and nuts.

Apart from being one of the only cider makers in Basque Country trained under an enologist, he is one of the most passionate, hard-working people I know. The fact he STILL reports to his ciderhouse every night to tap the cider barrels for jovial diners is the epitomy of inspiration. So join us as we chat and taste the season's very first cider (it's going to be a good year).

What do you do?

I call myself a "chico para todo" {handyman}. My position is an investment in quality. Before, the cider was much more variable. Achieving that homogeousness is a lot of work. In October and November, I don't have friends, I don't have family.

What of your accomplishments are you most proud of?

The secret is knowing each barrel individually. It's a living product. Nowadays, I can know what the product in the barrel will be like three months from now.

What do you think about txotx season, when everyone fills the ciderhouse to sample the fruits of the year's labor?

The season of txotx is hard, but gratifying. You see people appreciate all the work you've done.

Why is this so popular in Basque Country?

It's a ritual, but people come most of all because they like it. It's a unique atmosphere. If you tell someone foreign you're taking them to a restaurant where you can't order, you have to stand up, it's cold, and to drink you have to walk...?  I think it's a beautiful thing to be with people different from you and talk with them.

Your hobby is foraging. What attracts you to looking for mushrooms?

It's something I've been grateful for, because you learn about nature, about survival.

Do you prefer to forage alone or with people?

I don't like to go alone. Generally I go to enjoy, and you don't want to enjoy alone. One time I took my son, and he said "Look, a mushroom!" Because of my height I didn't see it and my son did. It's cool. It gets you fired up, too, because he saw it and you didn't.

Food holds an important part in the people's lives here. Why?

In other places life is in the living room. Here the life is in the kitchen. It's almost like a religion. A saying in euskara: what you see, you do.

Thanks to Egoitz for his time and his cider.  Have any questions for me or Egoitz? Leave them in the comments section.

In the Reno Gazette-Journal

Yesterday's Reno Gazette-Journal featured an article of mine.  I wrote, photographed, and recipe engineered it.  Hope you like!

You can read it here.

I guess I should credit my hubby for taste-testing? A hard life, sampling gildas, braised beef peppers and chorizo cooked in cider.

A Copa Con...Josu Casal

Time for the second installment of my new Tuesday series, "A Copa Con..."  As many of you know, last week was San Sebastián's biggest day of the year, el Día de San Sebastián, aka La Tamborrada. As a few of you know, I participated firsthand in this 24-hr drumfest, which kicks off the night of the 19th and lasts until midnight the next day. Non-stop drumming can be heard at any hour, throughout the entire city. It's incredible.

For this reason, and more, I wanted to have a chat with a key player in the festivities, Josu Casal. He is what they call "Barril Mayor", a co-director of a tamborrada, or group of drummers. Each tamborrada (and there are at least a hundred) has a Barril Mayor and the Tambor Mayor, the higher-up. Josu's day job has nothing on his role directing dozens of amateurs into playing beautiful music in various states of soberness in front of the most important gastronomic societies in the world, on the most important day in San Sebastián. So we sat down at the batzoki for a beer.

What's your role in San Sebastián Day?

I co-directed two tamborradas, Lurgorri and El Círculo Riojana. I got home at 7:30 am [after the first] and woke up at 1pm for the other.  I've directed since 2005, but I've been in the tamborrada since I was little.

How does one become 'barril (or tambor) mayor'?

They asked me if I wanted to. Normally, when someone leaves someone else takes their place. And when the 'tambor mayor' leaves, the 'barril mayor' takes his place. It's a chain. But when you're 'tambor mayor' and you leave, you don't ever come back. You leave for good.

Your job is direct the Tamborrada. Everyone has to behave, stay in line...you have to improvise a lot. If another tamborrada crosses your path, you have to know if they are newer or older than yours. If they're senior, you have to be silent. If they're newer, you keep playing and they stop.

What's the hardest part of directing in the Tamborrada?

That everyone behaves themselves. It's a mess. The most important is that when you go to a sociedad, you have to respect the sociedad. You go, you play, and you're well-behaved.

Did you have to practice?

No, now no. At first, yes, when I began. It's hard...people think it's easy, but it's difficult. When you mark the beat (done with a big stick or cardboard knife), you have to mark it before the people play. You always have to go a bit before the music, a tenth of a second before.

How did we do?

It was the first year...there were a lot of new people. Many of you had never been in the Tamborrada, but really good, it was really good. Better than what I thought. The first practice I came and said "Me cago en..."

Not that I wanted it or missed it, but I expected a lot more drunkenness.

We didn't drink much. Maybe it's because of the recession [laughs]. Normally the sociedades give out a lot of champagne, but this year everyone was complaining, "We're not drinking." But you have to know the trick-carrying a flask, of whiskey or something.

What did you eat on San Sebastián day?

On the eve, I ate dinner in Restaurante Aratz. Lobster, cígalas (european crayfish), turbot, but...baby eels no. A little plate is 90 euros. They're too expensive for what they are. Plus, they're filling. And the day of, patatas a la riojana, and not much more. I was hungover.

The state of Basque cuisine?

Traditional Basque cuisine is degenerating a bit.  We need to defend it, because we are losing it.

What would you never have change about Basque culture/life?

The tamborrada.  It's sacred. I always take my vacation time around the tamborrada, both before and after. Because it's a mess...the week before, when practice ends, you have a beer, and sometimes you end up getting home at 4am. You have to prepare your liver...

What would you change about Basque people or culture if you could?

Nothing. Now that we've "finished" with the terrorism, I think we're good. Maybe...the image that Spanish people have of Basques.

Have any questions for Josu or me? Leave them in the comments section.

The Tamborrada

January 20. The favorite day of nearly every resident of San Sebastián.  A day that nearly always portends cold, rain and discomfort. It's the Day of San Sebastián.

Imagine an entire town turning up at the main square at midnight. The mayor sits above them all, flags are flying, bright spotlights are shining, and a group of middle-aged men are playing the drums.  Then imagine that for the next twenty-four hours, the sound of drumming fills the streets of the entire city.  Sleeping is done at random times throughout the day...but not during normal sleeping hours. It's the party no one wants to miss.

This year I had the pleasure of joining Lurgorri, a tamborrada that was founded in 1995, with 140 participants. This year marked a return to the scene for the group, and we did so in uniforms designed by a former mayor of San Sebastián, Ramón Labayen, styled after the Tercio de Gipuzkoa of 1703, with braids from the Casa Real del Reyno de Navarra.  We paraded through the streets of the old part, which 22 other tamborradas also do throughout the day of the 20th.  We were a fairly new tamborrada, which means we had to cede way to Donosti's most established tamborradas, like the Union Artesana (1870), Donosti Zarra (1896), and Euskal Billera (1906).

My friends and I played the part of aguadoras, or water girls. Our instruments were barriles, or barrels, along with the cooks of the group. Others played tambores, which are bigger drums. Gathering for a dinner before midnight is traditional, so we dined on foie, anchovies, ham, crusty bread, tuna salad, and wine.  Then in a mad rush, five layers on: thermal, sweater, nike pullover, poncho and the traditional dress.

We reported to the batzoki a bit before midnight, when an interesting meteorological event happened. A cyclogenisis. Think hurricane, more or less. Wind, rain coming from all directions, total madness. So we played the first hour and were totally soaked, with only mini bottles of the Basque herbal liquor, patxaran to keep us warm.

We would stop at each dining society, or sociedad, and play whichever songs they requested. Often, the directors of that sociedad's tamborrada would come out and take the baton and direct us themselves. There's no feeling like standing outside of Gaztelubide, with the church of Santa María shining to the side, and playing the March of San Sebastián. No feeling.

Josu, our director or 'barril mayor' (see next week's 'A Copa Con...), filled me in a bit on the history of San Sebastián Day, which began in 1597. The Tamborrada as we know it began in 1836, when, purportedly the first groups went out dressed as chinamen, in a pre-Carnaval celebration. The dress of soldiers was not taken up until 1881. Since that date, though, the tradition has gone on strong, and it doesn't seem to be ending anytime soon.

*note, in this post most photos are not my own. that's what happens when a bizarre weather events meets a bizarre patxaran-filled tradition.