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Basque Studies Program Newsletter · Issue
52, 1995
A Novice at Jaialdi
by Eileen Walter
Seat belts buckled, air conditioning on, one last
stop to pick up the final part of our trio, and we were on
our way to Jaialdi in Boise, Idaho. It was extra special and
exciting for me--I had made many attempts in past years to
visit Basque festivals in various cities--and was thwarted
every time.
My friend and I had made small, sporadic bursts of
plans over several months; she would rent a car, we would
drive part of the way Thursday night and stop somewhere
conducive to a pleasant, evening walk. At the last minute a
third--a foreign visitor from France--asked to accompany us.
She was welcomed and quickly took up residence in the rear
seat, a prisoner to the nonstop chatter of we two in the
front. It was terrible, as though someone had opened an
outlet and allowed a rain of words that, dammed up for
months, finally tumbled forth. (It’s always like this
when we’re together--we talk with no exhaustible limits
about writing and manuscripts and short
stories.)
The drive across Nevada was, as always, beautiful. I
am and will forever remain as awed as a tourist of this land
we inhabit. I never tire of it; always have some ambivalence
about leaving it, if only for a day or
two.
We crossed into Oregon and the landscape changed as
if dissected--and coincidentally, almost exactly behind the
Welcome to Oregon sign. The sagebrush ceased, the mountains
dropped to low and sloping hills, the soil was carpeted with
a wild gold grass that might have been crested
wheat.
We roomed at Jordan Valley for the night, one of
those blink-and-you-miss-it towns with a wonderful tiny
Basque restaurant (boysenberry jelly with toast for
breakfast).
It was a good town for walking, sleepy and safe after
dark. We made a big circle around the town, watched some
mules rolling in the dust of a musty field, and talked with
anticipation of the festival.
After an early start in the morning, western Idaho
changed the land yet again, the fields ripe with orchards
and vegetables, the heavy dark rivers winding along the
bottom land. I was enthralled until my friend reminded me
that all that wonder comes with a price: bugs and mosquitoes
and humidity.
We were much too early to get into our room at Boise
so we left the car and took the river walk to downtown, a
green and peaceful path meandering along a fine, fast
running river. I loved Boise the minute I saw that river.
The city did nothing but improve as we neared its center. I
felt a sense of youthfulness and invigoration; the city very
much impressed me and I’m at a loss to explain why,
except to say it reminded me a lot of
Portland.
Downtown was terrifically hot and, of course, crowded
near the Basque Center on Grove Street. I got to meet and to
hear Dr. Jeri Echeverria speak on the topic of Basque
boardinghouses. This was a special treat for me. I’ve
talked to her on the telephone but never met her in
person.
The hall was crowded, standing-room-only in the back.
Jeri was quick and interesting. And unlike many other
lectures I’ve attended, when she offered a few minutes
for questions, fifteen hands went into the air. (Mention
Basques anywhere and people immediately have questions.
It’s a great conversation opener.)
Outside after the lecture, we stepped right into the
action of some weight lifting--a small sample of events to
come the next day--being put on in the middle of the street
for the benefit of local television cameras. I stood fast
and refused to be budged. This was one of the events I
wanted most to see.
Next morning, we made it to the opening ceremonies
but were too late to get a seat inside the building. We
watched instead from atop a cement piling. I had no way of
knowing, but most of my day would follow the same pattern.
I’m not very tall and neither was my French companion.
Both of us spent most of the afternoon scrambling up to
stand on chairs, or gingerly picking our way through a sea
of tall spectators in order to see anything at
all.
I had several items in particular that I hoped to
find at the festival, one of them being a silver lauburu
necklace. I found it, the exact one I was searching for, and
eagerly went back to tell my friend of my find. No novice to
Basque festivals, she warned me to purchase it immediately
or risk it being gone. She did not exaggerate. Things were
disappearing off tables and shelves at an alarming
rate.
I bought the lauburu and had the honor of Jeri
Echeverria placing it around my neck. She admonished me to
wear it proudly, as generations of Basque women had done. My
day was entirely made at that moment.
The afternoon was a feast for all the senses, the
costumes and the dancers, the wood choppers and the weight
lifters, wonderful music throughout. My fondest memories are
small ones, moments when I was alone and listening to Basque
being spoken around me--and understanding fragments of the
conversation. And of seeing elderly Basques moving among the
throng, only to suddenly spot a familiar face with a cry of
frenzied recognition. One man told me he ran into people he
hadn’t seen for twenty years.
I was sorry that I did not try out my halting Basque
on those around me. My friend told me later that Basques are
unusually kind (and most forgiving) toward non-native
speakers who attempt to learn and speak their
language.
A sudden and frightening thunderstorm brought a
premature end to some of the festivities. For safety reasons
all festival goers were evacuated from tents and buildings
at the fiercest part of the windstorm. The evacuees neither
left the fairgrounds nor seemed to be bothered by the slices
of cold rain blowing grit. Most merely queued up in long
lines to buy chorizo and long, skinny treats like
breadsticks powdered with sugar and cinnamon
(churros).
The festival, the people, the city of Boise, were
worth every mile of the drive it took to get there. Getting
there and enjoying it was, for me, a goal fulfilled.
When I return in five years, I expect to be fluent enough
in my second language to bravely begin intelligent
conversation with strangers.
(Eileen Walter is minoring in Basque Studies at the
University of Nevada, Reno.)
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