Euskera: Endangered Language

The language of the Basque Country is called Euskera, and it is currently on a list of endangered languages. It is slowly making a come-back thanks to nationalist sentiment but  is still spoken by less than a million people. Although it is the co-official language of the Basque Country, Euskera is actually spoken by less than half of the residents of the region; where I am you wouldn’t guess, but I suppose all the city-dwellers offset those of us in the boondocks.

It doesn’t help of course that dialects of Euskera are massively different, even in very small areas. There is a standardized language used for publications written in Euskera or for movies and television shows, but it is not the normal Euskera spoken by real people. When you can’t necessarily communicate with other people who are supposed to be speaking the same language as you… perhaps it is understandable that some people choose convenience over preserving a beautiful ancient language.

Despite the trouble involved in communicating in different dialects however, as little as 80 years ago Euskera was “very widespread and inescapable in daily life” (http://www.unc.edu/~sdteeter/basque.html). What happened in the past century then? The Spanish Civil War. When Franco assumed power, he banned all of the languages aside from Castellano.  When he died in 1975 and Spain finally became a democracy, the four provinces making up the Basque Country were allowed a large degree of autonomy, and the Basque language was once again allowed.

Now schools in the Basque Country are taught in one of 3 models: Model A in which classes are taught primarily in Castellano with Euskera as a separate subject, Model C in which classes are taught in both languages, and Model D in which classes are taught primarily in Euskera with Castellano as a separate subject. There are also night schools offered to give adults the chance to learn their ancestral language. Hopefully these measures can save the oldest language in Europe from extinction.

Languages

As you may have noticed, I keep referring to Castellano instead of Spanish. This is because I have been informed that I do not speak Spanish. I speak Castellano. Castellano is the language of Castilla, a central region of Spain, but since the Castillians took over everything a few hundred years ago, everyone in spain Speaks Castellano now. But not exclusively.

Castellano is the only official language for Spain as a whole, but in the various different territories there are various more languages that have official recognition as well (and some that aren’t official but are spoken nonetheless). In addition to Castillan the current Romance languages spoken are Catalan in Catalonia, Aranese in small parts of north-western Catalonia, and Galician which is spoken in Galicia (basically the midway point between Portugese and Castellano). And then there’s Euskera. The language of the Basque country (where I am). It’s not a Romance language and doesn’t resemble Castellano at all….. It is in fact the last remaining pre Indo-European language in existance.

If I may be pardoned for using wikipedia, there is a graphic which beautifully illustrates the languages spoken in the Iberian peninsula over the past 1000 years: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Linguistic_map_Southwestern_Europe.gif

Good Thing I’m Not One of Those People…

You know. The people who sit around complaining “Yur in ‘Murica. Speak English” Because I’ve been in Catalunia, the Basque Country, and France without knowing the languages of said countries. I do make the effort whenever possible; at least in Catalunia and the Basque Country I can speak Castellano, but the world is a massive place full of so many languages that I do not speak. I feel as though my world would be so much smaller if I only associated with people who spoke English in countries where English is the primary language. Even if I were to include all the languages where Castellano is spoken, my world would be so much smaller.

Add to that the fact that it is stressful and scary to go somewhere where you don’t speak the language, and far from being angry at people who come to the USA without knowing so much as a word of English, I have developed a great respect for them.

Pay it Forward

When I was nine years old I happened to borrow a movie from the library that was called Pay it Forward. If you’ve never seenImage it then A) You should, but B) to understand this blog post know that the premise of the movie is a social studies teacher giving an impossible assignment to change the world, and the 7th grader who actually did it. How said 7th grader changed the world was through a concept that has existed for centuries. In this movie 7th grader Trevor McKinney creates a model wherein he does 3 good deeds, and tells each recipient to pay it forward with 3 more good deeds, the multiplication of good deeds will eventually change the world for the better.

Like I said, I was nine when I watched the movie…. so perhaps I could be excused if after briefly looking around and wondering why nobody was actually paying it forward, I ended up forgetting about it and going back to my everyday life.

Now however, the concept has ceased to be simply an idea for me. It is real, and I have been the recipient of a very generous gift that has allowed me to go to Paris!!!!! In fact, I am leaving the Basque Country this very day!

To everyone who has been part of the chain leading up to this, I don’t know you all, but you all deserve my thanks. And never fear, the chain shall not stop here.

 

“Working Like a Negro”

Apparently this phrase is 100% acceptable in Catalunia and the Basque Country (and the rest of Spain as well I imagine). I suppose when your country’s history isn’t marred by racism and slavery, it is easier to get away with flippancy around said issues. Anyways, I sincerely apologize to any Americans out there who take offence to said phrase, but recently those of us here at Pikunieta have been working like negroes. The weather has finally given us a glimpse of what summer might be like… sun and heat in the 20s (aka 70s and 80s for those readers who, like me, are used to measuring such things in farenheit not celcius). I say all this in order to excuse how lax I’ve been lately about writing about keeping everyone updated on my farming adventures. Tomorrow I promise to talk about the exciting job of sheep shearing! (spoiler alert, I got to shear one sheep myself, it was so super awesomely cool!)

Sheep Cheese!

Perhaps it’s time I actually talk about what I’m doing here in the Basque Country?

As I mentioned in my very first post, I’m WWOOFing. WWOOF stands for World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms, and it is an international volunteer program in which people are given the chance to experience life on an organic farm. I am of course acquainted with the workings of small non-organic farms in the United States since my family owns Marquam Meadows Fruit Company (see their website here: http://www.marquammeadowsfruit.com/), so it seemed natural that I should take advantage of WWOOF. I get to travel, experience a whole new culture, practice my Castellano, and learn bits and pieces of a whole new language (Euskera), all while keeping the farm life I already know about as firm footing in a new world.

I registered with WWOOF Spain and sent e-mails around to some of the farms in the Basque Country that sounded the most interesting, and eventually ended up here at Pikunieta Baserria. A farm in which we raise sheep, then milk them and make said milk into cheese. Yup, that’s right. Sheep cheese. It’s actually quite tasty, I’d definitely recomend you try some if you ever have the chance.

So Apparently Twenty Years Isn’t Enough Either

Ok… I haven’t been immersing myself in Castellano 100%…. I still write this in English for example, and I write e-mails and letters to my American friends in English. I’m also currently caught up in a fantasy novel that just so happens to be written in English. I know English. Pretty darn well. It’s my mother toung, and the vast majority of the millions and millions of words that have passed my lips have been in English.

Why then do I now have trouble remembering words? Yesterday I couldn’t remember conveyer belt (even just now it took quite a bit of brain power to remember). The day before I couldn’t remember beret…. that one took me a good 17 hours to figure out. 

I don’t know the Castellano equivalent of these words, but I can’t look them up in a dictionary if I don’t know the word in English first. Le sigh…. All the problems that arise from communicating in different languages.

¡Besos!

I’m not in Spain…. but the Basque country does have some similarities with Spain. For example: the greetings. Everyone new I’ve met here has greeted me by kissing me. No joke(and only a tiny bit exaggerated)

Ok, so it’s the whole two kisses on the cheeks sort of thing, not a full on kiss-on-the-lips romantic style thing… and I definitely knew to be prepared… but it was still a bit unsettling. More unsettling than I expected it to feel. It doesn’t help that I spent most of my childhood not even doing so much as hugging my father. My mom would decide sometimes that she needed to demonstrate her love for me and that a hug was the best way to do so…. but it was always super awkward. I didn’t really learn to like hugs until high school when I actually made friends who liked hugging people. Needless to say… my kisses (even those on cheeks) have hitherto been reserved almost exclusively for romantic encounters….

Not that I mind really. It’s all a part of the cultural immersion, and it’s cool. It just threw me off a bit more than it should have. And it’s proof that no matter what they say, the people of Catalonia and of the Basque Country do have something in common with the rest of Spain after all.

Adventures on the Barcelona Metro

As promised, the second part of How Grace Travelled to the Basque Country.

I got out of my hostel early-ish on Saturday… I wasn’t actually supposed to be there, so I thought that best. I ate a few leftovers for breakfast, and then I set off. I considered walking to the train station, but it was several kilometres away and I had a backpack and a suitcase… What if someone tried to steal something? And besides, who wants to walk a good hour dragging a suitcase along? And of course, there was also the fear that the tickets to Zumarraga would be sold out before I got there…. Then I would have the same problem I had had the day before.

So instead I took the Barcelona Metro… The subway. For 2 Euros and 26 minutes of standing I could escape Barcelona. And who knows… The train didn’t leave until 3:30… If I felt like it I could perhaps drag my suitcase to some nearby tourist attractions. I was thinking about something like that when I happened to glance down and see my wallet moving off it’s own accord.

PICKPOCKET!!!!! My brain shouted. I lunged at the woman next to me, but she seemed so startled that I immediately doubted my instinct and apologized. I should have checked right then… but instead I let her get off at the next stop. Then I looked in my wallet and discovered that all of my cash, aside from a 20 Euro bill that had been tucked away in a separate corner was now gone. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, SHIT. HIJO DE PUTA!!!! Luckly I had caught her before she could get my debit card… but that was 100 Euros!!!!

I then made sure to keep a much better eye on all of my things, especially my wallet. And at least I still had the card. I could buy my ticket with that, and then everything would be good.

Except my bank flagged it when I tried to buy the ticket. So I tried the ATM. Where my bank also had a fit. Great. My own bank thinks I’m as bad as that woman on the subway. AWESOME. Although I suppose it’s a bit comforting to know that I’m protected from people like that…. At least a little bit.

So there I was. In the Barcelona Sants train station. With one suitcase, one backpack, one currently useless debit card, and 20 Euros. Tickets were 61.20 Euros… Where the hell was I supposed to find the rest????????

Then it comes to me! I keep a secret stash inside my phone cover. It happened to be exactly 40 Euros. That plus random change I had forgotten to count gave me just enough to buy my ticket, use a payphone to call the farm and let people know what was going on, and still have a little bit of change left over (thank goodness for the 1 and 2 Euro coins!)

I was of course too afraid to do anything but sit in the train station guarding my things like a hen guards her eggs forthe next 3 hours… but after that and a 5 hour train ride, I was finally safely in the Basque Country.