Jaialdi's Memories

Every five years the city of Boise, home to the largest Basque community in the USA, holds the festivity known as Jaialdi.

The next one will be just three years from now, in 2005.

But here you have a recount of a person that went to the 1995 edition of the festival, enjoy it:

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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