Trip of the Tongue (23 page)

Basque has other peculiarities that set it apart: twelve separate nominal cases, a verb tense used specifically for actions that occur after waking up, two entirely different words for “can” and “cannot,” and all those
x
's and
z
's. But even so, it would be disingenuous to suggest that Basque is objectively and quantifiably among the most difficult languages in the world. The prospect of memorizing twelve different case endings may seem challenging to an English-speaker, but it's nothing when compared with the morphological convolutions of Archi, a Caucasian language whose verbs can in theory have more than 1.5 million possible forms. And though Basque's high-Scrabble-scoring spelling may appear impenetrable, it doesn't present nearly the cognitive challenge of, say, learning to read several thousand Chinese characters.

Frankly, the hardest thing about learning Basque is that you can't get a leg up by knowing a related language because there simply aren't any related languages. And in addition to being a genetic isolate, historically the language has also been geographically isolated, which means that with the exception of Spanish and French, the Basque language has had little impact on the other languages of the world. Even English, which I've always thought of as a bit of a slut for loan words, shows scant evidence of Basque influence—and even these scattered words are of dubious provenance.

Anchovy,
for instance, seems a likely candidate for a bit of Basque English, given both the similarity to the Basque word (
anchoa
) and the popularity of the fish in Basque cuisine. But this etymology is an appropriately slippery one, and scholars have not been able to determine whether in this instance we all borrowed from Basque or, ultimately, from Greek (
, a generic term for a small fish). The English word
bizarre
, meanwhile, is certainly related to the French
bizarre
(“odd,” “fantastic”). However, one etymology cited if not endorsed by the
Oxford English Dictionary
traces it back to the Basque
bizar
(“beard”), a leap made, as one version of the story goes, when French soldiers were astonished to discover that their Spanish counterparts weren't clean-shaven.
^ar

Another English word popularly (but likely erroneously) attributed to Basque is
jingo
. Its similarity to
jainko
, the Basque word for “god,” has inspired otherwise unfounded speculation that the English word was adopted from Basque sailors, who presumably frequently found themselves either praying or blaspheming. And although the word
honcho
sounds a lot like the Basque
jauntxo
(“political boss” or “young master”), it has its origins not in Basque Country but in Japan.
^as

There is, however, one English word that is without a doubt related to Basque. That word is
silhouette
, and it was inspired by one Étienne de Silhouette, a French government minister in charge of the country's finances for eight not entirely successful months in 1759. There are several plausible explanations for the word's creation, the relative merits of which depend on your opinion of M. de Silhouette. Some suggest the word was adopted because de Silhouette was known for being a practitioner of silhouette portraiture. Others, noting that a silhouette is literally a poor man's portrait, suggested that the coinage reflected de Silhouette's skinflint reputation. The most pointed interpretation, however, argues that the silhouette is the only kind of portrait you could finish in less time than de Silhouette managed to last in public office.

It is in de Silhouette's name itself that we find the relationship to Basque. Étienne's father, Arnaud, was born in Biarritz, a city in southwest France on the Bay of Biscay and thus firmly in Basque Country. Larry Trask, one of the world's leading experts on the Basque language, outlined the specifics of the relationship:

[Silhouette] is a French spelling of the Basque surname Zilhueta, a French Basque variant of the surname Zulueta or Zuloeta; this in turn derives from
zulo
“hole” (
zilo
in part of the north) plus the very frequent suffix -
eta
“abundance of.” This surname was doubtless given originally to someone who lived where there were many holes in the ground, or perhaps more likely caves.

In other words, his name meant something like “lots of holes.” It's hard to imagine a more appropriate name for a minister of finance.

However you look at it, English has remained largely untouched by Basque language and culture, a not unexpected outcome in light of how little contact the two languages have historically had.

For centuries the Basques were highly successful fishermen and navigators, playing a key role in the whaling trade and the exploration racket. When Columbus set sail for the New World, for instance, he took a number of Basque sailors with him, and the
Santa Maria
was actually Basque-owned and -captained. Magellan's second-in-command, meanwhile, was a Spanish Basque named Juan Sebastián Elcano. Several months after Magellan was killed by natives on the Philippine island of Mactan, Elcano took control of the only remaining seaworthy vessel, making him (along with a handful of survivors) the first man to circumnavigate the globe over the course of a single expedition.

But for centuries Basque influence in the New World was largely limited to a few isolated parts of eastern Canada. Although it isn't clear whether, as some claim, the Basques actually made their way to the Americas before Columbus did, they certainly engaged in fishing, trade, and settlement off the coast of Canada in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, evidence of which can be found in a scattering of place names, a handful of tombstones, and at least two words in the Mi'kmaq language.

When the Basque people did begin immigrating to the Americas in greater numbers, they went first to South America, a natural destination for a people with high levels of Spanish-language proficiency. It wasn't until the mid-nineteenth century that the Basque language and people finally made their way to the western United States. Immigrants were drawn initially by the promise of gold, but in California and nearby states such as Idaho and Nevada they also found work—and, eventually, gained renown—as sheepherders.

Even so, compared to the contemporaneous influx of arrivals from places such as Italy, Germany, and Russia, Basque immigration was less a stream than a trickle. In 1911 the
New York Times
reported on the commotion caused when just 150 Basque-speakers arrived on a boat from France. In no other city were immigration officials better equipped to deal with speakers of foreign languages, but immigrants from Basque Country were so rare that even Ellis Island found itself at a loss. As the paper reported:

Not within the memory of the immigration agents have so many Basques arrived here on a single steamship. About ten years ago there came to this port about forty of them, and at that time there was no end of trouble in passing them. No one on Ellis Island could understand them, and no interpreter could be found. The situation was finally met by the mate of a steamship who volunteered to interpret for the Government.

Eventually a Spaniard with a working knowledge of Basque was located, but the disturbance and inconvenience was such that the
Times
declared the group “the strangest lot of aliens that has passed through this port in years.”

On my first visit to Elko, though, I realized that there were a few parts of the country where Basque language and culture was anything but alien. That night in the casino I heard about Basque dinner houses and Basque folktales. I heard words like
kaixo
and
zahato
. I also heard about Basque festivals.

This is why, months later, I found myself returning to Elko. And this time I wasn't just there for the cheap blackjack. I was in town to attend the National Basque Festival.

Or, as locals sometimes call it, the Basco Fiasco.

Whether you approach from Reno, Salt Lake City, or southern Idaho, the first time you see Elko you can't help but be taken aback. Not because Elko is until the last moment hidden from view, but rather because any major settlement in northern Nevada feels highly improbable. The total population of Elko County is somewhere around 47,000 people, which seems like a good-sized community until you consider the fact that the county, the fourth-largest in the continental United States, covers 17,203 square miles. With a population density of under three people per square mile, Elko County isn't just sparsely populated—it's desolate.

Today the bulk of Elko's economy is focused on mining, but the city owes its existence to the Central Pacific Railroad, which used Elko as a distribution hub while constructing what was then the eastern end of the line. Popular myth maintains that the city owes its name to the Central Pacific as well. According to the story I heard at the visitor center, Charles Crocker, a Central Pacific investor, liked naming towns after animals. He pictured an elk, added an
o
, and called it a day. (I should point out, however, that I have been unable to find any other cities along the railroad's route that were named in such a fashion. And I certainly haven't been able to uncover a reason why Crocker might have felt the need to add that
o
.)

Eventually the rail crews left town, heading east toward Promontory Summit to join the Central Pacific with the Union Pacific. By that time Elko was already firmly established as an important center of economic activity both in the immediate vicinity and in the state as a whole. At the time, in fact, Elko was such a central hub that it was chosen as the first location of the University of Nevada. Although modern-day Elko can no longer lay claim to such prominence, dwarfed as it is by Reno, Carson City, and Las Vegas, it is still the largest city in northeast Nevada.

The area is not without its attractions. Whatever else you might say about it, no one would argue that Elko is lacking in character. After all, this is the modern American West, a town of ranchers, miners, and even madams. People out here wear prefer to wear their cowboy hats unironically, thank you very much. Even the local Walmart, so typically a bastion of American homogeneity, feels like a place where Sam Shepard might just be hanging out.

Tourism is driven by the city's gaming and ranching interests, with out-of-town visitors typically looking to gamble or buy authentic cowboy apparel. And though they don't exactly broadcast this at the Chamber of Commerce, there are also more-adult activities for those who are so inclined. This is Nevada, after all, where any county with a population under 400,000 can legally license brothels. But most tourists who come to Elko are probably in town to attend yearly events such as the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, the Elko Mining Expo, or the National Basque Festival.

The National Basque Festival is a two-day celebration of Basque food, drink, dance, and sport held each year on a weekend in early July. It is not, as I discovered, the only event of its kind. Basque festivals are held each summer throughout the American West, in Boise; Winnemucca, Nevada; Bakersfield; and San Francisco, among other cities. These festivals, which are also known as “Basque Picnics,” allow the country's scattered Basque American population to keep in touch with their traditions and one another. Elko has been home to a major yearly festival since 1964, when the Elko Euzkaldunak Club, Elko's local Basque organization, planned its first major summer gathering to coincide with Nevada's state centennial.

Of all the events planned for the festival, I was perhaps most looking forward to the running of the bulls, an event that for several years had opened the weekend's festivities. An adolescent infatuation with Hemingway had left me with a deep curiosity about bulls and the men who run from them, but the closest I'd come to Pamplona was
City Slickers
. And although I assumed that Elko's bull run was a somewhat modest affair, I was nevertheless anticipating a good show. That year's festival coincided with the Fourth of July, and in my experience, though the Fourth may fall short of New Year's Eve and St. Patrick's Day in terms of public shit-facedness, its intimate association with explosive devices ensures an entertaining general disregard for personal well-being.

Unfortunately, it was not to be. That year the running of the bulls was canceled.
^at
At the city's visitor center, I was told this was due to concerns about “safety and street closures.” At the Red Lion Casino later that afternoon, however, I heard another story. My dealer, a chatty California transplant named Debbie, passed along a rumor that the man who had been hired to transport the bulls to Elko had been permanently delayed.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Apparently,” she said, “he was picked up for a DUI outside Wells.”

The elderly man next to me snorted. “With or without the bulls?”