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14. HAMALAU
- University of Nevada Press
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| 79 »« Over the two weeks leading up to my leaving, I worked on my foreign language skills. I figured I might need them to communicate with the locals. I didn’t speak French, but had taken Spanish for one semester in high school; I got a C for not being able to conjugate irregular verbs. I wasn’t that worried though. Luis and Diego told me what they called frases necesarias. For meeting girls, Hola mi vida—Hello my life. And Te doi un chinga—which they wouldn’t translate for me but said was good for getting into a fight. Still, just in case I needed to do something beyond meet girls or get into a fight, Ms. Fickle gave me a Spanish phrase book. I also decided to brush up on my Basque in anticipation of Isabelle Odolen . Did she even speak English? And if not, how was I going to explain to her what I wanted? But then again, her not speaking English might be a good thing. Maybe I could get her to sign the quit deed without knowing what she was doing. I thought that was a pretty good idea, but Dad didn’t. And he told me so. It was amazing how much clearer my father’s voice was now that he was gone. And how much more he now seemed to want to talk. The Dad in my head offered unasked for advice on every part of my life. Selling the truck—bad idea. Going to Basque land—worse idea. Wearing jeans on the plane—inappropriate dress. Not brushing my teeth before I left—inappropriate hygiene. And Jenny? Well, that was for me to figure out. Thanks Dad. As for my Euskara, well, I knew how to say, yes—ba, and no—ez. Obviously , I knew house—etxea, and sun—eguzkia, moon—ilargia, stars— izarrak. Along with an assortment of farm animals: dog—zakurra, sheep— ardiak, pig—txerria, chicken—oilaskoa, and cow—behia. 14 h a m a l au | 80« » I also knew a few phrases, most having been taught to me by my aitatxi, such as: Ttipia eta itsusia. Bildots gaixua—Small and ugly. A runt lamb. And, Zazte ardien bila—Go get the sheep (or “sheeps” as Aitatxi said). Mendia heltzen da urrats bat aldian—Take the mountain one step at a time. And the always useful, Harrapatu aritz ona—Look for the good oak. The biggest problem was that all the Basque I knew, I’d learned through parroting. Well, that and the fact that ninety percent of it was related to sheep. I only ever repeated words or phrases that were told to me, and never created any original sentences. Why should I? Everything I needed to say about life on the ranch had already been said. I just needed to memorize it. But now that I was traveling to another country, it seemed a good time to try and learn some new language skills. So I worked on putting my Basque words together to create sentences such as: “How do I get to Urepel?” “How much is this?” “Where is the bathroom?” (On the ranch, at least for peeing, the bathroom was pretty much anywhere you were standing.) And, “Can you help me?” Only I didn’t know all the words for any of the things I wanted to say. And, on top of that, I wasn’t exactly sure what order to put the words into for them to make sense. I might know how to say, joaiten gira—let’s go. But I didn’t know which part was “let’s” and which part was “go.” In the end the best I could hope for was that the general meaning of what I was trying to say would come through. So “How do I get to Urepel?” turned into “Nola egin Urepel?” Which was something like “How do I make Urepel,” only without any mention of “I.” And that was one of my better sentences. I finally gave up on trying to figure out how to say, “Can you help me?” While I knew the words for help—lagundu, you—zuk, and me—ni, it was the “can” I couldn’t figure out. I did know how to say “want”—nahi. And so I created what I thought might be, “Want you help me.” But, besides possibly getting me slapped, it just didn’t sound right. The whole time I was going over the Basque...