Dancing in a Basque Village

On a bone-chilling, gray weekend last February, Denis and I were driving on the route that leads you through the French villages snuggled down against the Spanish border.  We were in the pays Basque.  As we approached the village of Sare, the blanket of clouds seemed to thin a bit, brightening an already magically colorful scene that unfolded before us as we approached the village square.  The open space next to the ancient church was thronged with people in brilliant costumes.  While some of the costumes—especially those of children—seemed to be the generic déguisements of the carnival season, the majority obviously had some predefined significance.  Most striking was a group dressed all in red, with woven masks over their faces and tall hats.  The masks gave these characters the sort of symbolic expressions that one finds on primitive masks from all over the world—faces that evoke awe, fear, and sometimes a mixture of both.  Although I didn’t realize it at the time, the character in red holding the switch of horsehair in his hand is known in this region of Labourd as the “Kottilun Gorri,” a personnage that corresponds to the “txerreroa” or pig-herd in the carnaval of the region of Soule just to the east. As we watched, a band of musicians playing outlandish-looking instruments which we’d never seen before started playing haunting music.  The characters we had observed dressed in red, as well as a corresponding group dressed in black, formed a circle and began dancing.  It turns out that the folks in red represent good characters, while those in black, of course represent evil, which in the pays Basque is often synonymous with strangers, or forces from without.  And the dance personifies the interaction of these two universal forces in steps that have been handed down through generations from the dawn of time, or as the French contrarily say, from la nuit du temps. However, when you’re in the pays Basque you’re not entirely in France.  Of course, geographically the region just inland of Biarritz belongs to France, but its inhabitants would proudly tell you that it belongs first to the Basque people, a culture as self-isolated, proud, and fiercely protective of its traditions as any on earth.  Of course, as everyone knows, the pays Basque extends well into the northern part of Spain, a region that is torn by the Basque separatist movement. The Basques speak French as a second language.  Their own tongue is Basque, a language so strange in tonality and with origins so mysterious that to this day linguists haven’t figured out where it came from.  One look at Basque words—full of X’s and other strange letter combinations—is enough to tell you that this is neither a Latin nor a Germanic language.  In fact, in sound and orthography, it reminds me of no language so much as the Mayan dialects of the Guatemalan highlands.  My personal belief about this mysterious tongue is that in fact it isn’t derived from any other language.  If any people were ever sufficiently independent to evolve an entirely distinct language while surrounded by a force as prevalent as Latin, it is the fiercely proud Basques. After the ritualized, symbolic dances of the carnaval, another group of dancers took center stage.  These were young people—apparently all the teenagers of the village—decked out in traditional garb.  They launched into a dazzling display of what is known as Basque popular dances, which include the famous fandango, as well as the dazzling sauts Basques, a dance of virtuosic jumps performed by the young men of the village.  Indeed, to be physically able to perform this strenuous dance you probably have to be less than 30 years old. Before and between the organized dances, some interesting characters roamed the square.  The most striking of these was the bear (see photo at left).  He was huge and impressive, and he raced around the square pulling his “handler” relentlessly after him and seemingly trying to break free of his leash.  Children ran squealing from his path and hid behind adults to watch him.  Basques consider the bear their primordial ancestor, and he is in fact called “grandpere” in some regions.  He is the archetypal liberator of energies, and is the central character of the Basque carnaval.  The bear kicks off the season at Chandeleur on February 2, in what is obviously a fascinating antecedent to what we call “Groundhog Day.”  On that morning, he wakes from his winter hibernation and regards the sky.  If it is clear, he returns to his cave to sleep for 40 more days.  If it is cloudy, he goes out, symbolizing the end of winter.  Obviously the weather was sufficiently dark to make the bear of Sare downright hyperactive. We lingered in the square of Sare for nearly two hours, watching the dancers and costumed characters and listening to the traditional music.  We both felt transported to another time and another world, so strong was the force of participation in the ritualized events around us.  It was impossible not to be affected by this enactment of traditions so strongly embraced by the entire village.  Near the end, a lovely character entered the scene.  Dressed all in green—even her face was painted green–she had sprigs of bright yellow, sweetly perfumed mimosa blossoms pinned all over her gown.  She carried a basket full of the flowers, which, smiling shyly, she gently handed out to people in the crowd.  Obviously, the bear was right:  winter was over.  Spring had arrived in the village of Sare.