Enrique Octavo and Clothes For Your Feet

Those of you who’ve been subjected to my ardent rambling for some time, may recall my last visit to a Spanish-speaking country. However, it is a story worth repeating. Armed with a smattering of Spanish from a tour of South America in 1999, topped up with a few weeks of Spanish classes in Cape Town, I approached our visit to Ecuador in 2013 with a degree of confidence in my ability to communicate. But sometimes confidence can be dangerous.

Neither my hazy memory nor my recent lessons were enough to guide me in the use of the Spanish word, “coger.” In Spain, the word means “to take”, usually in relation to transport, yet through some strange twist of language morphology, the exact same word in South America means “to f*ck” (stars have been used to allow this email to sneak through Big Brotherly firewalls). As a result of this unfortunate linguistic duplicity, I found myself asking bewildered Ecuadorean peasants if I could “f*ck a taxi over here” or if it was better “to f*ck one over there on the corner”. And perhaps, most impertinently, in a show of outrageous blasphemy, I even asked if it was possible “to f*ck a bus all the way to the big, important church”. In retrospect, I suspect the friendly, welcoming smile I gave when asking these questions was simply creepy in the context of what I was saying.

More for my own self-respect than for fear of a Francoist-type reprisal, we decided that our first stop in Spain would involve Spanish lessons. After a stayover near the airport, we hopped on a train and headed towards Northern Spain and the Cantabrian Mountains. This would be our home for the next seventeen days where we would undertake a “Spanish Immersion” course in the beautiful, isolated village of La Peral in the Parque Natural de Somiedo.  In summer, the village tops out at about thirty people, but when we arrived, it was the low season and our presence caused the population to mushroom to a healthy total of five.

Our hosts for the duration of the stay were Alfredo and Jimena, a married couple, both of whom are Spanish teachers of about the same age as us. They specialise in immersion courses for just one or two people, where participants live and eat with them, with both formal and informal lessons happening throughout the day. They are well-read, intelligent, fun and warm people who showed a remarkable tolerance for both our quirkiness and my burgeoning “Chico the Clown” hairstyle (my mother says I look like David Ben-Gurion – google it). In addition, they are gifted and experienced teachers. For almost the entire time there, all our discussions, talks, jokes, questions, debates and philosophical meanderings were in Spanish.

Whilst it is tempting to praise our dialectical virtuosity for being able to converse in matters more profound than “where are you from?” and “what is the weather like?”, I think this ability was more down to their skill than to our genius. They were able to speak at a pace slow enough for us to comprehend, using words we could understand, but not so slowly that we would feel like that fat, under-appreciated slightly dim-witted second cousin that nobody likes. They had a remarkable ability to interpret what we were saying whilst at the same time maintaining their equanimity despite our relentless butchering of their language. It takes a special kind of person to first understand, nod appreciatively and then keep the conversation going when you say something that is the equivalent of: “Yesterday, I like the ugly cows we see that is eating on those grass”. On the other hand, I felt some of San-Marié’s inventive use of words could only be admired, such as: “I have lost the clothes that I wear on my feet. Please give me the car keys”. Yet San-Marié’s creative mind also had its downside – one night she realized it was clearly time to go to bed after she became convinced that Alfredo kept on saying: “I am drinking rabbits. I am drinking rabbits.”

Of course, there were other moments when some things were lost in translation. I kept on insisting that “Enrique Octavo” sounded like a Latin American pop singer with a hairy chest and a gold chain whilst Jimena was adamant that he was a corpulent English king with a lot of wives. Confusingly, the words for  “Pope” and “father” can sound quite alike in Spanish and although there was no ambiguity when I said: “San-Marié’s Pope lives near Hermanus,” it is more open for interpretation if you choose to say: “the father/Pope likes beating the boys.” In one conversation, I explained that our President has 6 wives and that he has spent about 20 million euros of taxpayers’ money on his house. I like to think the looks of incomprehension and incredulity were not because of my stumbling Spanish. At least the firing of a Finance Minister happened too late for me to have to explain it – I don’t even think my English is up to that one.

As well as improving our language skills, staying with Jimena and Alfredo meant we absorbed a bit of Spanish culture and a flavour of its own particular brand of current affairs. Alfredo is a voracious reader; interested in politics and philosophy, passionate, opinionated and entertaining and whilst our view of Spain was naturally influenced through the prism of his thinking, he’s a man who thinks that both Cristiano Ronaldo and José Mourinho are vain blockheads, so I was always likely to appreciate his opinions. Besides, he taught us some fine, expressive swear words, which if you believe him, are essential to survive in Spain. Jimena provided the perfect counterpoint to Alfredo, arguing with him when he said something unfounded or too outrageous, always providing insights of her own and chortling quietly with us as Alfredo called yet another political act or person “una verguenza!” She also suggested that it might not be too wise for us to be too liberal in the use of the words that Alfredo was teaching us.

Throughout our stay, we were treated to the full range of local cuisine as Jimena whipped up delight after delight. Wine at both lunch and dinner was a pre-requisite and San-Marié relished the attention that was paid to analysing the taste, texture and consistency of virtually everything we ate. When I failed to remember the name of a food-type in Spanish, or confused pimiento with pimenton or pimienta or, Dios Mio!, blithely enjoyed the arroz whilst the others dissected whether its structure was sufficiently uniform, I suffered the ultimate indignity of being accused of having an insipid, uncaring “Anglo-Saxon” approach to food. With a gentle caress of my burgeoning “tortuga“, I felt I was able to dispel such doubts – after all, we all know that the proof is in the belly.

Besides eating and talking and studying, we went on an excursion every day, usually a walk of a couple of hours in the mountains, where Jimena or Alfredo would share some of the history and culture of the region. On other days, we would take longer trips to the nearest towns and enjoy the cobbled streets, the tempting food markets and the ancient churches whilst admiring the gentle life of the retired people who sat on benches kibbitzing as the world walked past them.

Cruising the streets of Avilés

Cruising the streets of Avilés

La Peral, in the Principality of Asturias, where the house is situated, is surrounded by jagged mountain peaks and a number of valleys that run parallel to the one in which we stayed. We explored a few of these valleys, sometimes visiting deserted old mountain villages and walking down unused farm paths, always accompanied by glorious views and our hosts’ dog, “Fa”, named inappropriately after a tonal scale (she is probably the quietest dog I’ve ever come across). I guess I too would be a bit quieter (and infinitely leaner) if I ran in the mountains for a couple of hours each day.

Fa - Perra Magnifica.  A dog for all seasons

Fa – La Perra Magnifica. A dog for all seasons

On our arrival, it snowed heavily and our first walk was in “snow rackets”, large squash racket-like contraptions that you attach to your feet to allow you to walk easily over the snow. The crisp, white peaks and desolate surroundings provided a spectacular introduction for us as we came to terms with our slightly unusual footwear. I can already hear some of my less charitable friends chuckling away at the image of me impersonating some warped, hirsute, modern-day version of Bigfoot trudging through the snow. Over the following weeks the snow melted away and we reverted to simple hiking boots, yet the changing landscape we witnessed on our outings provided a consistent theme of beauty. We walked, we talked, we ate and we laughed and after seventeen days flew by, it was with some sense of sadness that we bid farewell to our wonderful hosts.

It was time to move on – the Basque Country awaited.

To see our full Asturias Gallery, click here.

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5 Responses

  1. Olga says:

    Wow. I want to trade places with you guys ….

  2. Jimena says:

    “Alucinantes” (San-Marié will like this adjective) fotos de nuestras queridas montañas, ciudades y paisajes asturianos. La sonrisa no ha abandonado mi cara durante la lectura de vuestro relato, recordando momentos especiales que no olvidaremos. Ha sido fantástico. Esperamos que sigáis disfrutando de vuestro viaje, y descubriendo, y disfrutando… Mientras seguís practicando el español, ¡claro!
    “Amazing pictures of our beloved Asturian mountains, towns and landscapes. The smile stuck to my face during the reading of your post, remembering special moments we will not forget. It has been great. We hope you keep enjoying your trip, and discovering, and ejoying… While you keep practising your Spanish, of course!

  3. Mike says:

    What a pleasure to read …and a good laugh too. The company you kept sounds great.

  4. Gramps says:

    Surely not a burgeoning ‘tortuga’ (trust spelling/meaning is appropriate) ………..

  5. John says:

    Gramps – I share your concern about the Tortuga. Based on my extensive cultural research (ie watching Pirates of the Caribbean) I know that Tortuga is an island named for its turtle shape. I therefore assume Saul has picked up a pet in Spain, and is planning to smuggle it back to SA under his shirt, pretending it is a boep. This is, of course, completely illegal and not fair on the poor animal.

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