Basques, with their adventurous spirit and ambitions for a better life, were key players in the conquest and history of the Americas. Reminders of that history are everywhere, from the names of towns (Durango, Colorado and the state of Durango in Mexico) to some of the most influential figures in American history, such as Simón Bolívar. One of the most prominent Basques in the history of the Americas was Juan Zumárraga, the first bishop of Mexico. Not only was he a defining religious leader, but he is also the author of one of the oldest letters written in Basque that has reached us to modern day.
Zumárraga was born in Durango, Bizkaia, in 1468, some 24 years before Columbus first reached what would become the American continents. His parents, Juan López de Zumárraga y Teresa de Láriz y Muncháraz, were both from distinguished families. Not much is known about his childhood, but it seems he always kept a love and fondness for his native land.
He was ordained as a Franciscan sometime around 1515, though the details are not clear, not even where his ordination happened. Some time in his mid-fifties, he secluded himself in the Monastery of Abrojo (near Valladolid) to practice a life of isolation. In 1526, he was appointed as guardian of the monastery, a position he held when Carlos V came for one of his vacations.
He was soon appointed as an Inquisitorial Delegate to Nafarroa and the Vascongadas — the provinces of Araba, Bizkaia, and Gipuzkoa — recently shaken by the witchcraft phenomenon. In the summer of 1527 he moved to Nafarroa, but was almost immediately called to the Americas, and he embarked for Mexico in August 1527, after being appointed bishop. While his primary task was to organize the diocese of the capital of New Spain, he was also empowered as protector of the Native Americans.
During his time as Bishop of Mexico (he was not consecrated until 1533), he faced many hardships, primarily in the struggle between the Spanish colonists and the Native Americans. While he was named their protector, he presided over the Inquisitorial Court until 1543 when he was dismissed due to his harshness with the “idolatrous” Natives. When the “new laws” prohibited, amongst other things, the enslavement of the Natives but would have led to the poverty of the colonists, he was part of the effort that led to a less strict interpretation that possibly avoided a civil war. It thus seems that his role as “protector” was mixed at best.
It was also during this time that the visions of Our Lady of Guadalupe occurred. While Zumárraga was approached about the visions and investigated them, and is now associated with the event, it seems that, at the time, he did not believe the visions and did not promote them. However, they led to a huge increase in the number of Native Americans that wanted to be baptized, a situation that Zumárraga navigated.
In many of his efforts, he had to confront an established Spanish colonial system that resisted change. All letters leaving New Spain were censored until he was finally able to smuggle a letter out with the help of a fellow Basque, who buried the letter in a cake of wax and submerged the whole thing in a barrel of oil. One of Zumárraga’s letters has received great attention as it is one of the oldest written documents in Basque.
Zumárraga was also responsible for introducing the first printing press to the Americas; supporting the development of the Colegio de Santa Cruz de Tlatelolco, the first European school of higher education in the Americas; and establishing several hospitals. He is also credited for making chocolate a popular drink in Europe.
“What is this place?” asked Kepa. All of the windows were shuttered and the door was locked. There were no other cars parked in front. “It seems… closed?”
Maite looked around, walking to the side of the building. “There’s a fronton,” she said. “I assume this must have been some kind of Basque place?”
Buber’s Basque Story is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
Kepa pulled out his phone. “I guess we don’t have to keep guessing,” he said, doing a quick search. “It seems that this was a Basque hotel and restaurant, founded in 1893. It closed because of the pandemic.”
“That’s so sad!” said Maite.
“What do we do now? The light guided us here, but now what?”
“Maybe there is a way in through the back?”
Kepa nodded as they walked past the fronton and around the back of the building. A cinder-block wall enclosed a space behind the fonton and the restaurant.
“There’s a door over there,” Maite said, pointing to the back of the building. “Lift me up.”
Kepa lifted Maite over the wall. She jogged over to the building and tested the backdoor. It opened. She motioned to Kepa to go around the front. He nodded as she slipped in through the door. Within moments, she had opened the front door, letting Kepa in.
“Looks like it has been abandoned for a while,” said Kepa.
He flicked a switch. The lights stayed off. He pulled out his phone again and turned on the flashlight. Cobwebs filled many of the corners. They wandered into one room. The wall was bare and the floor was torn up.
“I think there must have been a bar here before,” said Maite.
“Whatever was here, there isn’t much left,” replied Kepa. He walked along the length of the wall, running his hand along it. There were various holes in the wall where something had once been mounted. Kepa shined his flashlight into one of them. An old photograph was tucked inside. He pulled it out as Maite came up from behind.
“What’s that?” she asked as Kepa handed it to her.
He shrugged. “An old photograph. Maybe from when this place first opened?”
The photo showed a group of people in front of a very different looking building, with a balcony overlooking the street. Men lined the porch in vests and white shirts while a few women were standing on the balcony, long flowing skirts falling to their feet. The sign on the building said “Iberia Hotel, FM Noriega Proprietor.”
“Wow,” said Maite as she stared at the photo. “Looks just like all of those saloons in those western movies.”
Maite handed the photo back to Kepa. She noticed how her hand had started to glow just as she touched Kepa’s hand, which was also glowing. Their ears filled with the same buzzing sound that they had heard back on Ellis Island when suddenly the room filled with a blinding white light.
Today is my dad’s birthday. He would have turned 77.I miss you dad.
Dad was always smart. He just didn’t have much opportunity or stomach for school. When I was a kid, he would always help me with my math, at least before we got into things like algebra and geometry. He knew his numbers, and was sharp, but he always preferred working instead of sitting in a classroom.
When he was a kid growing up in the rural countryside of Bizkaia, his mom tried to get him closer to school. She sent him to a caserio in Murelaga (today Aulestia) where he could get some extra schooling. This caserio was closer to a school and she hoped he could get more chances to learn. He was only about nine. To earn his keep, he had to get up and milk the cows every morning. The family had one daughter, who ended up marrying a guy dad called Txoria. Dad hated this guy. Txoria had a motorcycle and he made dad clean it any time he brought it over. So, first thing in the morning, dad had to milk the cows and, if it was there, wash Txoria’s motorcycle. And if dad messed anything up, did anything wrong, Txoria would grab his ear and twist it. He hated Txoria.
Dad spent two and a half years in that caserio. They put him in kindergarten, like he was two years old, even though he was nine and he knew all of the math. He never really got anything out of that school. His grandpa died a few years later, when he was eleven, and he used that as a reason to go home and never go back to Murelaga.
He started getting lessons from a woman in Munitibar, Mari Angeles Mallea, in the Sindikatu, one of the local bars where he also worked. Mari Angeles tutored him a couple of hours a day. He was sharp. He knew his numbers. “Shit, I was good.” The only thing he didn’t do well in was Spanish, he never learned much. He even helped his mom with her math. When she went out with her friends, drinking some wine, she would pay the whole bill because she didn’t know how to divide it. When he was nine, even before, he helped her figure out how to divide the bill so she didn’t pay for everyone all the time.
When dad was older, fourteen or so, his mom tried again, tried to get him in the seminary at Oñate. Dad wasn’t interested. The frailes would come and try to recruit him, but he would escape to the fields and pretend to work. His younger brother, Martin, ended up going, and very nearly became a priest, until he met his future wife Rosario…
As a kid, dad was always a bit more of a homebody than his brother. When they were younger, before dad was six, his mother took them to stay at a caserio named Astarlo, where she was from. Dad’s uncle, Eusebio, was sick back at their home and the kids were making too much noise, preventing Eusebio from getting the rest he needed, so his mom took dad and Martin to Astarlo. They were all talking until dad noticed his mom wasn’t there any more. I guess they hadn’t really told the boys what was going on. Dad said they tried to bribe him to stay, tried to tempt him with candies and cookies. It worked on his brother, who must have been three or four, but not dad. He followed her home. It was at least one and half miles, going up and down the mountainside. He caught up with his mom and went back home with her.
Even though dad was sharp and good with numbers, he just preferred to work. He took lessons from Mari Angeles for a few years, but then started working full time. When he was sixteen, only a few years before he left for the United States, he started working at another caserio — maybe named Urkija? — he was making 600 pesetas a week, which was a lot back then. He gave half of what he made to his mom and the rest was his. He never saved any of it. It was his job to bring meat home on Sundays. And with whatever was left, he’d spend a lot of it to help keep up the motorcycle, the only vehicle the family had. Dad had a lot of adventures with that motorcycle, but those are stories for another day.
Thanks to Lisa Van De Graaff for encouraging me to record dad and his stories when I could.
Four Basque brothers, four very different ways they experienced the immigrant life.
Goikoetxebarri is a typical baserri nestled into the woods just outside of Gerrikaitz, one of the two barrios that together make up the village of Munitibar. Munitibar is small, maybe 500 people, and lies in the heart of Bizkaia, in the center of a triangle formed by Durango, Gernika, and Lekeitio. Goikoetxebarri was the home of the Uberuaga clan: the patriarch Pedro Uberuaga Kareaga and the matriarch Justa Urionaguena Magunagoikoetxea and their children, eventually seven in all. While the baserri provided the essentials, for such a large family it wasn’t enough. And there weren’t many opportunities in Munitibar — there wasn’t much industry to speak of. While it wasn’t so long ago that there used to be a few ironworks, mills, and even a gypsum mine, today there is just a factory of construction materials and an agricultural coop. Beyond that, there are just a few bars, a couple of churches, the fronton, and the school. To make a living, one had to look beyond the borders of this small village.
The Uberuaga clan: (standing) Juan, José, María, Teodoro, and Santiago; (sitting) Justa and Pedro. Juan carried this photo in his wallet. Photo shared with me by Juan’s son Jon Uberuaga.
Several of the Uberuaga children left home at a young age – as young as ten years old – to work. There simply wasn’t enough money at home to support them all, so they had to work to help the family. Often, necessity drives the search for opportunity, and, as these kids grew up, they took advantage of what opportunities they could, each finding their own way. What I find fascinating about this family is how each of the brothers followed very different paths, together spanning the spectrum of the Basque immigrant experience.
Tio Joe at a big family dinner during our visit in 2014.
The three youngest brothers each made their way to the United States, attracted by the opportunities that sheepherding promised young Basques. Juan Jose – Tio Joe – was the first. (For many years, Tio Joe was Uncle Tio to me… my dad called him “tio” so I just assumed that was his name…) Born in 1924, he arrived in the US in 1952. After his stint as a sheepherder and a lumberjack, Joe worked in a plywood mill for Boise Cascade. Joe never married. He had a shiny, bright red car, with white pin stripes, that embodied cool to me. Eventually, in 1984, he retired after 32 years in the US and returned back to the Basque Country at the age of 60.
When he moved back, he joked with his brother Juan and nephew Jon that he was sick and that he wouldn’t last much longer. But, Joe is still going strong, the last of Pedro and Justa’s children still alive. While his body is certainly weaker than it was when I knew him as a kid – when he would show off his huge biceps, saying he had swallowed big eggs that formed his massive arm – his mind is still sharp. When he was just a little younger, he drove almost every evening from his home in Durango, which he shared with his brother Juan, or Amorebieta, where he now lives with his niece Rosario, to Munitibar, where he could always be found having dinner with his friends, usually in the Ondamendi Taberna. After dinner, he often made his way to his nephew Martín’s bar, the Herriko Taberna, to play cards.
Tio Joe has come back to the United States often, usually for Jaialdi, though, as he gets ever closer to 100, his traveling days are likely over. Just before his last trip, in 2014, we were visiting him and the rest of the family. His niece, Rosario, was away on vacation. Joe and his other niece, Begoña, and her husband, Javier, were planning to board a plane just weeks later to visit my parents and friends. The stubborn old Basque that he is, Joe decided it was the right time to trim some hedges, so at the age of 90, he climbed up a precarious ladder to cut away the branches. He fell, and had to be taken to the hospital. While he ended up ok, and was able to get on the plane, the whole time he was waiting for the ambulance, all he could do was worry about the “broncas” – the scolding – he was going to get from Rosario…
Juan on his horse with his dog at his sheep wagon. Photo shared with me by Juan’s son Jon Uberuaga.
February 1962, Euzkaldunak Organization Weight Lifting Champion: Juan Uberuaga (carrying walking weights) being kissed by Miss Boise, Delphina Urresti (photo from The Basque Center, Boise).
Joe’s younger brothers soon followed him to the United States, presumably drawn by Joe’s stories of the wonderful opportunities the American West offered. Juan came in 1956, when he 29 years old. Back in the old country, Juan had already gained fame, nicknamed the Leon de Oiz – the Lion of Oiz – a champion txinga carrier. On the day before he left for the US, he beat a rival – Gandiaga – by carrying two weights, each weighing about 100 pounds, over 850 feet. Juan came on one contract, returned back to his native Bizkaia, and then came on a second contract to herd sheep. His immigration status was different than Joe’s – Juan wasn’t allowed to hold any job other than sheepherder while Joe spent half of each year cutting wood. After a second contract, he returned to the Basque Country for good. But, during those six years, Juan earned enough money that he could have bought five apartments and a car. Now back in the Basque Country, Juan settled down. He married Felisa Urionabarrentexea and had a son, Jon. Sadly, his first wife died in 1975 when Jon was nine years old.
Joe and Juan, sometime around 1948 before either left for America. Photo shared with me by Juan’s son Jon Uberuaga.
When I first met Juan, during my first visit to the Basque Country in 1991, Juan was confined to a wheelchair, the result of severe thrombosis. However, his strength was still legendary. During one of my visits, I joined him, Joe and Jon at a sporting event that was held in honor of his career carrying weights. Juan died in 2001.
Frances and Santi (far right) at the 1980 Dinner at the Basque Center in Boise. Also pictured (left to right): Carol & Joe Lejarcegui and John Bastida. Photo from the Basque Center of Boise.
The youngest son, Santiago – Tio Santi – came a year after Juan, when he was 28 years old. As his older brothers, he came on a sheepherding contract. When my dad, Pedro, came in 1961, Santi was still herding sheep, and became my dad’s boss. While Santi was out watching the sheep, my dad took care of the camp. In 1972, Santi started working at a Boise Cascade plywood mill in Emmett, Idaho – he worked there until he retired in 1991. Shortly after he began working at the mill, he married Frances Chacartegui Toolson and they made their home in Boise. Santi was a staple at the Boise Basque Center, and was always ready for a game of mus. Santi wouldn’t make it back to the Basque Country more than a few times after that. When Juan’s first wife died in 1975, Santi and Francis made a trip to the old country. But, that was Santi’s last time in his native country. When Juan himself died in 2001, they wanted to visit again, but the attacks on 9/11 disrupted those plans. Santi died not too long after, in 2002.
While Santi was by far the closest to us, physically, I never really got to know him. We never really saw him that much when I was a kid. When he lived in the United States, we saw Joe a lot more, and I’ve of course seen Joe many times since, as we each skip across the ocean. I even got to know Juan, who I only met a few times, better. It is funny how life happens.
Teodoro and Feliciana’s wedding photo.
The eldest brother and my aitxitxa, Teodoro, born in 1915, stayed in the Basque Country. He never step foot in the United States. As the oldest child, Goikoetxebarri was his responsibility, though the younger siblings often sent money to help with the upkeep of the baserri. Teodoro married Feliciana Zabala Idoeta, and they made their home in Goikoetxebarri. They had eight children – six boys and two girls. Just as with the previous generation, several of the children started work at a young age to help the family. Over the years, Teodoro worked various jobs, including at a paper mill in Durango and making charcoal. He would often work two shifts, taking on that of another worker, to earn that much more. Teodoro died young, only 56 years old, of lung cancer in 1971, the year I was born. Of those eight kids, only my dad – the eldest – followed his uncles to the United States.
Santi and Joe in Idaho. Joe’s fancy red car is in the background. Photo shared with my by Juan’s son Jon Uberuaga.
Each of these four brothers lived the Basque immigrant story in very different ways. Teodoro, the oldest, became the new patriarch of the family baserri and never left the Basque Country. Juan did two contracts as a sheepherder and returned home. Though the work was hard, he appreciated the economic opportunities it had given him. José – Joe – also came as a sheepherder but ended up spending the rest of his working life in the United States. However, the lure of his native land never left him and he returned once he retired, enjoying another 38 years and counting in his native land. And Santi made the US his permanent home. Each followed a completely different path afforded by the opportunities of the time.
There were three other kids in that Uberuaga clan of Goikoetxebarri. The only girl, María, left home early when she was only ten years old, to live with an aunt and help support the family. Eventually, she made her home just up the mountain from Goikoetxebarri at another baserri, Kortaguren. Emilio, the second oldest brother born in 1917, was killed in 1938 in the Spanish Civil War. The last brother, Eusebio, also died young at the age of 31.
Many thanks to my cousin, Jon Uberuaga, for filling in so many details and sending these great photos, and my wife, Lisa Van De Graaff, for the critical eye.
The western United States saw Basque communities, often centered around the sheep herding trade, pop up across the landscape. Newly arrived Basques needed places to stay and contacts to help guide them as they tried to navigate this foreign land and the Basque boarding houses were born. Some of those endured over a century, their role as a pillar of the local Basque community evolving with time. That is particularly true of the Basque boarding houses and restaurants of Bakersfield, California.
The first European to explore California’s Central Valley, the future location of Bakersfield, was Gabriel Moraga. The son of Joaquin Moraga, the lieutenant of explorer Juan Bautista de Anza and founder of both San Francisco and San Jose, Gabriel explored the region during the years of 1805-1808. He gave many of the rivers in the area the names we use today, including the San Joaquin River, which then gave its name to the valley. The town of Moraga is named after Gabriel’s son. Though Moraga is a Basque name, Joaquin was born in what is today Arizona.
Basques began to flock to the area, many as sheepherders and many from Iparralde, the French side of the Basque Country. Basque hotels and boarding houses arose to greet and host the new immigrants. The oldest, the Noriega Hotel, opened in 1893 in Kern City. Originally called the Iberia Hotel, the first owners were Faustino Mier Noriega and Fernando Etcheverry. Standing one block from the railroad station, it was the first place many young Basques, who had the words “Noriega Hotel– Bakersfield, California” pinned to their clothes, stayed. The hotel changed hands many times over the years. The hotel was forced to close in 2020 due to the challenges associated with COVID-19 pandemic.
Bakersfield is known for its Basque restaurants, including to but in addition to the Noriega Hotel. These include Benji’s French Basque Restaurant, Chalet Basque Restaurant, Pyrenees Café, and the Wool Growers. The Wool Growers was started in 1954 by Mayie and JB Maitia while the Pyrenees originally opened in 1899. The Chalet Basque was founded in 1969 by JB and Marie Curutchague. Benji’s is the new kid on the block, so to speak, opening in 1986.
Part of what would become Tejon Ranch, the largest ranch and private land holding in California, lying just south of modern Bakersfield, was originally awarded to Jose Antonio Aguirre, a Basque from San Sebastian (the article says Bizkaia, but I assume they mean Gipuzkoa) in 1843 as part of Mexican land grants.
As with all of our Basque communities in the Western United States, that of Bakersfield is changing, epitomized by the closing of the Noriega Hotel. Bakersfield native Beaux Gest Mingus, and his filmmaking partner Gina Napolitan, are working to capture that history before it finally disappears. Over the last 8 years, they have roamed the Basque-American landscape. The fruit of their labors is the film The Disappearing West, which they hope to release this coming Christmas. Selected scenes are available at beauxmingus.com. Kyle Baker’s The Eighth Province also captures the history and evolution of the Basques of Bakersfield.
Kepa nearly hit another car as he pulled over to the shoulder and stared out the window.
“Bakersfield?” he said, looking at Maite.
Maite just shrugged. “I don’t know anything about it.”
Buber’s Basque Story is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
Kepa pulled out his phone and did a quick search. “Looks like it has a long history of Basque sheepherding. It’s about two hours from here.” He looked again at Maite. “Change of plans?”
“What about your cousin?”
Kepa shrugged. “I’ll just text him saying we got delayed and we’ll see him tomorrow. I don’t know what else we can do.”
Maite nodded. “Ados nago. I agree. We can’t just ignore that light.”
Kepa flicked his turn signal as he merged back onto the freeway and took the exit toward Bakersfield. “Are you ready for another one of these?”
“More ready than last time,” replied Maite. “At least we have some sense of what will happen.”
“I have to admit, I’m not looking forward to bumping into de Lancre again. We barely got away last time.” He looked over at Maite. “What would happen if he actually killed one of us?”
Maite’s face betrayed the uncertainty she kept from her voice. “I guess it will be like Blas,” she said. “Once the quantum bubble pops, it will be as if it never existed. Anything that happens in the bubble is undone.”
“I don’t look forward to experiencing that first hand.”
“Blas seemed to turn out fine. He had the life he was always meant to.”
“Yeah, but he did die, in a horrible way.” Kepa shook his head. “Maybe he could forget, maybe in the end it didn’t really happen to him, but what about us? We remember what happens in those bubbles. If we die, even if we come back when the bubble pops, will we remember dying? Will we remember going through what Blas did?”
Maite felt an uncontrolled shiver race through her body. “I can’t imagine…” she began.
“Sorry,” said Kepa. “I shouldn’t go there. This is hard enough without dwelling on what ifs.”
Maite reached out to take Kepa’s hand. “Whatever happens, we’ll go through it together.”
Kepa looked over at her as they sped down the highway and smiled.
It wasn’t long before they pulled into Bakersfield, the pinpoint of light constantly on the horizon before them. Kepa navigated the streets, guided by the light, which took him downtown and in front of a small, nondescript white building. The light hovered above the building and, as Kepa and Maite watched, blinked a few times before disappearing.
“I guess we’re here,” said Maite with a sigh.
Hanging above the door, in almost unassuming green script, read the word “Noriega’s.”
The aftermath of Spanish Civil War and World War II forced many Basque intelligentsia to flee their native land and settle elsewhere. Indeed, the Basque government itself was in exile. Many of those Basques eventually found their way to the Americas where they became important figures, both representing the cause of the Basque government or involving themselves in local politics. Jesús Galíndez Suárez did both and paid the ultimate price.
Galíndez was born in Amurrio, Araba, on October 12, 1915. His father was an eye doctor. When his mother died, his father took the family to Madrid, where Galíndez ended up studying law and became passionate about his native Basque Country. In 1932 he became part of the Basque Nationalist Party and began publishing monographs on history and politics.
During the Spanish Civil War, he became the Legal Attaché to the Committee-Delegation of the Basque Nationalist Party, which was charged with protecting the Basques who resided in Madrid. Galíndez was in charge of the Section of Prisoners and the Disappeared of the Basque Government. His efforts ensured the freedom of many Basques and non-Basques alike during the war.
At the end of the war, in 1939, he fled Spain and went into exile, making his way to the Dominican Republic, where he lived for six years, becoming a professor of legal science and a representative of the Basque Delegation.
In 1946, he left the Dominican Republic for New York. He was involved in efforts that led the United Nations to condemn the Franco regime in Spain. He also continued his award-winning writing and became a professor of law and history at Columbia University. During this time, he completed his PhD thesis on the Trujillo dictatorship in the Dominican Republic, which was formally accepted by the university on February 27, 1956.
Only days later, on March 12, Galíndez disappeared. He was last seen entering a subway station. His body was never found, though an ex-student claimed to have seen it fished out of the sea and buried in San José de Ocoa, Dominican Republic. There is some evidence that he was abducted by agents of the Trujillo regime, who flew him from New York to the Dominican Republic. The pilot was an American, Gerald Lester Murphy, who also disappeared later that year. However, other theories state that the US government had him killed because he knew too much about its relationship with the Trujillo government or that he was in fact a spy, working for the US.
One of Galíndez’s last writings, discovered in his papers, describes the isolation and danger he felt:
I’m Basque…some laugh, and others hate me. That is all I have left when despair takes over and I wander through the streets. I’m Basque, and far away there is a people that I belong to. I am nothing, a mess of endless passions and desires. But I’m part of that people, the people I see in my waking dreams, dressed as a gudari on my way to the mountain, I see him in the romerías and when night falls, on a street, I see him making an effort on the jai alai court, and in the fishermen going out to see, I see him singing and praying, I see him throughout the centuries. I’m along, alone with my troubles. But I will continue, I will continue on even though no one understands me in this Babylon. And someday, I will lay down under the black poplar tree I chose on the top of a hill; in the lonely valley of my village, alone with my land and my rain. They will understand me in the end…
They spent midday in Monterey, where they first stopped at the aquarium. Though Kepa had often gone to the beach to relax, and had even gone spearfishing in the ocean when he was younger, he had never really appreciated the multitude of colors that ocean life displayed. The tall glass panels revealed an almost dervish dance of fish that mesmerized Kepa.
Maite laughed as she pulled Kepa away. “You’d think you’d never seen a fish, country boy,” she said.
Kepa shrugged sheepishly. “Not so many at one time. They are fascinating.”
“If I’d known you’d react like this, I’d have taken you to more aquariums.”
Buber’s Basque Story is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
They left the aquarium and found a small spot on the water for lunch. Maite ordered fish and chips while Kepa ordered a burger.
“What? A burger? Here? With all of this great seafood?” exclaimed Maite in exasperation.
Kepa smiled. “I’m just a country boy, after all. And American burgers are simply awesome.”
Maite shook her head. “Sometimes, I really can’t understand you.”
“Well,” replied Kepa with a smirk, “at least I keep you guessing.”
Maite laughed. “That you do.”
After lunch, they got back into their rental car, this time with Kepa behind the wheel, and continued south toward San Luis Obispo.
“Look at that,” said Maite, pointing at a sign as they turned onto Highway 101. “‘Historic Route, Juan Bautista de Anza National Historic Trail’.”
Kepa shrugged as he accelerated the car down the road. “Who was he?”
“I think so…” began Maite as she tapped on her phone. “Bai! This guy was an explorer back in the seventeen hundreds. His dad was from Gipuzkoa, from Hernani to be exact.”
“Ah, a Giputxi, that’s why I didn’t know it. That’s pretty cool. Seems like there were a lot of Basques around here even before the sheepherders.”
The road took them inland, past large swaths of farmland and rolling hills covered in brown grass.
“I always expected California to be more… lush,” said Kepa. “It’s all farmland.”
“And what isn’t being farmed seems pretty dry,” added Maite. “I guess we only ever see pictures of the coast and the big cities.”
It wasn’t much longer before they saw a sign telling them that San Luis Obispo was only thirty miles away.
“Not much longer,” said Kepa. “I’m ready to stretch my legs. I don’t know how these Americans drive for so long.”
Maite laughed. “You’re just not used to going anywhere. How often do you even leave that baserri?”
“I leave it enough!” replied Kepa defiantly. “I’ve been to Paris and even London.”
“Fair enough, but you took a train to get there, didn’t you?”
“Well…”
“Hey, what’s that?” asked Maite as she pointed out the window.
A bright point of light hovered above a sign that pointed toward Bakersfield.
As part of the conquest of the Americas, Basques played an outsized role. They were there for many of the pivotal events that ended up shaping both continents. This is no less true for what would become the United States. Far west, in what eventually became California, Juan Bautista de Anza was an explorer, a military leader, and eventually a politician, following the path his father, also named Juan Bautista de Anza, had blazed to the south.
Portrait of Juan Bautista de Anza by Ira Diamond Gerald Cassidy, El Paso Museum of Art. Image from Wikipedia.
Juan Bautista de Anza Sasoeta, the elder de Anza, was born in Hernani, Gipuzkoa, in 1693. When he was around 19 years old, without being able to speak hardly a word of Spanish, he made his way to the Americas, to New Spain to be precise, where some of his mother’s family already lived. He became involved in mining, and was part of the silver boomtowns of Aguaje (near Hermosillo, Sonora) and Tetuachi (near Arizpe). He joined the military, and was primarily occupied with protecting Sonora from Apache raids.
He later established the first livestock ranches in what would become southern Arizona. It was during his watch that silver was discovered near the Arizona Ranch and he used the ranch, owned by his good friend Bernardo de Urrea, as a base of operations to adjudicate the future of that silver. Through his actions, the name Arizona rose in prominence and ultimately became the name of the state. He was killed by Apaches in 1740 during a supply trip.
His son, Juan Bautista de Anza Becerra-Nieto, was born a few years earlier, in 1736, in the province of New Navarre in New Spain (now Mexico). He enlisted in the army when he was 16, and became a captain in 1760, when he was 24. He continued his father’s quest to establish a trade route between Sonora and Alta California. After approval from the King, he set out in 1774 with 3 padres, 20 soldiers, 11 servants, 35 mules, 65 cattle, and 140 horses, and, most critically, Sebastian Tarabal, a Native American from California who had fled from Mission San Gabriel who served as a guide. This first trip took him as far as Monterey, the then-capital of Alta California. He led a second group a few years later, trying to bolster the Spanish presence against the Russians. This second route is now commemorated as the Juan Bautista de Anza National Historic Trail. This time, he reached as far as San Francisco Bay.
Upon his return to Mexico City in 1777, he was then appointed governor of the Province of Nuevo México (today, the state of New Mexico). As governor, he led punitive expeditions against the Comanche, who had been raiding the village of Taos. His military actions eventually led to the Comanches capitulating and signing a peace treaty, which was the foundation of the Comanchero trade. De Anza ended his tenure as governor in 1787, and died only a year later in 1788.
The next day, they got up early. Once the car was packed with their suitcases, Maite checked them out while Kepa went to get coffee and breakfast. It wasn’t long before they were sitting in the car, ready to go.
“So, it’s almost five hours to Santa Barbara, where Javi lives,” said Kepa. “I say we drive down the coast and stop to look at the sites. Javi isn’t expecting us until late this evening, since he had to work today. So, there is no rush to get there.”
Buber’s Basque Story is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
“Are you sure you don’t want to drive first?” asked Maite as she started the car.
Kepa chuckled. “You drew the short straw. You get to navigate us out of the big city.”
While Maite was used to driving in Bilbao, with its small streets and thick traffic, driving in California was a different experience. Even early in the morning, the freeway was full of cars. Sometimes, she was able to reach the speed limit, though other cars still flew by her; she could almost feel their anger at her for going “slow.” Other times, they were almost at a standstill. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to how the traffic flowed.
“Won’t it be nice when they have self-driving cars and we don’t have to think about traffic?” said Maite as she brought the car to a halt on the freeway, traffic backed up for what seemed forever. “We can just sit back and do anything else as the car takes us to our destination.”
“What? And miss out in the joy of controlling the beast, feeling the engine rev as you hit the gas?”
“Ha! Can you even feel the engine in that thing you have back at home?”
“No, but my next car…” began Kepa wistfully.
“You keep dreaming,” interrupted Maite. “Where would you even drive such a beast back home? On those roads? You’d end up killing yourself or, worse, some bicyclist.”
Kepa shrugged. “Maybe I’ll build a little track on the land behind the baserri, something where I can take my car out for a spin.”
Maite laughed. “And maybe I’ll build a particle accelerator in my basement.”
“What basement? You live in an apartment!”
“Exactly!”
Kepa laughed as the traffic started moving again. He looked at his phone. “It seems there is no route that follows the coast all the way down, unfortunately. How about we swing over to Monterey for lunch and then back inland until we get further south to San Luis Obispo. I read that it has some interesting historical buildings.”
“That sounds good to me,” said Maite as she gave the rental a bit of gas, revving the engine as they started to move.
“See! You like it too!” exclaimed Kepa.
Maite smiled. “I never said I didn’t,” she said as she gave the car a little extra gas to swerve around the slower car in front of her.
