The Welsh in Patagonia …

In Patagonia Welsh is spoken with a Spanish lilt, and the guitar and the asado, the gaucho and the siesta are part and parcel of Welsh Argentine culture.

Conception and settlement

Let me take you back in time, to the early 1800’s. In the Welsh heartlands industry is developing and rural communities are slowly beginning to fragment. We are well into the Industrial Revolution, with its constant demands for coal, slate, iron and steel. Wales was a natural provider of these, and as such it was felt by many that the country was gradually being absorbed into England. This was not what all Welsh people wanted, and the minds of some turned to thoughts of a new start in a new world.

In fact, Welsh emigrants had already attempted to set up Welsh speaking colonies overseas but had had great difficulty in retaining their cultural identity. This was because they had tried in English speaking communities – mainly in the US – where they came under pressure to use the English language and adopt the ways of another emerging industrial culture. Inevitably, these new immigrants soon became fully assimilated into the American way of life, losing their language and culture in the process. This was not what many were looking for.

Enter a certain Michael Jones, an ordained minister who had lived in the United States for two years and formed a vision of establishing an ‘independent’ Welsh settlement, free from English and American influences.  He –and his followers– believed that their language, religion and way of life were being oppressed by the English ruling class, and he invested a large amount of time and money in a new ‘Patagonian project’.

Michael Jones had been in touch with the Argentine government about the possibility of settling an area in Patagonia where Welsh immigrants would be able to preserve their language, culture and traditions.  Granting such a request suited the Argentine government well, as this would put them in control of a large tract of land which was then the subject of dispute with their Chilean neighbours. This was within the framework of the great European immigration, which colonized Argentina and other countries in the second half of the nineteenth century. But the Argentine government were not so keen on relinquishing ownership of the land, as we shall see.

A Welsh emigration committee met in Liverpool and published a handbook, Llawlyfr y Wladfa, to publicise the Patagonian scheme. The handbook was widely distributed throughout Wales, and also in North America. The first group of would-be settlers consisted originally of nearly two hundred people mustered from all over Wales, but mainly from north and mid-Wales. 

After delays which led to the loss or withdrawal of many potential settlers, a reduced group sailed from Liverpool on 28 May 1865 aboard the tea-clipper Mimosa. The group consisted by then of about 150 passengers, almost a third of whom were children. Quite a few of this final group came from the industrial areas of Mountain Ash and Aberdare, and only a minority came from agricultural communities. This first contingent included a schoolmaster, preachers, a builder, a doctor and not a few quarrymen and coal miners.

Model of the clipper Mimosa, property of the Merseyside Welsh Heritage Society

After a difficult, eight-week voyage, the settlers set foot on Patagonian soil at what is today Porth Madryn on 28 July 1865. The Mimosa set off on its return to London and the small emigrant group remained in New Bay for a few weeks before travelling another thirty miles to the Chubut Valley, the place that was to become their new home. They had with them “a few hundred sheep, a herd of wild cattle which could not be milked, barely enough provisions for six weeks (and acquired on credit) and some planks to protect them from the rains and the icy winds of mid-winter”. 

The early days

The settlers soon found that Patagonia was not the milk and honey land they had been encouraged to expect. They had been sold the idea of green and fertile valleys, like the lowlands of Wales, but found instead a barren and inhospitable windswept steppe, with no water, scant food and no trees that could provide building materials for shelter. 

They found caves in the white, soft tosca rocks, in which the women and children lived for the first six weeks, while the men went in search of the Chubut valley, walking in small bands. Some lost their way and had miraculous escapes from death, but at last they found an old earth fort on the banks of the Chubut River, built by a hunting expedition some years earlier, and it is thought they may have decided to build a village of mud huts there, calling it Caer Antur (Fort Adventure).

They did receive life-saving help from the native Teheulches, who tried to teach the settlers how to survive on the scant resources of the prairie. Nevertheless, the colony looked as if it were doomed to failure, from the lack of food and scarcity of water alone. But the settlers persevered and it was here that the first permanent settlement of Rawson was established at the end of 1865.

The colony suffered badly in those early years. Floods, poor harvests and disagreements over the ownership of land were discouraging enough, but additionally the lack of a direct route to the ocean made it difficult to bring in new supplies. Political infighting between the settlers and their leaders –and deteriorating support and encouragement from the Argentine Government– inflamed a difficult situation. But a major breakthrough was to save them, when in November 1867 the settlers realised that the land could be irrigated by diverting water from the Chubut River.  This was the life-changing event that saved the colony.

One of the countless irrigation ditches that keep the Chubut valley so fertile

New settlers began to arrive from both Wales and Pennsylvania, and by the end of 1874 the settlement had a population totalling over 270. With the arrival of these keen and fresh hands, new irrigation channels were dug along the length of the Chubut valley, and a patchwork of farms began to emerge along a thin strip on either side of the River Chubut. In 1875 the Argentine government granted the Welsh settlers official title to the land. A bright future seemed to beckon for the Welsh Settlers.

By 1875 the population of the Settlement had increased to 300 and this figure reached 2200 in 1895. Although the figures never met the expectations of the organisers, this was the heyday of the Welsh in Patagonia. It was a period of intense activity which saw the development of a railway line, the construction of an irrigation system, and the exploration of surrounding lands. In the late 1880s, a group of explorers known as the rifleros, under the leadership of Colonel Fontana, established new settlements on the other side of the continent, at Esquel and Trevelín in the foothills of the Andes.

There was further substantial immigration from Wales during the periods 1880-87, and also 1904-12, again mainly due to depression within the coalfields. The settlers had seemingly achieved their utopia, with Welsh speaking schools and chapels; even the language of local government was Welsh.

In the few decades since the settlers had arrived, they had transformed the inhospitable scrub-filled semi-dessert into one of the most fertile and productive agricultural areas in the whole of Argentina and had expanded their territory into the foothills of the Andes. They were transporting high quality wheat to the Atlantic coast and thence to European markets, winning prizes for the quality of the grain and earning money for the communities. 

The writing on the wall …

But this good beginning was not to continue. From the late 1880s there was a decline in the number of settlers arriving from Wales.  In 1899 the River Chubut burst its banks and flooded the Valley. And at the turn of the century there was a change in attitude from the Argentine government, who stepped in to impose direct rule on the colony. This brought the speaking of Welsh at local government level and in the schools to an abrupt end. The Welsh utopian dream of Michael D Jones appeared to be disintegrating.

Disheartened by this turn of events, many of the settlers considered moving elsewhere. In 1902, nearly 250 people abandoned the Welsh Settlement to establish a new home in Canada. Others moved to other parts of Patagonia, such as Choele-Choel and Valle Hermoso. Some efforts were made to sustain Welsh culture in Patagonia. Eluned Morgan organised a mobile library and opened a Welsh school in Gaiman in 1906. However, the last group of Welsh people to emigrate to Patagonia arrived at Madryn in November 1911.

Bod Iwan, one of the oldest Welsh farms still standing in the Chubut valley

For the region of Chubut, the mid-twentieth century was a period of steady economic development. Although the flow of immigrants from Wales had virtually ceased, people of various cultural backgrounds migrated to the region from other parts of Argentina. The Welsh community was now a minority, and it was increasingly exposed to the influence of other cultures. As the first generation of Welsh settlers passed, the sense of connection between Wales and Patagonia was weakened. The amount of Welsh literature produced in the Settlement was in decline and few Eisteddfodau were held in the second quarter of the century.

Revival 

Today the Welsh settlements in Argentina have reached their sixth and seventh generations. While many individuals who identify as ‘Welsh’ currently live in modern town houses, when I first arrived in Argentina in the 1970s, I remember many telling me they had been born and raised on small independent chacras, living the challenges and labour generally associated with an agricultural lifestyle and relying on horses or horse-drawn carts for transportation until relatively recently. I particularly remember a woman born in 1954 telling me that she rode to school every day on horseback until she was ten years old.

The celebration of the centenary of the settlement in 1965 brought increased contact with Wales. Argentine government policies have shifted, moving away from assimilation towards cultural diversity, and fostering a newfound appreciation for the pioneering role played by Welsh settlers. Recent years have consequently witnessed a notable resurgence of local interest in Welsh language and culture.

A small Welsh chapel, one of many scattered through the valley.

Today Chubut mirrors Wales but it is not Wales. Despite the pride and support for Welsh-Argentine cultural activities, most Argentines of Welsh descent will first assert their Argentine identity. Welsh-Argentine culture, while a hybrid in some respects, is fundamentally Argentine, not Welsh. One instance of Welsh traditions adapting to a distinct cultural context can be seen in the “chairing of the bard” ceremony. While participants in the National Eisteddfod of Wales don quasi-druidic robes, their Patagonian counterparts don blue ponchos.

Summary

Their aim was to recreate Wales in Patagonia, but they ultimately failed, partly due to the Argentine government’s policy of assimilation; partly because Welsh immigrant numbers never reached the critical mass necessary for Chubut to become a self-governing, Welsh-speaking province; and perhaps partly because this is the eventual fate of all such colonisation projects. As the Scots say, the porridge only lasts to the third generation.

Due to the markedly different social, cultural, and geographical context the culture of the settlers began to diverge from that of their hosts even in the early years, and this divergence was only to intensify with each successive generation. As tends to happen with global immigration the allure of the new country becomes overwhelming. Immigrant communities eventually and inevitably adapt to their new context 

Ironically the long survival of the Welsh language in Patagonia, now struggling to survive, only emphasises that inevitability, because Welsh is now spoken there by people who regard themselves as Argentines, and not Welsh. And yet they are Welsh-Argentines, and proud of both heritages.

Footnote

Since 1997, the Welsh Language Project (WLP) has been promoting and developing the Welsh language in the Chubut region of Patagonia, Argentina. Every year three Language Development Officers from Wales spend from March to December teaching in Patagonia. They develop the language in the Welsh speaking communities through both formal teaching and informal social activities. There is also a permanent Teaching Co-ordinator from Wales based in Patagonia who is responsible for the quality of teaching.

This project is funded by the Welsh Government, the Wales Argentina Society (Cymdeithas Cymru-Ariannin) and British Council Wales and is part of the International Education Programme. In Argentina the Chubut provincial government, while not providing direct funding, has supported the teaching of Welsh and the wider Welsh community.

The growth of the Welsh Language Project in Chubut, from adults only to children, has led the local communities to consider a more formal way of keeping the language alive. Since 2005 Welsh-Spanish bilingual schools have appeared in Trelew (Ysgol yr Hendre), Gaiman (Ysgol Gymraeg y Gaiman) and Trevelin (Ysgol y Cwm). While the schools have to be auto financed (there is no model for bilingual education in Chubut) they do receive some help from the British Council and are always happy to welcome teachers from Wales who bring their expertise with them.

© Martin Eayrs, 2023

A new cocktail – the Ardwyn

Today I decided to invent a new cocktail. Too much time on my hands, no doubt. I went to what passes for the drinks cupboard and pulled out one or two bottles and set to work. This is what I settled on as ingredients:

ardwyn-contents

1 measure Gin (a decent gin is probably worth it)
1 measure Gancia, a semi-bitter aperitif found in Argentina
1 measure freshly squeezed orange juice
a splash of angostura bitters.
Ice
Serve in a tall glass, or, hey why not make up a jug.

This is what it looked like:

ardwyn-drink

And it tasted pretty good. I called it Ardwyn, as that is the name of my home here in Patagonia where I am currently living. It’s Welsh, and means ‘on a hill within woodland’, which sums up my house pretty well.

Me, I was blogging back in 1959 …

This article first appeared in the Oakhamian, a magazine for present and past pupils of Oakham School, in 2006. It has been slightly modified here to remove irrelevancies. 

Were you ‘blogging’ back in the 1950s and 60s? Because I was, but it may not be quite what you think .

Today’s blog (‘web log’ in full) is, as readers will appreciate, a recent arrival, only made possible by rapidly developing Internet technology. But in terms of Oakham School slang, the word had another meaning when I was there. To ‘blog’ was to misbehave, to fool around, and ‘blogging’ was inappropriate, mischievous, even bad behaviour. I don’t know how widely the word was used, or for how long, but it was certainly currency when I entered the Junior House in September 1958. And out of nostalgia I thought it would be interesting to ask what other school slang might still remain in OOs’ memories behind the cobwebs of dimly recalled youth.

In 1958 Oakham was a small direct grant school, recovering from the war years and right at the end of the spartan regime that characterised the public school system. I was sent to Junior House at the age of just nine and my earliest memories there are of ‘new bugs’, ‘bear leaders’, ‘senior’s orders’ and punishments ‘officially’ meted out by the big boys (the eleven and twelve year old ‘prefects’), who gave us ‘bicycle rides’, ‘crumps’ and ‘clouts’ as the whim took them. I remember that one of the prefects had an electric shock machine which was used to administer shock therapy. (Later on in school life my study mate, a budding chemist, stored nitroglycerine in the roof, an equally horrifying memory now that I reflect on it, but that’s another story). But as for the shock machine; I can only give thanks to my guardian angel that it never occurred to the young tormentor to connect it to the mains. ‘Sneaking’ was out of the question and we bore our grief stoically.

‘Senior’s orders’ was a particularly galling experience. At its simplest, it meant that a ‘new bug’ had to do whatever a senior (i.e. a boy with longer time at Oakham than he) told him. Anything. I can remember in my first term being forced to lie in the old dyke that once ran across what is now known as Farside. It was the middle of winter and I was obliged to lie down in the freezing mud and slush because another boy – who was all of nine and three-quarters – so wished. This was senior’s orders.

Oakham in the late 1950s was Corps, Cricket, Chapel and the cane; fagging, cold showers and cross-country runs; the town largely out of bounds save a permitted visit to Tom Froud’s store in Choir Close where we could buy pomegranates and sherbet, and a little later to Stricklands, by the castle entry. At the age of ten I broke bounds to go to the only ‘record shop’ Oakham then sported, to buy Eddie Cochran’s ‘My Way’ (not the Paul Anka version made famous by Sinatra, but an earlier and earthier number) and was spotted by a member of staff. I guess he must have liked Eddie Cochran, because he let me off with a lecture, the main point of which seemed to be that the crime of being caught was more serious than the crime of breaking bounds.

Some of my school memories have a quasi-military flavour. I was senior scout in the school troop (not that there were that many of us) and with huge pride carried the flag at the County Jamboree. Some years later, dressed in paramilitary uniform (tracksuit top and CCF beret with cap badge removed) and carrying a lighted torch in one hand and an oak swatch in the other I marched under the banner of ‘Rutland fights for minority rights’. But my crowning military glory was raising the flag at the Annual Inspection, my colour sergeant’s red sash mirroring my flush of embarrassment when the flag looked like it wasn’t going to unfurl (fortunately it eventually did).

Why it was me raising the flag was a curious blend of laziness and nepotism. One of the best sinecures in school life was to get the coveted position of CCF Quartermaster. This involved little work other than convincing smaller boys that the ill-fitting kit and boots I issued them with were fine and should be accepted with thanks and forbearance but it kept me out of the rain and afforded me a key to the QM stores – fortuitously across the road from Chapmans – and thus a bolt hole for whatever mayhem occurred to me at any time of day or night. In hindsight, this prerogative was not abused as much as it might have been and was mainly a chance to go for a peaceful cigarette without having to look over my shoulder all the time. The fag ends found their way into a convenient screw top bottle.

I’m not sure now quite how I got this post but I sense that Jack Cox, master i/c the CCF, had a hand in it. He had been in the army proper with my father and it was in part Jack’s coming to Oakham that persuaded my father to send me there. Certainly he ‘looked out’ for me from time to time – on one occasion he told me to kindly hide the bottle a little more carefully; this at a time when being caught smoking was ample grounds for expulsion.

This generosity of spirit was missing when I was ‘gated’ for two weeks for the ‘offence’ of being seen talking to a girl in the town (Cathy Rxxxr of Manton, if she remembers). Actually to be fair it wasn’t exactly in the street but in the ‘tin mines’ where we used to go at weekends, on the road to Brooke as I remember, so there may have been some due cause, but it still rankles. So too does the fact that Oakham didn’t have female students when I was there, but for different reasons.

There were traditions too – although one never knows how much they grow with the remembering. Does anyone I wonder now remember the ‘Burley bum-basher bed walk’, a ritual in which one had to walk or jump on every bed in every senior boarding house in the space of one hour? I last performed this somewhat pointless feat, the logistics of which posed a serious challenge as I remember, trampling my way a little drunkenly through the dormitories of Deanscroft, Wharflands, Chapmans and School House on my last night at Oakham in June 1966. My colleagues in College House (in 1966 in its first year under the brilliant Chris Dixon, to whom I owe so much) were spared.

Looking back at all this now, it was another world. Why I was not unhappy defeats me, but on the whole I wasn’t. But I must return to my topic: the Oakham vocabulary of the 50s. Latin was still very much on the curriculum in 1958 and active in the schoolboy’s vocabulary too. Earnest preteens would call out cave (beware) whenever a teacher approached, while those with goods to dispose of would call out quis? (Latin for ‘who’, and for some reason pronounced ‘quiz’) to which the standard reply was ego (I, or me). If the article was undesirable the acquisition could be negated by retorting d, and to avoid this the person calling quis could qualify with no d’s – the whole point here being to get rid of (and avoid receiving) unwanted chattels.

These Latinisms would have been common to many schools. I would very much like to know what words (like ‘blog’) were peculiar to Oakham or used more widely. Did boys and girls in other schools used to say ‘bags I’ to claim something? Or ‘fains’ to exclude themselves? Were these expressions common in other schools, or are they native Oakham slang? If anyone ever gets to read this entry it would be fun to share memories and see what we can reconstruct.

As for the ‘Burley bum-basher bed walk’, I can’t be the only one now prepared to own up after almost fifty years. Or did I dream it all up?

 

The day I bumped into Pappo

If we are going to be accurate, this piece should more properly be called the day Pappo bumped into me, but it doesn’t quite have the ring.

Norberto Aníbal Napolitano, aka Pappo, 1950 – 2005. Photo — – www.diarioz.com.ar

Norberto Aníbal Napolitano, aka Pappo, 1950 – 2005. Photo — – www.diarioz.com.ar

Argentina has long had a love of and heavy involvement with the Blues, and in his time Buenos Aires born and bred Pappo played an integral part on that scene. He played with such seminal bands as Los Abuelos de la Nada, Los Gatos, Aerobus and Riff, and spent five years or so in the late 1970s playing and recording in the UK alongside greats such as Fleetwood Mac’s legendary Peter Green and Lemmy of Motorhead fame. His last, rolling band was Pappo’s Blues which produced seven exciting albums. More info here.

So to the bump. One evening I was proceeding in a northwards direction up the Avenida Corrientes in downtown Buenos Aites, my eyes drawn to the east as I passed one of the many theatres in that part of town where the star turn was , yes, you’ve guessed it already, Pappo. Crowds were forming outside the door, the foyer was filling with blues fans and I was toying, not very seriously, with the idea of cancelling my evening class and joining them.

When bang, crash, wallop I am thrown to the floor and pinned to the ground by a couple of hundred pounds of what turns out to be Pappo, himself not so much proceeding as sprinting frantically south, late for his gig and losing his balance, huffing and puffing like the overweight, unfit blues rocker he was. Like I was, then and now. His hard, black battered guitar case was digging into my neck, and my eyes focussed surreally on a torn and tattered sticker that read ‘Head Music’. It was certainly doing my head in.

Gentleman Pappo extricated himself from the melange of English and Argentine limbs with a surprising nimbleness, looked me northeast to southwest and, ascertaining that no permanent damage had been caused, proffered a friendly and sincere sorry, che accompanied by a muttered reminder to himself to be more careful. Yours truly, not often at a loss for something to say, at such short notice could only come up with the fatuous vos sos Pappo, which was neither news to him nor particularly useful in the circumstance.

A brief conversation of sorts did develop – in English, after he’d worked out that was where I was from. He had a love of England, and this was in any case pre-1982. He invited me to see the show stage side but I had classes to teach. And we were both pushed for time. All too soon, the two ships that had collided in the night sailed on in their respective directions: he to do blues battle on a Corrientes stage and I, somewhat more prosaically, to teach a private class to an industrialist in Palermo.

And that is how Pappo and I bumped into one another.  He died in a motorbike accident in February 2005 but for a certain generation his legend lives on. If you want a reminder of (or introduction to) the genius that was Pappo visit the Youtube link below.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RButQWeIn-c]

Strange days revisited

The_Doors_-_Strange_Days-full-2

A random and colorful group of street performers are posing on the sidewalk in Sniffen Court, a residential alley off New York’s East 36th Street. What appears to be a dwarf in a light gray suit (or conceivably, if less likely, a small boy) is dancing energetically, Dylan like, only with two hands ‘waving free’. A stout circus strongman dressed fetchingly in an over tight black singlet and loose zebra-striped sarong is raising above his head what we must imagine to be a dumbbell as the view we have is cut off at wrist height.

Above the dwarf-child a white-faced man in a dark suit is juggling a number of red balls, his features screwed into a mask of intense concentration. Behind these figures another dark suited man concentrates on supporting a leotarded figure whose body is arced in a swallow dive as he balances precariously in mid air. At the rear of the group a straw-hatted man is stood to attention, arms raised as he solemnly plays a trumpet, for all the world as if he were alone and all around him non-existent.

Not all these people are actual street performers: I am reliably informed through my research that the photographer’s assistant is standing in as a juggler while the musician is a passing cab driver who is earning five dollars for his artistic contribution.

The curious scene I am describing is that shown on an old album cover I have propped up in front of me as I write, one which I loved when it came out and still fills me with nostalgia: Strange Days, by The Doors, recorded and issued in 1967.

Sing a (happy) song of Wifi

KFCWIFI_img10

What a great feeling when I walk into a bar that I have no recollection of having ever visited and find that I must have –and, working it out with my travel diary, at least four years ago– because the wifi remembers me.

Well, it’s not exactly the wifi that remembered me, but Apple’s wonderful Time Machine and Migration Assistant and the fact that my settings are automatically updated across all my machines. So each time I buy a new laptop or handheld it inherits all my wifi passwords going back until I started using Time Machine, about 4 years ago.

This is how software should be – like the telephone, invisible and just working in the background. No, I’m not selling Apple –they have some good stuff, but so do other manufacturers– but I do like the way that some aspects of software do work, and in doing so make your life simple. Sadly, there is other software …