In my mind, illegal dumping and crawfish are very closely connected. Now you think I'm finally cracking up and losing it, don't you? Well, let me backtrack a few years
It took Franco four years to die after I was born in the Basque lands to the north of the Iberian Peninsula. My cradle was "Made in Spain." My blood didn't need a label - the Spanish and the Basque are different as night and day. What filled my veins had clearly not been brewed in the cauldron at boiling point where the Basque stirred in explosive condiments like anger, hatred, resentment the stew was the result of long years of savage oppression and public humiliation.
I grew up in the volatile climate of two cultures learning the rules of co-existence, and there was a lot to learn. The end of the dictatorship brought freedom, along with lessons on responsibility and respect. Forty years of the exact opposite couldn't be deleted from one day to the next. The Basque were hurt and stubborn. The Spanish were anxious and proud. The transition would be anything but peaceful.
My Spanish family never acquired a taste for the politics. Although in a strange land, the Santos clan would stick to the good old Spanish habits as if nothing else was happening. Every weekend, while bombs were going off around us, we would arm ourselves solely with the ingredients for our Spanish paella and set off for the countryside.
We had found paradise only 30 minutes away from home, a piece of fairy-tale woodland - tall pines, strong oaks, a healthy stream full of crawfish! This was the perfect place to escape the tensions of a complicated world. Or was it?
"Our" paradise actually belonged in equal measures to two unrelated Basque families, their farmhouses seemingly watchful from the top of the hill. There had never been a need for signs or fencing. Everybody knew who owned every inch of the land - well, everybody except the Spaniards.
I'll never forget the day when we met the old couple from one of the houses. Feet in the water, I was fixedly searching for the best spot to set my crawfish trap. As I looked up, my Spanish face came centimetres away from two very Basque-looking faces; well-marked features, stern looks, enquiring eyes axe in hand! I was scared speechless, but before my voice could struggle back up my throat tied up in a scream, he was chopping wood for our fire and she was offering my mother the best Basque peppers to go with our Spanish paella. Week in and week out, we fed our friendship strong, to solid standards that would endure even the relentless gunfire around us.
The other Basque family, however, was far from amused. We had been bold enough to break into their land and re-enact our own version of the Spanish invasion. And their very own Basque neighbours seemed to condone, even enjoy this liberty we had taken. This was treason; they felt offended.
The bomb had exploded by the time we arrived to "our" piece of paradise one Saturday morning. I was certain I could see the shrapnel as I ran to the river, faster and faster, breathless, trap in hand. Crawfish lay dead by the hundreds, among the rocks, along the shores. My eyes were in disbelief. So were my ears when I learned that the carnage was caused by a discharge of caustic soda at the head of the stream.
I hope you will remember this story next time you head down the trail with your old mattress, the torn couch, the broken bed. Blinkered human vision makes us capable of setting our own house on fire, and there is no way around it - illegal dumping is dumping in our own backyard.
