Globalization and its Discontents

I've been called a lot of things in my life. My surname alone has had people thinking that I'm from a lost tribe to an island in Japan. In this week's Camino a Ítica, the way my name can cause consternation among some. Life on the peninsula is no longer so monochrome, or monotheistic. Click over to read the English version on page 22 of the PDF in SUR in English or in Spanish in the HOY. (PDF en castellano abajo)

The line between continents blurs up here, lost in the madness of these mountains—great, hulking beasts with snow-drenched peaks, their ridges twisting like the spine of some prehistoric leviathan sprawled between the Black and Caspian seas. Less a boundary between East and West than a stone-fisted barricade between the East and the even more bewildering East.

For centuries, they’ve loomed like bouncers at one of history’s rowdier saloons, keeping the Indo-Europeans and the rough-and-tumble Caucasian and Turkic tribes apart. The Russians and Persians have played tug-of-war over this place for generations, and yet, in one of history’s great absurdities, these crags somehow manage to carve Orthodox Christian Georgia and Armenia away from the Muslim-majority north—except for Azerbaijan, which juts into the Caspian like a defiant middle finger.

We had left the sleepy village of İlisu in Azerbaijan and were hiking toward Russia, following the glacial Kurmukh-chai River as it cut deeper into the mountains, pushing forward with the simple plan of going as far as we could until someone in a furry official-looking hat stopped us.

Along the way, we met a shepherd who greeted us in a singsong Azeri. When it became clear we understood nothing, his wizened, weathered face darkened with suspicion before he switched to the language of the empire, the tongue of the Tsars. Still, nothing. Our blank stares unsettled him.

How could we not speak Russian? To unravel this mystery, or perhaps to confirm we weren’t extraterrestrials, he pulled out an old bottle of homemade honey vodka, still stamped with the fading letters CCCP and poured us each a stiff drink. Through wild gestures and, eventually, song, we pieced together his bewilderment: that someone might not speak Russian simply did not compute. It was as if we had told him the sky was not, in fact, blue. This did not fit in with his worldview.

I was reminded of this the other day while out for cañas. I don’t even remember how the conversation started, but at some point, one of the older parishioners of the bar looked over and said, “What kind of name is that? Troy? I mean, what’s it short for?”

I wasn’t sure where this was going, but I told him it wasn’t short for anything, it was just Troy.

“Impossible! That’s no name. There’s no San Troy. It must be short for something, like… Troncio.”

In no mood to argue, I explained that it came from the tragic city of Priam and turned back to my drink. But he wasn’t finished.

“Impossible! Troya would be female, and you have a beard!”

I tried to steer the conversation toward football or jamón, safe topics, national pillars, but no. He was deep in the trenches now, determined to restore order to a world where all proper names must have a saintly origin or at least a good Catholic ring to them.

Finally, he delivered his verdict. “You need a real proper name.” He thought for a moment, then grinned over his half empty glass of Veterano. “Something like… Manolo.”

“Sí, Manolo!” A name as sturdy as a pair of alpargatas, as dependable as a midday siesta. The matter was settled and he ordered another drink.

I nodded and accepted my fate. After all, at least he didn’t suggest Jesús.

Imagine if I had told him my surname?