In the Land of Invented Languages - Arika Okrent [36]
Strange, then, that I don't think I've ever been anywhere more colorful than Esperantoland. On my second trip there, the sixth All-Americas congress in Havana, I was exposed to so much culture that I started to get a headache. We sang “Guantanamera” in Esperanto on ten separate occasions in ten different Cuban musical styles. At the Arta Vespero (Evening of the Arts)—a staple of Esperanto congresses where delegates from the host country get to strut their stuff—we watched a three-hour extravaganza of every performable art Cuba has to offer, from traditional dances by little girls in white dresses to rumba rap music. For the finale we made a hundred-meter conga line, weaving our way through the Museum of the Revolution. At another staple, the Nacia Vespero (Evening of Nations), attendees from twenty other countries took the stage. A contingent of Mexicans sang folk songs, a Costa Rican played the piano, a Frenchman did a comedy routine about escargots. No, Esperantists don't want to take away your unique identity. On the contrary, they can't get enough of it. They just want you to express it in Esperanto so that everyone can appreciate it.
But this doesn't mean Esperanto has an identity of its own. Isn't it just a soulless translation machine laid on top of this cultural mutual-appreciation society? If it is, then why did I so frequently think to myself, “God, that is sooo Esperantoland!”?
I started to notice ways of speaking that were hard to translate out of Esperanto. For example, to say “La Čielo estas blua” (The sky is blue) is a perfectly understandable, functional way to communicate, but to say “La Čielo bluas” (The sky is bluing)—taking advantage of the feature that lets any word root be made into a verb—now that is Esperanto. People also love to use the word etoso to describe the feeling in the air at events. “At my first congress in Toronto I experienced such a bona etoso” or “I met some Esperantists in Bulgaria, and we spent the evening chatting and playing music. What beta etoso!” The dictionary will tell you that etoso means “ethos” or “atmosphere,” but it will not tell you that it connotes a sort of mystical, positive, Zamenhofian vibe. For the newcomer, dictionary in hand, this word will be interpretable and clear, but for the seasoned Esperantist it will evoke a history of gatherings where the spirit of the Esperanto ideal brought every-one a little closer together.
While there are many words that reflect nuances of the Esperanto experience not captured by their dictionary definitions, there are some words that make sense only within the context of Esperantoland. Krokodili (to crocodile) means to speak in your national language at an event where you should be speaking Esperanto (conjuring up the image of a reptilian beast flapping its big jaws). This behavior is frowned upon, and it is convenient to have it summed up in a word, so that saying, “Hey, stop crocodiling!” is enough to discourage it. The offending party may be an eterna komencanto (eternal beginner)—the name for that fellow who's been showing up to congresses for years but still can't speak the language. People may also quietly complain to each other about some verda papo (green pope), a guy who's always preaching and droning on about the ideals of Esperanto. He is a figure not unlike the Jewish mother—annoying at times, but ya gotta love him. Because he is one of us. He is part of what makes us us. In other words, it's an Esperanto thing. You wouldn't understand.
A few months after I returned from the Havana congress, I was watching the news and a personal-interest segment