La Volta des General

The other beautiful road arrives to Banyalbufar from the north, following the contours of the seashore. “Volta des General” or the Turn of the Governor is actually the name of the hairpin bend formed by the red asphalt road when it starts to descend from the mountains to the little town. It is also marked on the map to the right of the name of Banyalbufar. But as this turn is the point of departure – or arrival – of the seashore pathway commonly called Camí de Baix or Lower Road, thus this latter also inherited the name of Camí de la Volta des General, or simply Volta des General. This road is marked with small hachures on the map.

The “General” was the Marquis Ferran Cotoner i Chacón (1810-1888), a great son of Mallorca who, having fought through the Spanish civil wars of the 19th century, in 1847 became Governor of the Balearic Islands, and in 1863 that of the whole Catalonia. He was the owner of the manor house Sa Baronia in the center of Banyalbufar whose medieval well can be seen at the end of the previous post. Besides several other important historical deeds, he began to build the asphalt road leading towards Esporles which starts with the turn bearing his name, and the Lower Road leading to Port des Canonge was made a comfortable promenade by him as well.


Port des Canonge, that is the Port of the Canon – nobody knows which Canon, but this topic lends a perpetual motion to the literature of local history – consists of a fishing village of some dozens of inhabitants on the shore and a holiday suburb on the steeply rising mountain side. This suburb, as it is preserved in the local memory, was founded in the 60’s by a Hungarian engineer professor called Király. Király – Kirali, as it is pronounced there – was a veritable old style gentleman, an emigrant to the USA in 1945 who, having made a fortune on his several inventions, was the first person to buy a holiday estate here. And as a genuine engineer, he also laid the foundations of the infrastructure of the whole future holiday resort. Wang Wei still knew him and they often visited each other for a glass of Mallorcan wine. But when asked about Budapest, Kirali only told this much: Budapest has passed away.



The path goes on for several kilometers along the olive plantations of the estate of Son Bunyola, dating from Arabic times. Sheep are grazing between the olive trees. In the night their bells are the only voice to be heard together with the breathing of the sea.










The Baroque center of the estate unfolds itself to the eyes only when, turning to the right after the Punta de s’Àguila or the Promontory of the Eagle we slowly leave behind Son Bunyola.




Wild goats are to be met everywhere on the island. They are not even peculiarly touched at the sight of people. Nevertheless, it is not easy to take a picture of them.


Not long after the Escull de Cavall, the Promontory of Horse Skull the characteristic terrace landscape of Banyalbufar begins.






Some kilometers to the west of Banyalbufar – I have improvidently cut it off the map – on a high promontory stands the Torre de ses Ànimes, the Tower of the Souls. The Arabic pirates of Banyalbufar who became peasants kept watching from here for centuries the Arabic pirates nearing from the North African shores. A thousand year old olive tree, reinforced with a stone wall stands near to the tower, with an ancient colony of cats living around it. The quintessence of Mallorca.

Camí des Correu

for Gyuri

The Camí des Correu, the centuries long Post Road passes through the western mountain range of Mallorca, the Tramuntana Sierra, connecting Esporles which lays in a closed valley of the mountains with Banyalbufar which lays in a closed bay of the seashore.


The bizarre Bearn or A manor house in Mallorca by Llorenç Villalonga describes in relief how much locked up and solitary these Mallorcan villages can be. Banyalbufar, founded by 9th-century Arabic conquerors turned away from the sea, became peasant, and instead of sailing it is cultivating the terraces fixed on the slopes of the mountains. Esporles, founded by 13th-century Catalan conquerors, has a mountain stream running down towards Palma, but the villagers never follow it to where their ancestors came from. However, perhaps because even they cannot bear this extent of solitude, these two ends of the world connected at least each other with a mountain path which until the 20th century, when the red asphalt road was built in the valley, was daily covered there and back by a messenger with the post. It is the green route.


The steep path soon arrives from Esporles to Sa Granja – “the Manor.” After the Catalan conquest of 1229 this Arabic holding became a Cistercian monastery and later a nobleman’s estate what it has remained to the present day. Its Arabic origins, however, are clearly indicated by its principal spectacle, applied in Arabic architecture both in Mallorca and in other regions whenever it can do: the water. In front of the manor house, the spring water led down from the mountains springs ten meters high. Just like in Isfahan where a similar water-jet springs up from the middle of the river, thus boasting with the supreme treasure of the town which some kilometers later is lost in the desert.


The Manor is still functioning. A part of it has been opened to visitors, and you are encouraged to watch it in a short film here. Although wild goats abound in the island, nevertheless these ones below belong to the manor.


The road climbs steeply uphill: four hundred meters of level difference on ten kilometers, up, and then down. Two and half hours, comfortably three. But at the end you also have to walk back, because the autobus from Banyalbufar is unpredictable. And the way is even steeper from that direction, climbing up from the sea. And for a good while there is no shadow, at least until you reach the forest after the terraces.


The dichotomy of the Communist regime in my native Hungary included that while we went on excursions quite a lot of times both at home and in the neighboring Socialist countries, we never thought of doing the same in the West. We were allowed to go out there for two weeks in every three year, and could only officially change a hundred German marks (a little less than eighty dollars) for our costs. So this few time and money we reserved for big cities, museums and books, and never for mountains. Although since the change of regime at the end of the 1980’s we have made a lot of excursions in the West too, nevertheless until today I feel it a great luxury there what in the East is just as natural as water.


The road is flanked by old lime-kilns. A short Catalan summary on Mallorcan lime-burning can be found here. Even the picture of this former lime-kiln is included.



The road is sometimes made more difficult by such walls of dry masonry – a Mallorcan speciality – for holding back the cattle. Nevertheless the ladder is put there for the postman.


As we approach the Son Sanutges peak, the horizont slowly opens up. That solitary rock in the sea is also seen by the small lime tree.




As the road begins to descend, we catch sight of the first terraces of Banyalbufar. The system of these terraces and of the water reservoirs and channels encompassing them were built by the Arabs during several centuries. A great part of them are in use even today.



We descend among olive groves into the town of five hundred inhabitants.

Sephardic tales I

To Zoli Ábrahám

Ensemble Lyrique Ibérique: When King Nimrod. From the CD Romances judéo-espagnoles (1992).

The members of the Ensemble Lyrique Ibérique – Dominique Thibaudat (voice), Nabil Ibn Khalidi (oud), Pierre Rigopoulos (zarb and bendir) – perhaps have not even published any more common CD. This one, however, is worth more than the complete discography of some other. They choose songs from the whole Sephardic world, and they perform them with the dynamism which is so much missing from most Western European Sephardic CDs. (Compare for example this version of King Nimrod with the entertainment version by the Raices.)

Kuando el rey Nimrod al kampo saliya Mirava en el syelo i en la’streyeriya Vido lus santa en la djuderiya K’aviya de naser Avraam avinu. Avram avinu, padre kerido padre benditcho, lus de Israel! La mujer de Terah se kedo prenyada De diya en diya, el le preguntava. De ké tenech la kara tan demudada? Eya saviya el byen ke teniya. En fin de mueve mezes parir keriya Iva kaminando por kampos i vinyas, A su marido, tal, no lo deskuvriya. Topo una meara, ayi lo paririya. En akéya ora el nasido avlava: Andadvos mi madre, de la meara. Yo ya topo kyen m’aletchara, Malah del yelo me akompanyara, Porke so kriyado del Dyo benditcho.

When King Nimrod went out to the fields He looked upon the sky and the stars He saw holy light above the Jewish quarter Because in that time father Abraham was born. Father Abraham, our beloved father, our blessed father, the light of Israel! The wife of Terah became pregnant Her husband asked her day by day: Why has your face changed so much? She knew well the treasure she was carrying. After nine months she wanted to give birth She roamed on the fields and in the vineyards She did not disclose her secret to her husband She found a cave and there she gave birth. In that hour the newborn spoke: Go away, my mother, from the cave. There will be someone to feed me, An angel of heaven will accompany me For I am the servant of the blessed God.

Savina Yannatou and the Primavera en Salonico: The dream of the princess. From the CD Άνοιξη στη Σαλονίκη (Spring in Saloniki, 1995).

Savina Yannatou in her more than twenty CDs sings the traditional songs of the whole Mediterranean and even more distant lands (in one of them for example a Moldovan Hungarian – „Csángó” – song, in Hungarian). This first CD of her, presenting the results of an ethnomusicological research in Thessaloniki, was completely dedicated to the music of the once numerous and rich Sephardic population of Saloniki. (For our favorite song in this CD see another tale.)

El rey de Francia tres hijas tenía La una labrava, la otra cusía, la más chica de ellas bastidor hacía. Labrando labrando sueño le caía. Su madre que la vía, aharvar la quería. – No me aharveš mi madre, ni me aharvaríaš Un sueño me soñaba, bien y allegría. – Sueño vos soñabaš, yo vo lo soltaría. – Me aparí a la puerta, vide la luna entera. Me aparí a la ventana, vide la estrella Diana. Me aparí al pozo, vide un pilar de oro con tres pajaricos picando el oro. – La luna entera es la tu suegra. La estrella Diana es la tu cuñada. Los tres pajaricos son tus cuñadicos. Y el pilar de oro, el hijo del rey, tu novio.

The King of France had three daughters One weaved, the other sew and the youngest of them embroidered. As she was working, a dream fell upon her. Her mother saw it and wanted to beat her. – Don’t beat me, mother, don’t beat me I have seen a dream, joy and happiness. – If you saw a dream, I will solve it for you. – I stood at the door and saw the full moon. I stood at the window and saw the morning star. I stood at the well and saw a golden column, three little birds were picking the gold. – The full moon is your mother-in-law. The morning star is your sister-in-law. The three little birds are your nephews. And the golden column is the son of the king, your bridegroom.

Kol Oud Tof Trio: Our bride asks. From the CD Gazelle (2002).

The Israelian Kol Oud Tof (“voice, oud, drum”) plays Moroccan Sephardic music. This music is usually heard with estrade-style orchestral accompaniment. The Kol Oud Tof, however, performs it in a refreshingly simple arrangement, which clearly displays the fascinating complexity of this music. Their suite De veinticinco escalones (Twenty-five scales) has not yet been published in CD, but you can see a part of it here.

Ansina dize la nuestra novia como se llama la cavesa. Esto no se llama cavesa sino toronja de toronjal ay mi toronja de toronjal ay mis campos de espaciar goze la novia con el novio. …como se llaman los cabellos. Esto no se llama cabello sino briles de lavrar. Ay mis briles de lavrar… …como se llama la frente. Esto no se llama frente sino espada reluciente. Ay mi espada reluciente… …como se llaman las cejas No se llaman cejas sino cintas del telar Ay mis cintas del telar… …como se llaman los ojos. No se llaman ojos sino ricos miradores. Ay mis ricos miradores... …como se llama la naris. No se llama naris sino datil datilar. Ay mi datil datilar… …como se llama la boca. No se llama boca sino anillo de dorar. Ay mi anillo de dorar ay mi rosa de rosal… pase la novia ante del novio La novia, el novio la novia, el novio

Our bride asks how they call the head. They don’t call it head but orange from the orange tree. Oh, orange of my orange tree oh, my spacious fields, let the bride rejoice with the bridegroom. … how they call the hair. They don’t call it hair but silk to be embroidered. Oh, my silk to be embroidered… … how they call the front. They don’t call it front but a bright spade. Oh, my bright spade… … how they call the eyebrow. They don’t call it eyebrow but the thread of the loom. Oh, thread of my loom… … how they call the eye. They don’t call it eye, but beautiful look-out. Oh, my beautiful look-out… … how they call the nose. They don’t call it nose but date from the palm tree. Oh, date of my palm tree… … how they call the mouth. They don’t call it mouth but a ring to be gilded. Oh, my ring to be gilded oh, rose of my rose garden… let the bride come to the bridegroom the bride, the bridegroom the bride, the bridegroom

Farewell to Europe

I have finished a translation, and I called the publisher by saying that I would jump over with it from the Academy, just some corners from them. All right, they told. But they forgot to say that it would be a gigantic jump. The Europe Publisher has unexpectedly moved from the city center to the northern suburb of Óbuda.


There, above the left corner of the advertisement board, on the fifth floor, the windows with the all-around-balcony and the stone vases, that was it.


From here I watched for years, in the breaks of the consultations about new translation jobs the Danube, the Ethnographic Museum and the disneyland of the Kossuth Square with the Parliament.


The flood of 2003 of the Danube, in oil on the wall and in water outside.







At the landing of the first floor I say a last farewell to the Japanese girl.


Some years ago our bank was on the ground floor of this building, but it moved away. At the right side, in the Falk Miksa street the extremely inspiring Fire Bird antiquary closed down. On the other side the homely tavern was succeeded by an office. Now the building has become empty definitively. I let it go.