What about a workshop?
I’ll never forget my first bamboo workshop. Nestled in the foothills of the Spanish Pyrenees, among an enchanted confluence of alpine streams, on the patio of a formerly glorious resort, we gathered with regenerative intentions.
I arranged the impromptu side stage adjacent to an already casual congregation of organic enthusiasts who had traveled from remote corners of Spain, France, and other European locales to attend a weeklong series of permaculture courses. Ostensibly, I was only there to offer my services in the kitchen, preparing assorted California delicacies like my gnarly enchiladas. Of course, the opportunity to mingle with like-minded natural farming acolytes played no small part in luring me to the event. In fact, I was living just five minutes away and had been frequenting this idyllic relic of a health spa on and off for a few years. You never knew what sort of international characters you might encounter here. How my family and I first discovered Sanillés is part of a whole other story, and rest assured, we’ll get around to that in due course.
For now, let me just say that the topographical and geological orientation of this exquisite destination produces a palpable energy that no visitor can deny. Its terraces rise steeply on the south-facing slope and offer sweeping views of the majestic Sierra del Cadi, while the Principality of Andorra leers from behind, the tiny nation that casts a long shadow. The flowing mineral springs of Sanillés once attracted the likes of Ernest Hemingway and Agatha Christie, but in recent decades the sulfurous surge mysteriously dwindled to a light trickle. Still, there’s something in the air that remains as potent as ever.
I like to think that Papa Hemingway’s ghost still haunts the plaster-chipped halls of the main hotel, taking comfort in the notion that his old stomping grounds have been inhabited by some hard-drinking hippies. I’m less confident about his affinity for vegetarian enchiladas, but so it goes.
As long as I was contributing my culinary talents to this particular event, rolling tortillas and basking in the biodynamic revelry, I felt irresistibly compelled to share at least an hour or so of bamboo fun facts with those in attendance. I proceeded to conduct an extremely informal survey and determined that at least a half dozen of the 30 or 40 permaculture participants would be willing to spend a free afternoon with me in my bamboo bonus workshop. This felt like an optimal group size, as public speaking was never my strong suit.
Not that it was my first time talking to strangers about bamboo. I had dedicated a solid decade, from 2006 to 2016, to espousing bamboo’s many virtues in my San Luis Obispo based eco boutique. But since the Pandemic, my knowledge and passion for everything bamboo had been flowering gregariously, and so I was eager to share my fruits with an in-person assembly. By the summer of 2021, health and safety restrictions had partially relaxed. Large gatherings had not yet resumed, but at least we could count on Sanillés for a brief retreat from all things Covid, knowing they would not require us to use facemasks and sanitary sauce.
I suppose we were all a bit starved for human contact by that time, so what better place to find it than under the sunny summer skies of Cerdanya? And after writing hundreds of in-depth articles about bamboo in the seclusion of lockdown in our isolated mountain village, I was desperate to share a morsel of bamboo wisdom with a captive audience. Unlike the setting of my old retail shop, where the specter of commerce and sales pitches always loomed, the permaculture workshop allowed space for something more unencumbered and inquisitive.
Once I had detected sufficiently positive signs of interest, I proceeded to ruminate on the aim and content of my workshop. Would I emphasize the industrial applications, the capacity for carbon sequestration, the plant’s unusual morphology and extensive taxonomy, or the competing strategies for cultivating bamboo in distinct climates? There were so many directions I could take, and the diversity of backgrounds among the students made it difficult to tug on the common thread.
Bamboo school in session
In the end, not surprisingly, I made the classic rookie bungle and tried to explain everything at once. Even with the aid of a sturdy whiteboard and a semi-permanent marker, the general response to my haphazard pedagogy was one of mystified bewilderment. A concentrated gaze fixed upon me while I bombarded the circle of disciples with everything from pachymorph rhizome structures to strand-woven bamboo engineering. Perhaps I had overestimated the group’s level of bamboo background, having assumed that I was among a crowd of seasoned farmers and master gardeners.
My unscripted ramble through the weeds was spared from catastrophe by one graciously curious pupil who was exploring the possibility of planting bamboo around her small organic farm in the province of Tarragona to create a windbreak and prevent further erosion of their thin topsoil. At last, my symposium had found a direction and a purpose, so I latched onto it like an epiphytic bromeliad on a low-hanging branch. Here was the perfect scenario in which to harness bamboo’s tenacious root system, resilient growth habit, and dense foliage.
I want to believe that eventually, everyone walked away from the hour-long session knowing a bit more about bamboo than when we started. I can easily fill a few hours with a wealth of botanical trivia as the Latin names and cultivation techniques race through my mind. If only I had a clear sense of what specifically I was trying to impress upon my intimate audience. However, focusing on a singular project made all the difference. No longer musing vaguely on a field of abstractions, I now had a concrete problem with real-life consequences and direct ties to the terra firma.
The strains in Spain grow thirsty on the plain
How tall would the bamboo get? How fast would it spread? Could it prevent the river bank from eroding? Would it survive the cold? So many practical questions to examine! What it really came down to was species selection. As we know, Spain has no native bamboo species. Nor Europe, for that matter. But that would not discourage us.
The region of Tarragona in southern Catalonia gets pretty paltry rainfall, which would create a challenge. Neither do the hot dry summers and chilly winters with overnight temperatures frequently dipping near or below freezing make an ideal setting for bamboo. But the Far Eastern Phyllostachys are indefatigable. This prolific genus offers dozens of hardy species to choose from, coming in a wide range of sizes. Although they come with the well-known caveat that their running rhizomes can be nearly impossible to keep at bay.
At the same time, their ability to break up dense, clay soil and allow the rainwater to percolate more deeply makes the Phyllostachys a valuable addition to that weathered landscape of olives and almonds. Fast-growing both above ground and below, bamboo also produces significant quantities of biomass, a precious commodity in this area where the topsoil has grown depleted after generations of raking away leaf litter and grassy ground cover in the interest of maintaining a “clean” orchard.
These advantages notwithstanding, I managed to lead the workshop down another misguided garden path, for I was currently under the spell of the exotic genus Himalayacalamus. This intriguing montane bamboo has a clumping rhizome type, which would eliminate the problem of uncontrolled spread, while also being relatively resilient to frosty temperatures. Not only that, but its colorful culms, in shades of blue and magenta, bring striking beauty to the garden. However, these Asian varieties are not well suited to the hot, arid summers for which Spain’s interior is well known.
Had I planned better, we could have planted some Himalayan Blue Bamboo there at Sanillés, on the slopes of the Pyrenees (about 1000 m above sea level), a far more fitting location than the parched plains of Tarragona. Now that would have been an edifying experience for everyone. But alas, it’s not an easy species to source, especially in Spain, and so we missed the opportunity.
Still, this bamboo workshop holds the rare and unfavorable distinction of being the only one I have ever hosted or attended without the benefit of a single bamboo plant. And to this day, on the expansive, wooded grounds of Sanillés, there’s not a single bamboo specimen to be found. Regardless of that, the mountain vistas remain unsurpassed and the mineral water as flavorful as ever.
Independent study
After the unraveling of my ill-prepared bamboo workshop, on the last afternoon of the permaculture course, we all enjoyed a satisfying siesta followed by a sensational farewell dinner. Regrettably, I’ve not done a good job keeping in contact with any of the participants, so I don’t know what became of the bamboo windbreak in Tarragona. By now, three or four years later, it ought to be well-established and flourishing.
Even if the students did not put their learnings to good use, I know I did. Perhaps I learned more than any of them. I’ve conducted several bamboo workshops and presentations since then — in Europe, Africa, and Asia — and produced an extensive series of videos. And if nothing else, I’ve learned to live like bamboo.
Like the woody grass, an effective workshop needs a healthy foundation to form a well-defined structure. Each pole grows purposefully and follows a clear line with adequate distance between the branches. Meanwhile, remember that bamboo is hollow inside. It does not presume to have all the answers nor must it fill every space with its own substance. Instead, it remains adaptable, and so should we, always able to bend and sway as conditions change and new questions or challenges arise.
Thanks for reading. Stay tuned for further installments of the Bamboo Monologues.
