a curious paradox

Dylan's here in Santiago, accompanying me on my last week here and learning his way around the city. We're staying with my cousin Mimi at her house in the suburban hills to accommodate Dylan's running needs, which puts us about an hour outside of the city.

Monday evening we had dinner in town with a few friends, staying out until the comparatively early hour of 11pm. The metro had closed by that hour, (still silly, given that night activities in Chile don't begin till several hours after), and we made it to the terminal station by bus. There we waited nearly an hour for the micro (bus) that would take us to Mimi's, Dylan shivering in the only jacket he'd brought. The streets were quiet, or as quiet as a main city artery can be, and a few unsavory characters or wild-haired homeless people slowly passed. Two others accompanied us with greater patience than I had, asserting that the bus would come. It did, after one of the women had been waiting an hour twenty minutes, only for the driver to remove the route sign, and jump out to stretch his legs. The bus was out of service, he alerted us; the route was closed for the night. The two women expressed a glimmer of frustration, and then took it in stride. The younger one, hearing that I had been studying at the Catholic University, proceeded to write her number and email on a random slip of paper. "I study tourism," she told me, "if you need any help, let me know."

I had been getting increasingly nervous for the past half hour; Mimi's house was really far away and there was only one bus route that passed by. The collectivo service had already stopped for the night, a taxi would cost near $30. The kind advise of the two Santiaguinos got us on another bus that would supposedly drop us off closer to Mimi's. The bus driver asserted that we were going in the right direction, and acquiesqued to alert us when to get off. A very small man of an uncertain age (perhaps 30?), very poorly dressed baggy pants and a sweater, holding a home-made drum (made of a coffee can?), overheard the exchange and earnestly offered his knowledgeable two centes: We could catch another bus that would take us right near Mimi's at the point the driver had indicated.

A few minutes into the bus ride the man settled himself in the center of the bus, tapped a tune on the improv drum, and began to sing a mournful song. It was already past midnight, and an odd collection of punks, lower class workers, middle class workers, and upper class kids watched on. After the expected speech of introduction, the small man asked for donations, reaching out a worn bag. "May God bless you," he thanked.

And then, to my surprise, he sat down across the aisle and pulled a newspaper out of his bag, which he proceeded to read.

It is a reflection of the mandatory education system, I supposed, that the near-beggar could read the moderately complicated text.

He got off the bus soon after, with a nod to the driver, and to us he reiterated his advise: the C20 or C22 buses would get us where we needed to go.

We were the last to hop off the bus. The driver kept his word and let us know when, dropping us off on a dark corner. It was 12:30 am. A call to the reliable "radio" taxi service, and $5 later, Dylan and I were finally home after a rather curious and instructive two hour ordeal.

taste of chilean internet slang:

wenaa perrooo jajaja komo tamoo???
oiee ke ondaaa te gusto mi minaa???
jajajajaj envidiameee.... ta terriblee de riicaa y la tengoo lokaa!!
ajajajajaja
ya perro se me cuidaaaa salu2!!

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jajajaja!! si po si yo las hago toas..

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k xuxa w tu wn con tus cosas de artefactos y mierdas raras wn.. me teni ma metio de k se trata la wea.. onda suena como revelacion de pistas de un asesino en serie wn una wea asi.. xD

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another possible youthful phrase:

"Este weon weon weon!"

Business and Trust

After picking up some dinner items from the supermarket last night, I spotted a street vendor marketing a small collection of socks and cloth gloves. As I run almost every other night wearing a pair of miserably abused low-quality gloves, I decided to pick up another pair. The small, older street vendor was affective, as they always are, offering me little gloves for my little hands. Her wrinkled brow creased when I gave her a $2 mil note; the gloves cost $1 mil and she didn't have change in the inconspicuous fanny pack around her waist.

"Watch the things for me, ok?" She requested. "I'll go ask ___ for change." And she dashed off to consult with another street vendor some twenty meters away. Due to the layout of the sidewalk, and the fact that she'd set up right next to columns, I was blocked from her view as I stood over the few lovingly laid out socks and gloves.

I was rather impressed by her show of trust in me - generally people in Chile are very mistrusting of strangers: "if you get swindled by a stranger, shame on you for trusting them." Perhaps the act of entering into a market exchange, a business relationship, means more than a simple trade of goods here; it's certainly true that vendor loyalty is high in Chile. People do generally form a friendly relationship with the small vendors that they frequent.

The camraderie between the vendors (who are there illegally,) is also quite clear: they function rather like a large comunal bank.

My Contribution

One of the things I treasure most about my time in Santiago is the ability to spend time with my Aunt Flor (Tía Flor), the only one of my mother's siblings to continue the family legacy of pastoral work in the Methodist Church. She's getting on in years, and I'm grateful for the opportunity to be able to share in her wisdoms (and no shortage of crazy stories.) Although I don't necessarily share in her belief, we connect deeply on the issue of values and spiritualism; our way of perceiving and interacting with the world. Her life's work has been in the Methodist church, and moreover, to the needy of Chile, regardless of their creed (and there are some incredible programs she's developed in this aspect) and I wanted to find a way to give to her community as well.

I chose perhaps the most obvious thing I could offer - English. English is mandatory for most university majors; it is taught (with serious deficiency) in almost all primary and secondary schools. One of the main newspapers in Chile reported that having a good working knowledge of English could increase your salary by up to 30%.

Since March I've been giving English lessons/support to kids from the church that were interested (or whose parents were interested). I originally intended to teach people my age as well, but in a tribute to Latin American fatalism and lack of motivation, none of the "jovenes" showed up. I was not particularly surprised. So I've been working with a motley group of 7 to 16 year olds, with drastically different knowledge levels. To start with, it's been an incredible learning experience.

Every Thursday evening at 6 pm I unlock the church where my aunt has been pastor for the past 26 years, and set up shop in the small room that serves the sunday school class. Sometimes the kids are on time, sometimes they're not. Some kids will come that week, other's won't. Apart from class with my two advanced pupils, one of whom has an almost perfect attendance record, I start with the basics and repeat.

I have a lot of things working against me in this small endeavor - varying attendance (so the entire group of students is never on the same page); knowledge of English (from little kids that are only recently reading well in Spanish, and have never taken an English class in their lives, to older kids with years of painfully lacking English lessons); time (I teach only once a week for about forty five minutes, and will be in Chile only till mid July); and my own limitations (I have no idea how to teach English to kids, and minimal experience teaching to a group in general.)

I am lucky to have a room adequate for giving classes, with a whiteboard, benches, and a table. The room has no heater, so often we remain huddled in our coats. And the other day the power to the Church had been shut off to reduce (exorbitantly expensive) energy costs. I was not told, and could not teach in a pitch-black room, so I hosted a very small class in the guest room at my aunt's house. Most of my students, if not all, come from lower class backgrounds with difficult family situations: absent fathers and mothers, interfamily fighting. These issues are small compared to the range of possible evils (i.e., teaching in a conflict zone), but can become quite limiting or disruptive; I can only imagine the hurdles teachers in more desperate areas have to overcome in order to transfer knowledge.

My mainly U.S. education has taught me to value an interactive teaching style; far from the norm around the world. The terrified silence of my otherwise bubbly and affective students at my request that they each introduce themselves in English indicated that speaking out loud individually in class was out place. Some would look down, frozen, and would only squeak a word or two after a minute of my determined prodding. I am pleased to say we have made A LOT of progress in this area. (I realize it's a value judgment to call this "progress," but I've noted that Chilean youth have an incredibly passive grasp of English. They can read and gather general ideas decently well, but speak or put together sentences like a deer caught in the headlights. In my first lessons my most outspoken students would pipe up "in class our teacher makes us translate sentences to Spanish." But Spanish to English? Nope. So I personally opine that the ability, and more importantly, the courage, to practice a language out loud is absolutely invaluable. Speaking is often regarded the most difficult part of learning a new tongue - I would agree.)

So far the basics entail how to introduce oneself, greet people, numbers (what's the big deal with numbers? All of my students seem to nearly equate learning English with learning numbers), colors (also a favorite), likes and dislikes, directions, and we will soon move into family, days of the week, and weather.

It's been really encouraging, and touching, to see students that panicked when I asked for a phrase out loud, (curling their heads into their shoulder and drawing their hands into tense balls in an effort to disappear) grow so comfortable with practicing new things out loud that they volunteer their attempts. Pronunciation has improved markedly (I make an effort to translate all unknown words into Spanish pronunciation: under the word "Name", I write "neim.") We can now play "hot potato" with the numbers, in English, up to thirteen.

Last week I was tempted to cancel classes facing the impossiblity of teaching in a darkened room, and my hesitation to bring students to Tía Flor's house. Only two students had shown up (a very low number; generally the class fluctuates between four and seven). The two brothers (Pablo - 7, no experience, and Ramón - 11, English in school) were brought by their mother. I suggested that we cancel class, and she immediately protested. "Ramón had to repeat a year of school last year, and one of the main reasons was that he failed English. When I picked him up from school a few days ago I found out that he received a 6,8 (out of 7) on an assignment recently. He's doing really well now."

I don't expect to be able to make a huge difference in most of these kid's English skills. Ramón, who has shown impressive dedication and seriousness, may be the exception. Perhaps the most meaningful and lasting thing I can give is not English itself, but more profoundly the skills to learn something new, and the courage and belief in oneself necessary to unlock unseen potential.

Everybody's on the same wavelength

A quick comment before I get back to writing a description of the armed conflict/civil war in Sri Lanka (which recently ended after 26 years!)

The Argentina - Colombia football match is on, and a crowd of people from my residence are attentively glued to the television in the common room, watching. Minding my own business, writing my essay, I suddenly hear an outraged roar, beginning with my house-mates downstairs, then joined by the neighbors behind the house, then from dozens of windows and floors of the apartment buildings alongside the residence. The sound of collective dashed hope and disbelief swells and echoes several seconds through the entire block, neighborhood, city for all I know, ending with a few stray "No!!"s.

This can only mean one thing. Judging by the reaction, I can safely say that this one thing is more terrible and acute than a global recession, or the disappearance and certain death of over 200 plane passengers, or dozens of civilian deaths by a suicide bomber or misplaced missile. Argentina has scored a goal.

San Pedro de Atacama

This past weekend I visited the north of Chile for the first time since I was very, very young. Yearning to see the stunning night skies of the Southern Hemisphere, I and two friends (Margarita from Murcia, Spain, and Oscar, from El Salvador, Chile) traveled two hours by plane to the driest desert in the world, and the widest section of Chile. San Pedro de Atacama is a tiny tourist town an hour away from the nearest city; a natural oasis surrounded by the third largest salt flat in the world, mountains, a volcano, geysers, and a wealth of archeological treasures from the Atacamenyo peoples.

In choosing our lodging it became clear that water was an issue - many reviews attested that the hot water shut off at night, and that the water pressure was frequently minimal during the day. And while technically potable, other articles noted that high levels of heavy metals, including trace amounts of arsenic, made it preferable to drink the expensive bottled water. I wonder if the minerals have always been in the ground water, or if they were released by industrial activities.

The commercial part of the town caters almost exclusively to tourists; almost every locale is a.) a restaurant, b.) a souvenir shop, c.) a hostel. The town is tiny, perhaps five by five blocks, all dirt roads. In keeping with tradition, all commercial buildings are made of adobe - excellent for the intense heat of the day, and below freezing temperatures at night. We might have been considerably warmer at night had our hostel room been made of mud bricks as well!


The photos to the right are of the native's houses on the outskirts of the village, the part the tourists don't come into contact with.








On the tours we booked we visited the salt flats, saw the famous Andean flamingos (four species,) passed through tiny adobe villages where all the inhabitants had Altiplano indigenous features, toured salt lakes and pools, saw a herd of vicunyas, and the mountains and salt fields lit by sunset. One night we indulged in a breathtaking visit to an observatory. There were wishes to spare with all the shooting stars that lit the sky above us. And there was no moon at all, making the southern hemisphere milky way shine all the more brilliantly. I guarantee you, the northern milky way cannot compare in complexity or beauty. I saw Saturn's rings, new and old nebulas, a star on the horizon glittering with colors a thousand times deeper than a diamond, the double star system of Alpha Centauri. I learned to recognize the Cross of the South, and therefore how to find "South" by the stars. I am also lucky to have all of my toes and fingers.

Chile supplies 40% of the world's Lithium, and lo and behold, from a high altiplano road the lithium salt pools and processing plant were visible to the eye. The industry sucks water out of the salt flats and forms pools on the surface, collecting the metal when the sun bakes the pools dry. I heard murmers of dissent at such industrial practices - the water table for the region is falling as a result. The water table that feeds the salt pools that have drawn so many tourists, and more importantly, the water used by households, is evaporating into the sun for the profits of the lithium company.

We caught a bus back to the airport as the sun fell, and the moon emerged a pale curved sliver over the bruise hills. Only in an airport so small can you make it with 20 minutes to spare before the plane leaves.

In support of the informal economy?

Although I would lean towards describing Chile as a developed country (a strong state, that in addition to having full civilian control over the military, can provide security, education, health care, stable infrastructure, etc. to a high degree), the country certainly does have a bustling informal economy. The upper classes rely mostly (or exclusively) on stores and supermarkets for their purchases, but given that they're only 10% off the population, there is a healthy demand for more informal venues - street vendors and markets.

Even in Providencia, which is commercial but surrounded by upper class residences, street vendors lay out pirated movies, $2 shirts, low quality makeup (possibly cancerous?), and now - Chinese-made gloves and scarves. They are constantly looking out for the police, and swoop up their goods, vanishing, if the army-green "pacos" approach. But there must be a certain degree of tolerance on the part of the police - I see the same vendors again and again in the same place.

Walking down into the metro, there's often an older woman (with an infant, for added effect) offering bandaids with a mournful, pleading voice. This is a frequent phenomena - I suspect there is a bandaid warehouse somewhere in the city, selling these generic, mediocre bandaids wholesale to (whether purposefully or not) raise these people a small step above begging. After noting the price of bandaids in farmacies, I'm beggining to spend some sort of collusion between these vendors and the farmacies - a box of bandaids can cost you $4 easily. So I buy generic.

Lastly, like in other Latin American countries I've visited, there's an easy relationship between bus drivers and street vendors. In the summer, a tattered vendor will hop onto the bus with a nod to the driver, and parrot the types of icecream he carries in a worn cooler, or even a cardboard box. His call becomes unintelligible to a newcomer "Kelao, Keloa:" is (I Think) "Quiere helado, quiere helado." He hops off, rarely successful, without paying his stay on the bus. Now vendors market chocolates and other bar candies, but I still haven't seen many sold.

Mendoza

One of the enjoyable things about an advanced developing country is that the population still largely relies on public transportation, but the roads are all well-maintained and the buses are many and safe.

There's an intense feeling of freedom and possibility in the many bus stations of Santiago - you can arrive at almost any hour of the day and within ten minutes be on a bus to any part of the country, even to Argentina.

My Spanish friend from the student residence, Marga, and I decided to head to the nearby Argentine city of Mendoza, just across the Andes from Santiago. Friday, May 1st is Labor Day, and "Dia del Trabajador" is taken quite seriously in Chile. Shops close early starting the day before, and not even the main supermarkets open on the holiday. The only stores I found open walking down several blocks of Av. Providencia, one of Santiago's commercial arteries, were a McDonalds and a Japanese foods store run by a foreign Asian woman. In order to avoid the sense of desertion that descends on Santiago on long weekends, Marga and I joined the hordes fleeing the capital and hopped a night bus to Mendoza. Round trip, per person, was $48 for an 8 hour bus ride in a "semi-cama" (almost fully reclining) seat, and snacks.

Mendoza, located between Santiago and Buenos Aires, has the reputation of mixing a little of each country. The native Mendocinos, although they clearly speak Argentinian (pronouncing the double l "ll" as "zh," instead of the "y" used by other latinos), speak a very light, almost Chilean form of Argentinian Spanish. Mendoza is a city that still believes it is a town, where the streets are wide and lined in sycamores, and the stores close four hours for lunch from 1 to 5pm. It has a reputation as a shopping city, where Santiaguinos come to take advantage of the significantly lower prices. A lunch "menu," with appetizer to dessert, costs $6, as opposed to $9 in a comparable Santiago restaurant. Books and CDs, which are quite expensive in Chile due to the 19% sales tax, are often less than half the price in Argentina. And I don't need to mention the high quality yet reasonably priced leathers.

Our Chilean guy-friends at the residence teasingly warned us about the "Trans-andinos," who are known to be significantly more forward in their piropos than their Chilean neighbors. Marga related her experiences on a previous trip to Bariloche, where Argentinian men had openly and gladly yelled their appreciation for her from across the street. On this trip I was amused to only hear a muffled piropo as a man passed us - we joked that he must have been Chilean.

Out walking Saturday night, the main streets were packed with people enjoying the warm evening and window shopping. If you can forgive the generalization, it felt quite European. The sidewalks were much more crowded than I'd ever seen in Santiago; the entire population was either out walking or serving the strollers.

The way back we saw the sun rise on the pass through the Andes, lighting the desert golds and reds of the Andes, up to the cool greys and purples of the snow spotted mountains. The mountains are dryer than they've ever been, but golden autumn alders and pampas grasses lined the few rivers there were.

A curious note - The drive over to Argentina from Chile takes 7 hours, but the trip back takes 8. The difference? The Argentinian customs, beyond checking to see if your papers are in order, is largely symbolic. They didn't go through or scan our bags at all, didn't check through the bus to see if we were bringing fruits or illicit products in, didn't walk a police dog by us. The Chilean customs was serious, doing all of the above. It makes sense, now that I reflect on it - much of Chile's international trade is agriculture. A vegetable or fruit disease would be devastating, as would any bug affecting eucalyptus or pine - Chile is also one of the top timber producing states.


We got back today, and it's gotten cold. The weather changes abruptly here; two weeks ago it could get up to 85; now the temperature drops to the 40's at night at struggles to reach 70 during the day. The trees which are almost exclusively deciduous, have all at once begun to turn golden and brown and precipitously dump leaves on the sidewalks. This is clearly to the chagrin of the apartment concierges, who are rather obsessive about keeping their gardens immaculate, and now have to sweep and rake the lawns every few hours.

Glimpses: Interdependence, Space (Proxemics), High Context

A polite and harnessed yellow Labrador uncertainly leads a woman in dark sunglasses into the metro car. I watch from my corner as hands, young and old, reach out reflexively to guide the woman into a seat, gently holding her hands, elbows, shoulders.

Four young teen skaters board the metro car, grinning in anticipation of future cityscape conquests. They greet a latecomer with a pointed glance at his spotless new shoes, eyebrows raised over glittering eyes. The latecomer responds with a proud nod, shifting his right shoe so that the coveted brand is visible: VANS.

Culture of Jealousy

Chileans tend to be jealous couples, and the phrase: "tengo polola celosa" (I have a jealous girlfriend) is frequently heard.

I spoke with my aunt about the way Chileans express love, and she related to me that she's also been met with the expectation that affection is partitioned unequally. Love here isn't totally unconditional, she explained, it's tied to performing certain actions - such as being a respectful and obedient child. There is also the notion that people only have limited amounts of love, and therefore one must defend their relationship, and allotted love, from others.

On my commute to school, I'm daily met with a TVN Chile sponsored poster for the show "Say what they will" that features a smiling woman in her 30's with the caption: "I think I love one child more than the other." Needless to say, I think that this poster would be viscerally rejected in the U.S., given U.S. ideals of equality (and boundless love.)

Simple Cross-border Civil Disobedience

Russian youth movement activist admits to 2007 hacker attack on Estonia websites
Interfax

Moscow, 12 March: A commissar of the Nashi youth movement, Konstantin Goloskokov, has said that he personally took part in an attack on the websites of Estonian government structures in spring 2007.

"This was done by me, my acquaintances and friends - an initiative group. But it was not a hacker attack but a classical action of civil disobedience," Goloskokov told Interfax on Thursday (12 March).

http://www.cdi.org/russia/johnson/2009-51-43.cfm

World News Curiosities

Has the meaning of "Al Qaeda" entered common English knowledge? Twice in the past week I've read simply "Qaeda," which indicates that the news reporter found using "al" ("the" in arabic) grammatically incorrect or unnecessary.

Most recently, an article in yesterday's NYTimes: US Weighs Taliban Strike into Pakistan:
"Several administration and military officials stressed that they continued to prod the Pakistani military to take the lead in a more aggressive campaign to root out Taliban and Qaeda fighters who are attacking American forces in Afghanistan and increasingly destabilizing nuclear-armed Pakistan."

I'm incredibly confused, as seems to be the rest of the world, including Madagascar, on this one: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/18/world/africa/18madagascar.html?_r=1&th&emc=th

University life

I have class four days a week. Only on Tuesdays and Thursdays must I brave the sardine can metro rush. The hot, humid air rises to meet you as you descend the stairs into the station, and the only respite is the breeze pushed through by incoming trains. I´m told it´s worse in the winter. It´s a 40 minute trip in total, given that I have to change train lines. I´m consistently impressed with the cleanliness and general comfort of the metro system, but it is rather shocking to be squashed into the train - I don´t even need to walk into the train car, the crowd will carry me in.

Mornings are chilly here, quite pleasant compared to the incessant sun of the afternoons.

My courses:
-Intercultural Communication between Asia and Latin America: A course taught in English, which is rather unfortunate given I would like to learn the subject matter in Spanish. The 20 students are mostly from the Engineering department, and are taking the class mainly to practice their language skills. It is nevertheless interesting to see how the material is taught, and how the students respond to it. The course is apparently attractive to international students - there are 5 in attendance. The department head who approved my registration in the course was clearly miffed by this, lamenting that courses specially designed to practice english language were being filled up by foreigners. I´m not sure why she´s surprised, however, given the subject of the course. I believe it´s the first time this topic has been covered at the Católica; I´m not sure about other universities.

- Culture and Latin American Society: We haven´t really gotten started with this one yet. The professor, like most other professors I´ve seen teaching here, goes off onto frequent eloquent and mostly irrelevant tangents.

-Chilean Culture for foreigners: the class starts next Monday.

- Armed Conflict and the Politics of Humanitarian Work: This course is taught by likely one of Católica´s best professors. The course is fast paced, (I hear that some of the other foreigners have trouble keeping up,) and to my mind, very interesting. You might be surprised to know that almost 98% of our numerous readings are in English. (In fact I´ve become exceedingly grateful that I study international relations in the US, as opposed to in another nonEnglish-speaking country. Almost all of the material in the field is in English, and the variety of courses one can take (At AU) in specific areas, such as humanitarian work, peace studies, environment and war, etc, is unparalleled here. In any case, I will return to the States able to carry on an extensive conversation about the definition of conflict and the nuances of conducting humanitarian efforts.

Other tidbits:
-Printing!! I have no printer at my residence, and so I must resort to printing at the U. There are computing centers, (at which I have currently usurped a station,) and to print one must bring paper. First you select and send your document to be printed. Then you study greek history, or teach yourself Latin, while you wait in line. The printer itself is under the strict and unwavering control of an attendant, to whom you must pass your paper when you are given the priviledge, and then you "unlock" your document from another computer so that it prints immediately onto your personal white paper (which by this point is creased from living in your backpack). As you can see, it is a highly efficient system. In fact, I have never ever seen printers or copiers for free use in Chile - they are always attended by an intermediary attendant. You yourself, as an unworthy being, cannot occupy the printer or copier, lest the machine takes a disliking to you and breaks a cartridge.

-Obtaining readings for classes: In contrast to the US, where students are expected to shell out impressive sums of money to spend 5 months of exclusive time with a shiny new textbook, Chile has developed a different system. Chilean students are simply not expected to have the resources to buy books. (There is also a 20% tax on books here, if I´m not mistaken.) So instead the professor sends the course material to one of many small copy officies scattered around the university campus: "fotocopiadoras." Students go to these officies and pay around 20 pesos a page for the copies of the readings. I still haven´t figured out whether or not this system operates in blatant or just mild disregard for copyright law. But it´s quite useful given the structural difficulties in printing. The fotocopiadoras, are, however, also a good place to begin learning Latin.


On an unrelated note, I´ve recently realized that being vegetarian in Chile means that you´re trying to lose weight. (As if cutting down on protein would be a good or effective way to lose weight.) So my receipts for veggie food (which rather resemble rabbit food at the university, since I settle for a salad with tomatoes, corn, peas, a hardboiled egg, and some fresh cheese, and some rice) all read "Low Calorie."

I´ve additionally worked out my schedule so that I can practice soccer several times a week. I don´t have any fields near me, so I´m obliged to metro down to the University to play, but the gym changing rooms and showers make this easier. I´m continually met with surprise: You play soccer!?!?! But you´re a girl! I considered trying out for the team here, but I wasn´t willing to have soccer take over my life in Chile. The team requires a commitment of 3 hours four days a week, including Friday evening. So for now I simply kick the ball around on my own, and needless to say, juggle a lot. It´s highly unlikely that I´ll find other girls to scrimmage or practice with, but maybe I´ll eventually be invited into a pichanga.

Bravo meat industry: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/12/opinion/12kristof.html?th&emc=th

Chile is a welfare state - socialist capitalism

The metro is a prime location to discern the extent of the Chilean government's attempts to educate and better its citizenry. As opposed to the DC metro, which is equipped with one or two written advertisements by the Metro corporation (this being the extent of government involvement), the Santiago metro is almost exclusively dominated by ads put up by the government. Some read "Join the Chile without Corruption," reflecting a current state campaign. They generally showcase a group of individuals where one is breaking some sort of social rule: in a particular sign a middle aged man is snoozing away in a metro seat, his nearby seatmates, all elderly and therefore deserving of the seats, stare in disbelief. By social convention, as well as law, the man should have immediately given up his seat to the woman holding an infant standing next to him. Clearly, the word "corrupción" in Spanish also refers to moral decay.

The campaign invites Chileans to participate by sending their "best phrases to complete the dictionary of the corrupt." http://www.diccionariodelcorrupto.cl/ Here you can see the dictionary, and the signs put up by the campaign. The sign featuring the business meeting makes good use of the word I last wrote about: "pituto." It says: "The guy stirring his coffee got in by pituto." This is all sponsored by Chile Transparency, in conjunction with the Ministry of Education.

Another rather interesting government effort is the "Santiago in 100 words" essay competition. http://www.santiagoen100palabras.cl/ It asks Chileans to write a short story about anything, in under 100 words of course. Some of the winners and honorable mentions are posted up on advertising boards in the Metro stations and in the trains as well. I've been curious to note that the characteristic Latin American "magical realism" often shines through in these.

One ends up feeling that the government is really trying to interact with its people.
I'll translate a few.

"Things of Fortune: Plaza Brazil: We're going to go eat as "The Poor Chinese." On the table are fortune cookies. I open one and my fortune says: 'Help me! I'm trapped and enslaved in a fortune cookie factory!" by Carolina Valenzuela, 33 yrs old, La Florida [a region of Santiago.]

"Different Report: The detective detailed in good form the background of the case. The Forest Park criminal was identified with complete certainty. But in a surprising and inexplicable way, from within the text, the affected person erased the phrases that incriminated him, absorbed with indignation the ink from the pen, in continuation the pen, next the hand and then the entire detective." Patricio Zulueta, 64 yrs old, Santiago

And now for a little Chilean humour:

"Same: God made us in his image and likeness. It comforts me to know that he is just as ugly as me." Verónica Gutiérrez, 19 yrs old, Nuñoa

[In Chile people tease a lot, and it's not considered offensive to tease a good friend for "being ugly." There is, in fact, a song I was rather obliged to hear given that I was in the same car with the performers on my trip to the South. My mother and Tia Flor, between boughts of laughter, managed to sing: "Que mueran los feos, que se mueran los feos, que se mueran toditos, toditos. Yooooooooo no soy tan feo, pero como nadie me quiere, también me voy a morir." "Death to ugly people, death to ugly people, that all* should die, all*. IIIII'm not that ugly, but as nobody loves/likes me, I'm going to die too.

*diminuitive form.

It's indicative of the differences between the uses of English and Spanish that the song sounds hysterical and teasing in Spanish, and horribly offensive in English.

Another curiousity for another day: The subject of death is not avoided here. Perfectly healthy young people openly discuss their plans for death over lunch, while mantaining a cheerful mood.

Santiago Week Four - Murals and Ferias

This week I passed by one of Pablo Neruda's three houses; La Chascona, in the bohemian Bella Vista neighborhood. It's
two blocks from my spanish classes. The museum is closed
on Mondays, to my luck, but I'll return this week for a look
inside. I'm told he was a packrat with beautiful collections,
which doesn't surprise me at all, given his incredibly refreshing odes to ordinary objects. One of my favorite poems is Ode to An
Artichoke.

This photo is of the upper portion of the house; it must have some four floors. It's on one of
the very steep hills (cerros) that dot Santiago.



Non-wealthy Santiago is full of murals. This is Bella Vista, on the main street with all the pubs, which is thick with tourists during the day. I've seen less homeless people than I expected.







One of the tourist areas - little shops/posts with silver work, boots, copper trinkets, traditional indigenous knittings and weavings...

Few posts were open that Monday, and the beautiful murals
on the doors (?) were revealed.





Wednesdays I go to the Feria with my Aunt or her friend whom I get along wonderfully with.
How much do you think I can get with $13?

1 Kilo Tomatoes
5 Peach yogurts (yum!)
2 Kilos "Banana" Peaches (I really like peaches, if it's not clear).
1 Kilo Grapes (they still have frost on them. right off the vine.)
1 Zucchini
1 rather large Avocado
2 chunks Carribean Pumpkin (the every-day savory pumpkin here.)
1 soap holder
1 large good quality but inconspicuous tote bag with a zipper and outer pocket (necessary for some parts of town).
1 small bag with lots of pockets, also good quality. Perfect because it can be worn across the body, with lots of space inside, but again, inconspicous. It acheives the balance of practical invisibility by being neither ugly nor expensive.

As you might imagine, it is terribly difficult for me to justify buying anything from the shopping malls in the wealthy districts here. All I can think is: Look at that price tag! I could find that for 1/4 the cost in a feria.

Needless to say, Chile is a fabulous place for fruit addicts. My skin hasn't turned orange from excess beta carotene yet, but I'm probably pushing it.

Tener Pituto

This evening my aunt's friend, Sara, gets a call at about 11.00 pm. A colleague from the elementary school where she works has been hit by a metro bus (he's a cyclist), and he's in critical condition at the nearby hospital. A chain of calls comences to alert the other school colleagues of the news: Tio Jaime is in the hospital.
The message is disseminated, and another issue arises: the medics declined to inform the man's wife of his current condition. Such information is apparently at the doctor's discretion here. So Sara calls a Policeman friend, currently a bodyguard for a minister, to see if he has contacts that could obtain the information from the doctor. He calls back quickly: his contact has been told that it's too late to call - the information office closes at 20.00 hours.

This episode was revealing to me in several ways; it concisely reveals the interdependent nature of Chilean society, uses of time, and additionally the inefficient and nonsensical bureaucracy. For one, the fact that it was appropriate to call colleagues at such an hour to give news about someone in no way related. And everyone Sara called was awake to receive the call. Secondly, the use of the word Tio - uncle - to describe the relationship to the injured colleague. It denotes a familial closeness, immediately designating a relationship between the "niece/nephew" and "uncle."
Lastly, in order to get around the (to me nonsensical) difficulties with finding out the colleagues' medical state, Sara immediately called a friend with contacts in the hospital (or with political clout) to fish for the information. In this case the bureaucracy foils the efforts: the hospital cannot give updates on patients medical state past 20:00 hours. Had the contact she had sought been of a high enough level, this too would likely have been an insignificant obstacle. Sara explains that to get things done here one must have "pituto," that is, connections.

Random Tidbits

A couple of curious facts:

-Just as in the Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy you should always know where your towel is, the same applies to toilet paper in Chile. The only restrooms with toilet paper are the ones you have to pay 30 cents to enter. There is none in my student house. Simply put, the presence of toilet paper where you would expect it to be most necessary is the exception, not the rule.

-All of the milk here is ultra pasteurized and sold in cartons. Think Parmalat.

-Few places have AC or central heating.

-In addition to fans that blow mist throughout the metro stations, there are at least two televisions quietly playing music videos for public enjoyment on every platform.

-You have to light the gas stoves and ovens with a match. I'm rather terrified of the oven and haven't attempted that yet. I'm pleased to say I have not burnt myself with the stovetop yet.

- It is perfectly legal to grow marijuana for personal consumption, but illegal to sell it. It grows like a weed (like everything else, really.) My friend tells me that she found her grandmother unknowingly watering a very happy marijuana plant in her garden once.

-In order to speak proper chilean, you must end every sentence with "po" and toss in a couple "weon"s.

Spanish Lessons and Learning the City

My room is small, but comfortable, and the location of the student
house is great. I've met a couple of people so far, but since classes only
start in March, the house is mostly empty.









The view out of my window - I get lots of light! And unsurprisingly,
I'm considering putting some plants on the window ledge.








The streets of the neighborhood - you can see the German influence in this particular house.







I'm talking individual Spanish lessons in the bohemian neighborhood of Bella Vista, at a school founded by a German man 20 years ago. The school features an event almost every day: field trips, hikes, salsa lessons, a very reasonably priced lunch at an area restaurant, evening get-togethers. I've met a bubbly 25 yr old Brazilian girl who lives just a metro stop away from me (about a 20 min walk, at most), and we went out for a walk and a drink last night with her host sister.

Trip South

The week of January 26th my mother rented a car and we traveled south.

On the way to my mother's childhood Methodist summer camp, where my aunt would stay for a week on a pastoral retreat, we passed rivers and waterfalls that run through the very fertile but dry land.

(This is what the streets in the smaller towns look like.)


The summer camp was founded by the Methodist missionaries that arrived in Chile from the US. In its heyday, when my mother attended as a child, the camp spread for miles to the foothills of the coastal range. There were fields of chard and corn as far as you could see. An apple and peach orchard nestled between the old cedar forest bordering the river and the crop plantations. There were horses in the stable and hundreds of milking cows. The paths were lined with fragrant eucalyptus trees with huge trunks (it took two people to hug one.) Quite profitable, I'm told.

The church has since been turned into national hands; the missionaries all returned. The Chilean management has not been so enterprising. My mother and I walked through the shell of what the camp had once been. The outlying areas were sold off, the stable cool and quiet, empty but for piles of straw. The orchards all cut down. It was beautiful, in a sad sort of way.
The cabin she remembers staying in as a child was abandoned.

We stayed in another cabin, and braved the cold water showers.
-------------------------
Tuesday the effort of many telephone calls by my aunt came to fruition. I was put into contact with, through familial and friendly ties, to two highly respected individuals of indigenous descendance, (but also thoroughly integrated Chileans), who agreed to meet with me to discuss the current issues for Chile's largest indigenous group, the Mapuches.

Wednesday morning we drove the two hours to Temuco, the largest city in the tenth region of Chile, where the Mapuche population is concentrated. After a tour of the city's crowded indoor artisan market, showcasing traditional indigenous wool garments, wooden bowls, stone mortars, horn trumpets, and delicate silversmithing, we headed to the less populated, calmer side-city of Nueva Imperial, where we would meet on of the contacts.

Walking throught the neighborhood on the outskirts of the city seeking the right house, I for the first time encountered the discrimination against Mapuches. Unsure we were on the right avenue, we asked a man who seemed to be cleaning the street if he knew where the family lived. As soon as we had pronounced the family name, the man's eye's narrowed a little and he pointed to a derelict house down the street. "See where that wooden saw horse is? I think a Mapuchito lives there." It was by far the poorest house (read: shack) on the street, clearly under some delayed construction by the looks of the saw horse guarding the entrance. It wasn't the house we were looking for.

In Chile, beyond appearance, last names are the give-away for indigenous people. Things are changing here, and discrimination is no longer the bold-faced affair it was twenty years ago. It's simply gone underground. But with the public sense that such discrimination is wrong, and therefore should be hidden, (it's illegal too now), there's some hope that it will die off.
---------------------------------

Thursday I committed my first action chain mistake. An action chain is a series of actions that must be performed in a certain order for the entire performance to be understood correctly.

Having arrived late after a maddening search for my second contact's office (note: you have to look really hard for occasionally non-existant street signs here,) I sat down after presenting my name and offering thanks for the meeting. I got right down to business: I explained what my interests in the intercultural field were, and where I thought those interests might apply in terms of the Mapuche indians in Chile. My contact stared at me blankly and shifted rather uncomfortably. There was an awkward pause as he got up, poured himself some water, and expressed that I needed to restart correctly. "So where are you from? Are you studying in Chile?"
Once I got that right things flowed smoothly. We discovered that our families had been childhood friends and he opened up a lot. A half hour meeting turned into an hour and a half, he skipping part of his lunch hour to speak with us.

It was a good lesson: In Chile, (and likely most countries on earth,) you have to establish who you are, what you're doing here, what family you're from, before you can get to the point. Without doing so, you're likely to be either misunderstood or to receive poor service.

First Week; Business Trip Style

Within three hours of having exited Santiago international customs (where I was rather persistently checked for M&M's, which I rather persistently asserted I did not have (they're what, 20% cocoa?)) my mother and I had dropped off our bags and were running errands. Accustomed as she is to frequent business travel, our day was particularly efficient. I was silently thankful for the minor time difference (2 hours ahead of EST DC during daylight savings).

I therefore have a cell phone now, of the pre-pay type. No frills. It could fall apart at any moment. It happens to work. So I can theoretically be reached at any moment, if you care to have an international calling card gobbled up by the cost of calling a cell phone.

I also found an apartment. It's really a room in a student house, which accommodates up to 72. There is a self-serve kitchen, a study computer room, a grassy patio area, laundry, and very comfortable living room with high ceilings, floor length windows, and well-loved black leather couches. I chose a nook on the top (third) floor, up the curving marble stairs and down a window lined hall. The window opens out onto the space between the neighboring apartments, green with summer trees. The entering light is beautiful; making the plain room glow. Through the hall windows across from my door highrise apartments frame the Cerro San Cristobal, where I can just make out the ivory Virgin Mary set on top.

And the location! The student home is set two or three elegant sycamore-lined blocks from Providencia, one of the wealthier and safer spots in the city. Behind high iron bars, though, of course. Everything is behind iron bars here.

----------------------------------------------------------

My first week here draws to a close tomorrow. We have managed to walk miles around the city, visit several language schools, visit my school campus (which is less of a campus and more of a stunning park, fountains and all), go out to see several distant relatives, go to the market (feria), and host several meals at my aunt's house. I have the beginnings of several excellent high-level connections to further my research. I even learned how to make fried fish, and later served pesto gnocchi for lunch.

I have been thoroughly warned of the dangers of the city, and have taken some tricks to heart. As my aunt suggested, I carry a laminated copy of my ID (which unfortunately is currently my passport, as my ID card has not arrived yet) instead of the original. My bag remains clutched ("aferrada") tight to my side, zipped closed, whenever we step out of the house. And I don't wear expensive jewelry, nor anything resembling gold. That was a surprise for me - absolutely no one one the Metro (as it is called here) wears gold. Silver, brass, low quality earrings are the rule.

I'm still musing over how to take pictures of the feria; perhaps my favorite experience in a city. Pick pockets are the problem here.

So I was also surprised to see people listening to mp3 players on the packed Metro; I would imagine those to be a prime target for thieves. I have seen one iPhone so far, and only one iPod.

Arrival to Santiago

The 18th of January, Dulles airport was quiet, almost deserted. Customs was a ten minute ordeal.

Miami International featured the famous (at least in my house) Cuban coffee, really (really!) good guava pastries, and flocks of stylishly dressed individuals. Some airline in the D terminal must have been unpacking runway models. My mother and I played vagabond for five hours while waiting for our Santiago connection, claiming a corner of a flashy tabloid and romance novel store for a while as I hoarded cooking magazines and secretively flipped through an un-purchased Economist ($7!!)

It will suffice to say that The Holiday is a terrible movie; I was thoroughly mushed out. Romance without substance leaves me uncomfortably squeamish and disgruntled.

The huge stuffed elephant my mother had bought at Ikea for a young cousin in Chile accompanied us on our journey; the flights were remarkably more comfortable as a result! It was also a great conversation starter with normally stern-faced officials. I guess three by two foot fuzzy gray stuffed elephants are a great testament to one's good character. I even got through with contraband nail-clippers.

I still couldn't sleep but for fitful naps and dark dreams.

The flight over Chile coincided with the sunrise, and the Andes mountain range (cordillera)
was unveiled of its' usual clouds to reveal dry and jagged mountains, rising high above the cloud line into imposing snowy teeth. My mother had never seen the Aconcagua in all its' glory as it was that morning.



We arrived in Chile after 24 hours of travel. 30 C, the hot and dry scent of the city hit me in a deep breath, familiar and pleasant.