They hadn't yet begun to ring the doorbell when I burst through the side-door, handing off a fairly inoffensive black back to one guy, and dropping $4 into the coffee tin held by the other. The latter, a young man of about 30 dressed for a day in, not in collection gear, thanked me and wished me a wonderful holiday, calling me "casera." That's the first time I've been called "casera" outside of the feria.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Christmas in the Barrio
I woke up this morning to the wild barking of dogs, and off in the distance a repeating horn, and a bell jingling monotonously. It was the trash pick-up. The men were probably the only public servants working the day before Christmas, and as was tradition, they demanded a tip from the households they attended to help round out the year. The jingling and honking grew nearer, the barking intensified, and I scrambled out of bed to hand over our weekly accumulations and contribution.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
St. Petersburg
Close to Olga's metro station is the travel agency - a small window in the entry of a grocery store where we caused quite a line to form, buying three round trip tickets. They add on a commission, but save several hours of waiting in line for a ticket in Moscow. We presented our passports (rigorously inspected) to book the tickets.
A 4 hour train on the way over, a night train (!) for the way back, for about $100.
We would leave Saturday evening (10th), and Emily and I return the next Thursday morning (15th), while Olga would return earlier on Monday to run errands.
We exited the Moscow Metro at Komsomol'skaya, emerging from a curious high-ceilinged square building that looked to be anything but a metro exit, and Olga pointed out the three train stations around us. Each station went to a specific region: Leningrad, Yaroslav, Kazan. We walked into the Leningrad one and found our train car - and we were off precisely on time. Our cabin was full - three seats facing three. The land passed flat by us and forest changed into swamp and back several times. "When the architects of the St. Petersburg train line asked the Tsar (?) where to put the train, he drew a straight line with a ruler from Moscow to 'Peter' mostly through swamplands. Except that his thumb was in the way, so there was a slight bump at the beginning of the route. Absolutely attentive to the wishes of the sovereign, the train route actually featured that small half-circle, until the USSR straightened it. Incredible and enormous acts of will have been conceived of and completed because of the authoritarian system," she finished.
We passed through birch forests and ordered hot black tea, served with a lemon slice, in the iconic* and elegant black worked metal tea glass-holders. I stood much of the trip in the aisle, watching the land, seeing lots of little wooden shed-houses. "Shanty towns?" I inquired.
"No, that's not a phenomenon we see here - it's simply too cold for most of the year, and social programs during the USSR are such that people have apartments, regardless of income. Those are country-houses to grow vegetables, maybe take a cup of tea, and go home before nightfall."
[In the cities there are homeless people, no more in the areas I've been than in other places, if not less. Frequent sights are maimed younger men - legs amputated - and old shrunken "grandmothers" bundled in coats and with a shawl and covered hair, with signs, generally demurely silent holding out corner-kiosk plastic tea mugs in a plea for coins.]
The birches had begun their sunset - yellow leaves gilding over green summer sprays.
The St. Petersburg Metro is one of the deepest in the world - the venerable source Wikipedia lists the deepest station to be 105 meters deep. The deepest in DC is about 60 meters. Escalators in Russia move quite fast - otherwise the escalator-ride would be the most substantial part of the daily commute! Several stations in the center appear to simply be a floor of dozens of elevator doors, closed to patient riders until the timer on the far wall notes 2:00 minutes and after a whoosh of air and grinding of rails, the doors open to reveal a train. As in DC, people politely stand to the sides of the doors to let out-going passengers off (UNLIKE CHILE).
St. Petersburg was built on a swamp (another act of will) so in order to keep certain stations from flooding (the Kirovsko-Vyborgskaya swamp was split in two from 1995 to 2004 when an underground lake flooded several stations, including the one our friend's apartment was at) the groundwater must be frozen year-round. By what magic this is done I know not.
Regarding the flooding: http://books.google.com/books?id=53IPHH32OgYC&pg=PA74&lpg=PA74&dq=st+petersburg+metro+freezing+groundwater&source=bl&ots=h2px6IZtjC&sig=bXH3aszigsZ_z-RGuilZ3qKyZ74&hl=en&ei=zhySTNu8NNKTOMfKyNMH&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=1&sqi=2&ved=0CBcQ6AEwAA#v=onepage&q&f=false
- - - -
We stayed in the night we got to St. Petersburg, and Emily and I had Russian dumplings, pel'meni for the first time. They're a cheap student food here, bought frozen, boiled or fried, and eaten with sour cream and sometimes ketchup (which tastes a bit like cocktail sauce here).
- - - -
We decided, upon Olga's mother's recommendation, that we go see the Yekaterinsky Palace near the town of Pushkin (formerly Tsarskoe Selo).
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Getting in to Moscow
Arrived in Russia - smooth flight, a mere 9 hours 40 minutes. Loved seeing the flat farmland interspersed with mixed deciduous and evergreen forest, marked with the granite-white bones of birches.
Caught an "electrikaya" back to the city - a train which runs every forty-five minutes. The wind blew clouds across the station as we waited. I was surprised by the cold, in early September, and snuck my coat out of the bottom of my luggage. On the train women walked by offering books and magazines, soda and chips. Industrial buildings interspersed with countryside passed by the windows.
At the metro connecting station, we bought a warmed bread filled with seasoned and sauteed cabbage, my friend drank a plastic mug (complete with handle) of black tea.
The Moscow metro is rather logical: lines that radiate out from the center of the city, and a ring (about half of the lines' diameter) that connects all of them. My friend has a month pass, and we all ride on it. The turnstiles hurt if they close on you - like two mallets that swing shut!
I'm staying in her aunt's apartment, in the complex where "The Irony of Fate" was filmed. Security appears to be serious: one presses a pass to the entry door, then another entry door, goes up a very small elevator with a mirror (just in case one looks ridiculous and need to run back home), unlocks gate before the apartment doors, and via a three step process with two keys unlocks two locks on apartment door. It's a one bedroom, one bathroom apartment; a washer/dryer machine tucked next the toilet. There is a flat mown park across the street, and beside the apartment building, tucked behind another house, is a park dappled with birch shadow.
Went over to Olga's apartment - in a closed compound - and met her other US friend who will be with us. There we ate marinated garlic (!), marinated eggplant and red pepper (!!), and had tea (of course).
That evening we went out and met friends of hers from an archeological dig in the Crimea a few years back. Not one admitted to speaking English, although the language is given in schools. I struggled along with tangled Russian. We walked through the city for several hours with them, plaza after city square after park. We lingered a bit along the streets where The Master and Margarita begins, saw the trolley featured in the opening scene. The exchange rate is roughly 30 rubles to a dollar - and Moscow is one of the most expensive cities in the world. http://www.citymayors.com/features/cost_survey.html
We returned home to her parent's around 1 am, and had a light dinner (sliced cucumber salad, cubed beet and potato salad, more marinated veggies) and tea (of course).
I haven't bought anything besides a $2 dollar borscht soup, so I haven't felt shock at the prices (yet).
----
Second day:
Slept soundly until 2 pm (6 am in the US).
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
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!!
------------------------------------------------jajajaja!! si po si yo las hago toas..
------------------------------------------------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
------------------------------------------------
another possible youthful phrase:
"Este weon weon weon!"
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
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.
"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.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
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.
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.
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