Favorite Things: Cigarrette Boxes

This is a very simple favorite thing about Chile: the pictures on the cigarette boxes.

Now, don't worry anyone, I haven't picked up a smoking habit (other than being smokin' on the beach... heh), Chile just has very distinct cigarette boxes. As part of an effort to curb the raging chimney of the Chilean population, the government has mandated that more warnings be printed on all cigarette boxes. The one shown below is a newer model; there's also a guy with a hole in his neck and a huge "THESE CIGARETTES ARE KILLING YOU!" message. The warning labels on the back read like Truth ads, including descriptions of the chemicals as tar and rat poison.

Favorite Things: Los Cerros

Next on the list of things to love/miss about Chile: the topography of Valparaiso.

Sandwiched between the bay and a series of sharp hills smashed together, the city of Valparaiso truly is a city of interesting topography. Each hill has its own personality: Cerros Concepcion and Alegre are touristy and wealthy, Cerro Artilleria has a huge old fort, Cerro Bellavista has a open-air museum of famous murals... I'd continue, but there's 24 in all!

Favorite Things: The Beach

Next on the list of things I love and will miss of Chile: the ocean.

I ride past 20 minutes of beach every Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday to go to school, and I walk 30 minutes to get the the closest beach several times a week. There's penguins and sea lions, naked babies running around, and people selling popsicles. Alone or with friends, it's paradise.

Favorite Things: My Chicas

Next entry in the series of favorite things: my bestest friends. These girls have been all over with me, literally and figuratively, and I love 'em all to death. Thank goodness for facebook, road trips, and frequent flyer miles, because these friendships are in for the long haul.

Boo

I hate goodbyes, and they've just begun. Boo.

Favorite Things: The Market

This is the first entry in a series of things I love/will miss about Chile. Today, the market:

Housed in a block-sized green and yellow building across the street from the ISA office and next to some campus buildings, the market is one of my favorite daily places. Filled with people, fruit and veggies, there's life on all sides and good sights, with the occasional good smell (though horse urine is more common). I'll miss the delicious fresh produce and the bustle of so much movement, but I won't miss getting whistled at by the men working as I walk by.

Mama Said...

Despite my mother's consistent and caring reminders, I've avoided sunscreen fairly successfully for the majority of my self-dependent years. I hate the smell, I hate the feel, I hate the process of putting it on. My half-latina genes always did enough to get me tan without burning. Apparently, not in Chile.

The proximity to the hole in the ozone layer and a culture of tanning (because being Latino here isn't tan enough, it seems) equates to a ridiculously high rate of skin cancer in Chile. Though I fortunately don't count myself among those numbers, I am currently suffering from the worst sunburn of my life. My skin is smarting and red from the nape of the back of my neck to my heels, saving only white lines from my bikini top and a comparatively bleach white bottom. Ouch. Shoulda listened to my mom...

Identity Crisis

Everyone says that studying abroad changes you. I'm right now realizing just how much.

I was wasting away my cloudy Sunday online, clicking through some friends' pictures on Facebook when I realized just how far behind I am. The problem is, it's not just news I've missed; I'm not really sure if I know a good stack of my friends any more. I've changed a lot in these months, and the people back home have surely changed as well, so how does that change how we relate to each other? I'm excited to get back to the people and things I've missed so much (things like debate... I'm not that materialistic), but I'm terrified of how I'll find them, not to mention how they'll find me.

I'm overall pleased with my progress this semester. I think I've grown a lot, and learned a lot about myself. Yet, I can't be more specific about what that really means, as I haven't seen these changes manifested in a context where they're highlighted. I guess all I can do is wait and see: two weeks from tomorrow, I'll be headed home.

Algunas lagrimitas

So here's the lonely Thanksgiving post long in the making:

It's hard to be away from family during the holidays, but harder, I think, for the very first time. I feel homesick for pistachios in front of the Macy's parade, crowding the kitchen with the rest of my family, being in charge of the dishes I'm always in charge of, the smells of butterflake rolls, apple pie, stuffing, and turkey, goofy toasts with sparkling cider, sappy I-am-grateful-for questions, Christmas music for the first time of the season, eating baby gerkin pickles all day, making fun of my mom's cooking frustrations, reading the ads for Black Friday, homemade cranberry sauce splattering itself all over me while it's cooking, candles, fuzzy sweaters, taking Shadow for a walk before dinner, eating pumpkin pie all night, cool whip topping, my dad watching the football game on mute, my brother hiding in and out of his room, my sister getting pretty for dinner, my mom's caring cooking, being barefoot and pajamaed over the frosty grass to get the paper in the morning, making my list of gifts to buy, smashed potatoes, putting the marshmallows in the sweet potatoes with my brother and sister, drinking tea all day, my favorite foods that my parents always buy when I'm coming home, the rush to see my Spokane friends for as much time as possible during a long weekend, Christmas decorating, watching Miracle on 34th Street, never doing the homework I intended to get ahead with, Starbucks on Pines and Sprague with my friends, the special holiday drinks at Starbucks, arguing over the perfect weekend to get a Christmas tree with my family, turning the heat up too high in my bedroom, my mom making my bed before I get home from Willamette so my room isn't a total disaster, eating leftover everything for breakfast, fighting over the best leftovers, and relaxing where I'm most comfortable.

Last year, NR came for dinner with my family. I miss his snuggles and company.

All of the homesick loneliness for Thanksgiving is made stronger than it should be. It's finals week, and I'm stressed and busy. It's one year since Logan's accident, and I miss him and all the people who miss him with me.

I know that these emotions and frustrations are shared by many people away from home and family this Thanksgiving. To all my friends and family, at home and all over the world, I love and am grateful to have you in my life. You're on my mind these days, and in my heart for always.

(I also promise a more cheery post next time)

At the Grocery Store

Shopping for Thanksgiving supplies this weekend, I had a few grocery store observations I'd like to share.

1. Chile doesn't do canned pumpkin. In fact, it doesn't do pumpkin at all. Now, before you ask "Well, what do they eat at Thanksgiving??" stop yourself, and review a little colonial history. We good? Aight.

The unfortunate thing is that USAians in Chile, DO do Thanksgiving... and here I'm referring to myself and the other students in my exchange program. All of our families are getting together, some 150 people in all, for a giant Thanksgiving-end of semester feast. Unfortunately, it seems that it will be without pumpkin pie.

2. Christmas is almost here! Or, I suppose, at least getting close. Without the aforementioned holiday-marker of Thanksgiving, Chile starts the Christmas shopping season even earlier than in the US. Jumbo, the overgrown, latino Walmart, is decked out in wreaths and garland, with rows of artificial trees decorated for sale inside. It's very odd, might I add, to see Christmas decorations sold next to beach towels and summer dresses.

3. I will never be able to not notice aisles of boxed milk and eggs, unrefrigerated.

Wake-up Call

The timestamp on this post says November 17. I leave Chile, probably to never return, on December 10. That means 23 days. Where on earth did my time go????

Shhaaaky

By the way, the 7.7 earthquake that's all over the news was about 22 hours north of me. I didn't feel it, obviously, and the information I have of it is still surprisingly limited, but I'm thinking of maybe heading up there to help out, if there's a real need a couple weeks from now. I'll keep you all updated, but thanks for all your email and facebook concerns!

Oye, Gringa!

Today, I reached a new level. I'm not really sure yet if it was a high or a low...

After more than 4 months now of hundreds of "piropos" (loosely translated as being whistled at and/or propositioned on the street), I snapped. I'd complained about the graphic and degrading nature of walking past a man to my friends, here and in the States, my host family, really anyone who would listen. I'd joked about the language skills I wish I had to appropriately tell them off, compared horror stories, and taken many angry, scrub-too-hard showers. What pushed me over the line this morning? Who knows... It was just another guy, wolf whistling. But, everyone has their brink, and this apparently was mine. "F@$K OFF!" I screamed, at the horny city employee raking grass in the median. Immediately (unnecessarily?) ashamed, I looked around at the morning pedestrian commuters. To my surprise, no one even took notice, despite my shouted English. No loss! I think I'll have to do it more frequently- it might not change the machismo in the world, but I'll get a little healthy catharsis, at the least.

A Chance Ego Boost

On my walk to the beach yesterday, I met a family looking for a neighborhood close to my house. They were Argentinian, judging by the accent, and apparently quite lost. I gave them directions to the plaza in the center of their destination, clearly, easily, and correctly in spanish. "Listo," ("ready") said the dad, and they went on their way.

I am absolutely confident that they saw nothing strange about the entire interaction, thanks to my new tan, improved Spanish skills, and a little abiguity of accent. Awesome.

The Coolest Guy in Viña

Most of the micro drivers are not the nicest people in the world. They drive you around, sure, but only after grabbing your $130 pesos from your hand and stuffing a ticket back in. Having to make change is THE WORLD'S GREATEST INCONVENIENCE, and forget about them letting you off where you want, even though they'll swerve through 4 lanes of traffic to pick up a beckoning passenger at any random point. They generally seem to be in some alternate state of consciousness, either drug, alcohol, or simple meanness-induced, which guarantees a wild ride on a regular basis, especially if you're forced to stand in the too-full bus. But, this only applies to 99% of the micro drivers.

The notable exception is a Viña bus 205 driver, one of the 3 routes that go directly by my house. He has a bushy mohawk, emo glasses, and his white uniform shirt tucked into some variation of athletic shorts. He smiles when he takes your money, winks when you get off the bus, and sings along to his excellent selection of chill island music during the whole ride. I've been fortunate enough to end up on his bus on the way to a weekend night in Valparaiso on three different occasions, and every time have enjoyed a much more pleasant night than one began with a grouchy driver. This morning, I boarded his bus with a great big woke-up-too-late-to-shower frown, but got off at the history building cheery and ready to tackle a beautiful day. Seriously, the coolest guy in Viña.

Pucon

Last weekend, all of the ISA kids loaded up a bus to go 12 hours south to the adventure-tourist haven of Pucon. Among the weekend activities for some were hiking a volcano, white water rafting, and canopy, though rafting was the only item on my agenda. We ate a lot of delicious food, drank a lot of forbidden wine, and looked at a lot of beautiful scenery. A few photos:

Smiles

I want everyone to know that Elizabeth is the coolest person in all of either Koreas, and not just because of the way awesome care package she sent me. Public love from the other corner of the Pacific Ocean!

Buenos Aires

I've realized now that I'm no good whatsoever at writing about actual travels, as I skipped at least half of my trip up north and to Bolivia, and only wrote highlights of Mendoza. Unfortunately, I believe that trend continues with this post.

Buenos Aires was, without a doubt, one of the most exciting places I've ever been. A city of 16 million, seemingly most of them international businesspeople, it bustles 24 hours each day with the exchange of capital. It's huge, shiny, lively, and varied, with sections as clean as a Liberty Lake housing development and as dirty as under Salem's bridges. It's cold and foreign, but too full to allow for much real separation from other people, instead forcing individuals like sweating sardines into crowded streets and subway cars.

I had the great luck to be traveling with someone who didn't mind traveling like me; spontaneous, wandering, and on foot. We covered all of the city that matters that way, including shopping districts, the birthplace of tango (where it's also still practiced all through the streets), the zoo, extensive gardens and parks, the majority of Argentina's important political buildings, and a world-renowned art museum. My friend Ingrid is studying in the city right now, and we went out with her a few times, including a whirlwind Halloween of 4 different bar/clubs/parties. We were also lucky enough to be there during the presidential election, which made for interesting posters plastered on buildings and editorials in the paper, though it also meant that no alcohol could be sold in the city on the only Saturday night we had there.

While I feel like I had an excellent experience in the city over the course of the week (minus one day in which we explored a bit neighboring Uruguay), I still feel like it was only the beginning. One day, when I'm possibly famous and certainly rich, I hope to return and revisit Buenos Aires in style, and this time, stay long enough to be bored of it.

A Confession

I'll write more of Buenos Aires later, but right now, I have something to get off my chest. I feel like this blog is full of adventures and positive thinking, and in reality, this experience has had a lot of those things. But there's a lot of my reality that I haven't shared; the downs experienced for no good reason, the loneliness, the frustrations with expressing myself and being understood... I think I feel like I have to be having fun adventures for this trip to be worthwhile, and that I MUST appear content and invigorated to look like I'm doing it right. The truth is, the emotional roller coaster of the first few weeks still exists, and the closer I get to the end of the ride, the more I miss standing on firm ground.

Small Fish in a Small World

In a city of 16 million people, you don't really run into people you know, especially when you only know 3 people. Or so I thought: On Sunday, our second day in Buenos Aires, we saw a woman and her daughter (memorable for their matching white skirts and platform heels) by Congress. Four hours later, we ran into them again, 40 minutes across town, at the zoo. After the zoo, we were wandering through a park looking for some certain statues, and we encounter my friend IH, who we had seen on Friday but had no plans to see that day. With her was K?, a high school friend of DW, my travelling companion, and one of Michaela's best friends at Seattle University. DW and K? hadn't seen each other in a few years now, had no idea that they were presently sharing South America. We all of us passed a pleasant hour or so in the grassy sunshine, and went on our separate ways, with plans to meet the next day.

As it turns out, even in a city of 16 million people, on a continent of 400 million, in a world of seven billion, this infinite universe is small enough for the stars to allign.

Gray Days

Today is a very Salem-esque day, foggy and chilly with a breeze that wets one's skin and sends chills down the spine. Here, though, one can smell the ocean, an unusual scent due to the constant winds that generally blow the salty mist out to sea instead of letting it settle over the city. Though I enjoy dreary weather, even in spring, the gray day is emphasizing the foul mood I've been in for the past several days.

I've been joking a lot about the disgusting dead part of me, so as to make it less gross and scary. It's not working, though, so here's a little honesty for y'all: I'm scared. It's mostly that I don't know for sure what it is, and no one will do tests to definitively tell me. I can't help but relate it to my mom being so sick three summers ago, even though I intellectually recognize that's utterly illogical. I also intellectually recognize that if it was going to be bad, it would probably already have gotten worse and that it's going to need to get significantly worse before posing any real danger. At the same time, I notice the pictures attached to the articles about my possible diagnosis, think about episodes of House, listen to the worry from my friends and family, and generally freak myself out by knowing I have a dead chunk on my body. There's nothing I can do about it except take my antibiotics and wait and see, which frustrates me to no end.

I can't let it rule my life here, however difficult that might be. I'm leaving friday for a week in Buenas Aires (I'll see IH!) and trying my best to change my outlook on life. No matter what I do to cheer myself up, though, it's always stressing me out in the background. I suppose only time and healing can really change that, but I'm in no hurry to just wait.

A little bit of gangrene never hurt anyone...

So I might have left out a little insignificant detail about my life lately...
Since Saturday, I have attended a medical clinic three times to treat a weird gross thing that developed midway through last week. It started as a dark bruise on a raised red area on my side, transformed into a very tender bruise, then blistered over with a centimeter-thick blood blister.

Running theory from the 3 doctors an stack of attendants who saw me over the weekend is that it's a bite from an arana del rincon, the Chilean recluse spider. Chile's only poisonous species, the recluse is not so reclusive this time of year, as it is spring and there are bugs EVERYWHERE.

Today, I went to see a dermatologist to talk about what comes next for the dead part on my skin. He wasn't so convinced that it was a spider bite, as I never felt an instantaneous, unbearable pain that always marks a bite this serious. His alternative diagnosis? To use his words (translated), "Now don't be afraid of the word 'gangrenous'..."

For now, I'm taking antibiotics every six hours, using a topical antibiotic each morning, and watching to see how the bruise changes over the next two weeks. It's awesome fun... and as always, an adventure.

I do want to be clear though: DON'T WORRY ABOUT ME. If it was, indeed, a spider bite, it's not going to get worse from here on. If it's something else, the way awesome dermatologist will save the day. The healthcare system here is modern, precautious, and very capable. So truly, I'm fine!

Where I've Been

I thought keeping a blog would work to keep me writing, documenting my life, and reflecting. Once I started, I realized how much I was enjoying it and figured I'd never be bored of it. Looking at the drop off of entries over the past few weeks, it's clear that I was wrong. Such is life...

So: some highlights:

-Mendoza, Argentina last weekend was excellent. Winery and chocolate factory tours, paragliding, trekking, rappelling, rafting, and piles of delicious food. An asado (barbeque) with some 150 hostel-stayers, getting stuck for 3 hours crossing the border there but 45 minutes coming back because our driver makes friends with the border people, the best margarita of my life, fajitas for 6 people, yerba mate, real brewed coffee.
-Getting a 6.8 (scale of 7) on my paper for my class on Chilean Theater of 20th Century.
-Seeing a play at an ex-prison, which Valparaiso has converted into a community cultural center
-Excursion to Santiago, where we saw Villa Grimaldi, a detention/torture center during the dictatorship, fair trade co-ops, and the city cemetery including tombs of many war heroes and Salvador Allende.
-The arrest of 23 of Pinochet's family members and inner circle on charges related to tax evasion, a big step in the Riggs case that had appeared to end with the General's death in 2006.
-Spending way too much time on the beach practically every day.

ISA Trip: Beaches to the north

Very cool pelicans from the fishing town of Horcon, where we ate delicious seafood empanadas. The crabs, razor clams, etc. were probably roughly 1 day dead!


We picked up waaaay too much seaglass...


...which made me feel like this:

On Confidence

I'm not generally a person with self-esteem issues. I'm proud of who I am, what I do and have done, and what I believe, and I have no problem telling people that. As long as it's in English.

This past week, I've been really noticing my ups-and-downs of confidence with my language skills. I think it was sparked dually by a conversation with MW about the varying levels of Spanish among students in our program and one with CE, who has been pushing me to use fewer tonal question marks when speaking. But now that I'm more aware of my confidence, little issues with it abound.

For example, I'm comfortable talking to Chileans that are in my daily life, including, presumably, my professors. Yet, when I had a question about the upcoming test in my religions class, I was practically shaking when I approached the profe after class. Worse still, it was obvious to him: he put his hand on my arm and smiled as gently as a gruff 60-year-old scholar who had just yelled at another student possibly could. Today, I had to get copies of some texts from my theater class (students don't use textbooks here, they make photocopies of selections prepared by the profesors so as to save money). The woman at the counter told me my copies cost $535, so I gave her $1.050 so I would get a $500 coin (a very convinient denomination) in change. She handed me $15... AND I ASSUMED I WAS WRONG. As I was walking away wondering if I had heard or understood incorrectly, she realized her mistake and called me back for the rest of my change.

So the question is, what do I do about it? I'm practicing as much as I can, but I'm apparently still not comfortable enough to be assertive when necessary. I'm also slightly nervous that confidence transforms easily into American Ego, something I certainly want to avoid here and always. Advice, anyone?

Signs of Spring

While people from both my Spokane life and my Willamette life have complained to me about the weather this week, I'm finally starting to warm up (teehee) to the weather here. Signs of spring are all around me, andI feel it is necessary to return the favors of all of you who bragged about summer while I was getting frostbite these past few months.

-I was out until 5:30 this morning, but I got up at 10 because the day was too beautiful to waste.
-There are juicy blue flowers blooming outside my window, and a growing family of birds has a nest in the ivy on the patio wall.
-I haven't worn a scarf in two weeks.
-I didn't have to jump up and down to keep warm while waiting in line outside El Huevo for two hours last night.
-The ocean and sky are blue blue blue, and the hill on the other side of the freeway by the beach is yellow, orange, red, and purple with flowers.
-There are waxy baby leaves in the ginger-roots shaped trees along my street
-I have seen several Chileans wearing a color other than black or brown.
-The beach is totally warm enough for bare feet, and I have a feeling that bikinis are soon to follow.

Seriously, I am, as usual, overwhelmed with the life and energy of spring. Facebook friends, prepare for some serious photo-adventures in the glory that is my favorite season.

What it means to be a gringa in Bolivia

President Evo Morales declared in no soft terms during a speech in January 2007 exactly what Bolivians should think if they see a student or tourist from the United States in their country: that said individual is a spy sent by the CIA to undermine his government. During the 2.5 days we spent in Bolivia, two episodes distinctly marked my place within this volatile international relationship.

The first was a rally in the political center of the political capital of Bolivia. With the Presidential Palace on one side, the Senatorial Palace on another, and the rest encircled by museums and banks, the plaza we visited was truly the heart of La Paz. But much more than the landmarks made our visit interesting: we happened to be there in time to see a rally for Morales' pursuit of a Nobel Peace Prize.

All events of political nature hold a special energy for me, but this was much stronger than I had experienced in the past. The plaza was packed with people: businessfolk on their lunch break, students, families, a military band, indigenous women dancing traditional dances complete with a llama-bird-man, and us, the 4 American students enthralled with all that we saw. No one paid us too much notice, except maybe an extra million glances from the police and army guards when we brought out our cameras. What caught my attention the most was just how powerful this apparent foe of peace and capitalism is in his section of the world, and that in reality, the USA might have reason to be nervous of this kind of popular power in our hemisphere.

The second, and stronger of these episodes, was of a much more personal nature. Through a serious of misunderstandings and changed plans, we ended up visiting Lake Titicaca through an absolutely non-tourist village or probably some 200 citizens and a naval base. We did a boat tour with some 15 ten-year-olds on a field trip, and headed for the only restaurant (with only one menu item: chicken with rice) in town. Four men from the navy base were just leaving as we sat down at one of the three tables. With Latin American friendly curiosity, they came to say hi and welcome us to their town. Friendliness accomplished, next came the justified curiosity: the question of where we were from. Hearing our nationality, their faces changed, but their curiosity continued: for which governmental department do we work? Between our difficulties with Spanish, the assumptions encouraged by their President, and their certainty that no tourist would ever end up near their town and base, we never did establish that we were, indeed, only students.

Atacama Desert

We spent three days in the amazing chunk of Chile called the Atacama Desert. Our hostel, in the tourist-student paradise town called San Pedro de Atacama, was entirely too awesome for the short sleeps we spent there. We ate lots of relatively tasty Chilean food, saw some September 18th celebrations, and took fantastic tours to beautiful and diverse landscapes, documented here in photos:

Desert


Lagunas


Geysers! We also swam in hot springs on this tour!


The Salt Flats, my personal favorite part of our time in the desert

Coca

(Looking back over my travel experience these past two weeks, a series of brief episodes are the most striking memories. As a result, I think I'll blog my adventure in the form of short anecdotes and pictures. If you're wondering about any of the filler material [ie the 85ish hours spent on the bus], post a question.)

Among the ridiculous forms of US drug policies is the eradication via spraying pesticides of coca plants in Colombia, with efforts to expand the program to include parts of Bolivia. These policies are aimed at drug trafficking of refined cocaine, but the majority of the victims of these practices are farmers and indigenous people who consume raw coca (in the form of tea or chewing on leaves) as a daily habit. Unrefined coca is a natural stimulant, not unsimilar to caffeine, that is commonly considered in this part of the world to be good for digestion, headaches, fatigue, and especially altitude sickness.

Knowing this, and being a big fan of a few coca-related debate cases, I was psyched to get to the altiplano, experience a little altitude sickness, and find out for myself what all the fuss was about. Unfortunately, it wasn't nearly as fuss-worthy as I had imagined.

My first experience with coca was in the form of dried leaves, during a tour of the laguna section of the Atacama desert. As this is the highest desert in the world, it was no surprise that the majority of the tourists in our group were feeling a little funny. The guide, experienced and prepared for this, passed around a bag of coca leaves, instructing us to take a few and chew them in the side of our mouth like gum. They tasted of jasmine green tea, with a texture of (gasp) crunchy leaves, and truly did releave the splitting headache I had at the time. Other than that, I felt a bit cheery, but certainly no higher than I already was from the altitude. I think to truly master the form of masticlation would take a few more attemps: the leaves fell apart in my mouth and left my teeth looking like I had just eaten spaghetti with tons of oregano.

The coca tea, however, is definitely something I enjoyed. With a flavor exactly like green tea and an effect very similar to a glass of red wine, "agua de coca" warmed me up, relaxed me, and, again, took care of my altitude headache. ZS had some stomach issues, also resolved by the tea, and AF enjoyed the taste as much as I did. A drug? I suppose, but in the sense of caffeine, or maybe as extreme as alcohol. Addicting? Hardly. I've had three cups over the course of two weeks, and while I enjoyed the completely-legal experiment, I'd be fine to never do it again. All the same, thanks to the reasonable, culturally-accepting, and humane laws in Chile (in addition to Bolivia), I can, anyway.

Regreso

Well, I've returned safely from a 10-day whirlwind trip to the desert, Arica, and La Paz, Bolivia. It was all truly amazing, and will be well-documented if I ever un-bury myself from the pile of homework I currently live under. Besos!

September 11

As people in the United States are holding candlelight vigils, waving flags, and being angry that we've spent the past three years in useless war, Chileans, too, are recognizing September 11th.

On today's date in 1973, General Augusto Pinochet and the armed forces of Chile overthrew President Salvador Allende's Socialist government, replacing it with a military dictatorship which murdered some 3,000 opposition activists and detained/imprisoned/tortured some other 27,000. His rule lasted until 1990, when the citizens of Chile voted in the second plebiscite that he ordered for him to step down.

In a country so politically active, the anniversary of the military coup is marked with much discussion, protest, and remembrance. Surprisingly (from a US perspective), the years of dictatorship are not so clearly considered tragic as one might expect. Listening to the strong opinions of the people around me, I have been shocked to learn how deep the polarization goes.

On one side, many conservatives feel that Pinochet saved the nation from inevitable socialist ruin. Naming the long lines for food during Allende's presidency, the nationalization of major natural resources and big industries, and the high taxes on business, some people go as far as referring to the dictatorship as simply "military government," controlled by "my General Pinochet," amounting to "the second independence of Chile." These aren't radical conservatives, nor especially political individuals; these are the opinions and emotions of people all around me.

At the same time, one can walk down the street and see graffiti proclaiming President Allende, banners with his face, and groups of people protesting in his honor and memory. The rhetoric of these people, equally as common and active as the conservatives, generally matches the words used in the US to discuss this period of Chilean history: the dictator, military coup, overthrow of government. It's fascinating that years after creating such a dramatically tragic government, our society and government shares the language used by the most adamant opposition.

Then, again, there are those who say it is too early to properly judge this era of Chilean history. While I can see the validity in postponing judgment of the remaining neo-liberal fiscal policies, the system of education, and the privatization of many government services, it it impossible for me to truly comprehend the perspective that such a violent, anti-democratic change of regime and paradigm rescued this country.

Enough Already!

I really hope this will be the last post about clementines, because I'm learning lots about politics and history here, but I can't resist. In part, it's also an excuse to not write much. In any case, clementines today were a kilo for 100 pesos, $0.20US.

Too Many Clementines!

About a month ago, I wrote a short blog entry about the kilo of clementines one can purchase for 300 pesos, $0.60US. Many kilos later, the novelty was just beginning to wear off. I hadn't bought any in a week or so... until today, when my citrus world turned upside down all over again. Walking past the market on my way to the bus terminal (I'm going to Bolivia soon, by the way!), I saw 2 kilos of clementines for 250 pesos. That's a kilo of fresh sweet amazing healthy fruit for $0.24US! Most of the other stalls in the market had similarly lowered prices. It seems that just now are we entering the true season peak, and just now is my amazement fully justified.

Let's talk about sex, baby...

I'm consistently surprised by the lack of taboo in Chilean society, especially when it comes to sexuality.

To begin, the prolific public displays of affection are enough to make any American blush. Since most young people live with their parents until they get married, they turn to public places to physically express their affection for each other. Any park, plaza, beach, grocery store, micro (bus), metro and classroom is apparently fair game. The picture with this entry is a random couple I saw on the boardwalk. The boardwalk!?! It wasn't even sunset.

Many of the ISA students have had awfully uncomfortable sex talks with their families (BC). This past weekend, with some extended host family in town, I had one of my own. My host aunt was talking to her son, who was asking her hard questions about cigarettes, as most of the adults in the room were smoking. When he grew bored and scurried off to play, she turned to me and started talking about kids and their darndest questions. As she is a grade school teacher, this turned into whether or not and when parents teach their kids about sex. Now, the details of such conversations are pretty implicit, but she must have either been worried that I couldn't understand what she was talking about in Spanish or that I had no idea of the birds and bees myself because she went into full graphic detail, over dinner.

Finally, in my Introduction to Religious History class, we were discussing depictions of the sacred manifestations in Hindu tradition. The Profe must have spent 15 minutes explaining that Shiva is usually depicted in a seated yoga pose with an erect penis. Of course, it didn't help that the other gringa in the class had to ask what "falico" meant... Latin roots, people, latin roots!

I'm certainly not one to shy away from discussions of sexuality in casual or intellectual settings, not by any measure. In fact, I think it's a fascinating aspect of what it means to be human. But apparently, my US roots to Puritan societies go deeper that I had expected. In comparison to this free-love-spirited Chilean society, my view of sexual propriety is certainly repressed.

My Chilean Home

Kitchen full of sunshine!


Living room with dining room in the background

My room! Note the relative cleanness... thanks Mama!

As the World Turns

I feel as though I haven't posted anything with meaning in quite a while. The problem is that nothing is new anymore, and very little is changing. The bright colors of houses on the hillsides are blending together and fading in front of my eyes, and the food is not so surprisingly fresh with every bite anymore.

While I'm slightly bored in Chile, everything is new and exciting and just beginning for everyone back home. Classes at Willamette start today, and friends elsewhere are also embarking on a new semester very soon. I feel like my world is moving on without me, and it's a little bit frightening. I think this is part of the perspective I'm supposed to be gaining in this experience: not only the spontaneity of hopping on the bus to go to the wine with ice cream place in Valparaiso at 2 am, but accepting the lack of control over what happens in my real life while I'm away. As someone who needs control and order, this is a very difficult lesson to learn.

On the other hand, that night's adventure to Bitacora was a very good move. This change might be as well.

Correction

I found out this weekend that IM actually spells his name EM, so please mentally correct any historic posts. However, he will remain in my cell phone as Iliahejas, at least until he is nice to me for more than 24 hours straight or stops berating me for leaving behind the veggie life.

Another Thousand Words

Carbo-loading

The best thing since sliced bread? The non-sliced, Chilean kind.

Pan here is so much different and better than that in the United States. I don't even know how to describe it exactly, as any description would sound like just plain bread. I mean, it's fluffy and sweet and chewy and salty, but so is Wonderbread, technically. In any case, I'm obsessed, and so are most of the other gringas. AF thinks it's Michaela's legacy in our group, as she loved it enough to buy some to stash away in her sock drawer, but I think it's addictive, pure and simple.

Flojo

In case you haven´t noticed from my lazy posts about kissing and clementines and 5-story discotecas, the lifestyle here is much more relaxed than that to which I am accustomed. But sometimes, I think it gets a little out of hand. For example, ALL LITERATURE CLASSES are cancelled today and Thursday, for no reason. They just didn´t want to have class this week. On one hand, it´s nice because I don´t have to go to class. On the other, it sucks because I feel like a slacker and I´m tired of explaining my changing schedule to my mama.

Besos

First kisses are generally very telling of a relationship. In Chile, it's no different, except that first kisses are daily business.

The proper greeting here, between women and woman-to-man, is a single air-kiss to the right cheek. Cheeks should touch, but not bump, and a kissing noise should be made. If true affection is felt, one party may actually kiss the other's cheek. But not both at once, because then it would be a real kiss, not a greeting kiss. Ugh.

During the month I've been here, I've gotten much better at the Chilean cheek-kiss. With most of my close friends and my host family, I've achieved the perfect level of cheek-contact without bumper-cheeking (cheek-checking?) except once in a long while. With new friends, brand new acquaintances, or in special situations, however... let's just say it's the cheek-kiss equivalent of full on licking someone's chin en route to their mouth. For example, the dean of the university cheek-kisses, but the president of the university shakes hands. Try keeping that one straight as people are in and out of the mourning process of the loss of a friend. Also, one of my host brothers is a real cheek-kiss tease; after 4 pm, he usually goes for the forehead kiss instead. And I still have no grace when it comes to greeting combos; handshake-cheek-kiss and hug-cheek-kiss continue to be the most awkward 3 seconds of the day. The good news is, every day here is a new day for first kisses.

A List

Things I like:
Food that comes in natural peels, so it's clean even if you eat it right from the market
My new Chilean ID card
Getting mail (hint hint)
Artisan(ish) earrings for US$1
Really really really cheap and delicious wine
Dancing until 4 AM
Belly dancing classes at the University
My class on Chilean theater
Completos (yeah... hot dogs with avocado, mayo, ketchup, and mustard...trust me)
Taking the micro for US$0.30 with my Willamette ID card

Hiding

Tomorrow is my host mom's birthday, but since we all had a day off (on account of something Catholic...I think...), we celebrated today.

Let me explain celebrated. My host brother who I hadn't yet met and his fiancee came in from Santiago, and the whole family had a great big lunch together. Now, my family is pretty good about speaking slowly and clearly so I can understand, but I'm 70% sure the long-lost host brother was intentionally leaving me in the dust. I spent most of lunch trying to remember to keep both hands on the table and focusing on the delicious Chilean red wine.

When we migrated (about 4 feet) to the living room, I sat awkwardly and tried to feel like I had things in common with anyone. They were catching up on family gossip and talking about wedding plans, so it was really quite futile. Since Niko had retreated to reggaetone and the internet in his room, I gave up and hid, too. Now they are all sitting on the bed in the parents' room, laughing and looking at pictures of people I'll never know. I watched Smallville, some travel show, and Will and Grace.

Sometimes, it's very lonely to live in someone else's house. My host mom keeps telling me that it's my home, too, and I can feel comfortable and do whatever I want. That might factually be the case, but realisticly, it's impossible. Even if it is "my house," it's not my family, and thus, it's not my home.

Another Favorite Place

Today, I used part of the warm and sunny afternoon to walk the length of Viña's beach. It's not very long (4ish km) and in some parts, not very beach-y, but today it was officially added to my list of favorite places.

It turns out that the walk above the beach on Tuesday afternoons at high tide isn't a very popular place to be: a few couples canoodling in the off-and-on plaza across the street from the boardwalk, some joggers, and a petshop's worth of stray dogs, maybe. And me.

As I walked along the sidewalk boardering the sand/rocks, I watched monstrous waves plowing into and smashing on each other. The air was thick and bitter from their spray, and every so often, an extra-monstrous wave would crash into the rocks so hard that water would bounce off the rocks, over 30 yards and a short wall, and splash the unsuspecting snack stand, random jogger, or grinning gringa. One of the stray dogs was running along the wall, barking and snapping at the water any time a wave dared to touch him.

Then a creepy gypsy woman tried to rub some leaves into my hand for health and happiness, so I went home.

Either Or

It's not at all unusual to be asked for money when walking down the street, nor to be whistled at. But today, a first:

Man sitting on the sidewalk: "Una moneda, señorita, una moneda?" ("A coin, miss, a coin?")

Me: *continues walking*

Man: (Changing his mind) "*wolf whistle* Que linda, que rica!" ("how pretty, how sexy!")

On the Bus this Morning

Bus drivers in Vina/Valparaiso treat their dashboards like personal desks. There's often pictures of families, motivational stuff, and of course, at least one saint.

Today, on the way to school, the bus I was on was a little bit different. The dash and shades were covered in stickers of Disney characters and American flags. Posted above the windshield was a mock license plate which read "USA- Still #1." I spent much of the ride examining the bus driver, wondering if he lived in the US and why. Nothing he did betrayed a Gringo background, and I got off the bus without a sense of where he got his USA pride.

It's just strange to run into artifacts of my own country so far away. I really hate to admit that a couple stars and stripes had this effect on me, but it almost made me feel a little homesick.

Poroto

Today, with dinner, we had some poroto which I helped to make last week. It's very tasty, though distincly not USA-ian. I attempted a google search for the recipe so I could share it with you all, but that was a miserable failure. It turns out that "poroto" means about a billion things in different languages. Thus, I give you my interpretation:

Poroto (serves many)
One big chunk of poroto (squashish thing, white and bumpy skin, orange flesh)
Some white beans
Salt and pepper
Spaghetti noodles

Cut big chunk of poroto into many smaller chunks of poroto, removing the skin. Put these in a big pot with water, cook until overdone and mashy. Add more water, and white beans. Cook until white beans are soft. Break spaghetti noodles in half, and add to mashy poroto-bean mixture. Cook until noodles are soft. Salt and pepper to taste. Serve hot. It should slightly resemble baby food, but taste delicious.

If I was cooking this in my own home, I think I'd add some spicy things, like cayenne or maybe curry. Or green onions, because they'd look nice with all the orange mashiness. And maybe sprinkle shredded asaigo cheese on top, because I do that to everything.

Clementines

Today, at the market across the street from the ISA office, I bought half a kilo of clementine oranges (8) for $0.150... roughly $0.30 American. Thirty cents!?! At Willamette, one can purchase a single piece of fruit from Goudy for 75 cents. I love this country!

A Few Headlines

Just some brief updates from the past few days of my life, in headline form for your enjoyment:

-Moderate Earthquake Shakes Vina del Mar; MaryAnn Surprised in the Bathroom
-Two Clowns Spotted in Vina Centro de Llamados (Call Center) WITHOUT Banana-Phones
-Gringas Slowly Adopting Popular Chilean Fashion of the Fanny Pack
-Snow in Santiago Shuts Down Capital, MaryAnn too Cold to Comment
-"Kilobomba" New Candy Bar of Choice
-Professors of Theater and Urban History are Ridiculously Cool

Downtown

A city has always been, to me, a perfect place to be sad. You can be by yourself without being alone, you can find hope in the happiness of complete strangers, and you can be liberated by perfect anonymity.

Today, after the services held for Michaela in the PCUV chapel, I bought a nice chocolate bar and headed to my newest favorite plaza. I'm not sure its name, but it adjoins the Congressional building/grounds right in the middle of Valparaiso, about 6 blocks from my university. Today, (in addition to the usual cast of chess-playing old men, giggling schoolchildren on lunch, business people on cell phones, and families playing tag in the grass) there was a band playing in the southwest corner and a flea market taking place along the street. As I wandered along the rows of used books, old cell phones, and random junk, I let the lazy chaos of downtown wash over my troubled mind. In a place with such life and energy, it is easier (and more calming) to be swept away by sights and sounds and sun-drenched sidewalks than to stubbornly hold onto the pain caused by this very same beautiful world.

What Lies Ahead

I'd like to thank all of Michaela's friends for their love and support expressed in comments on my last post. I'm glad that I was able to give some solice in the form of answers, and I hope that anyone who has questions remaining will feel free to contact me or any of the other students. I think it's important for strangers to connect more closely for support and hope in a time of shared tragedy, and I truly appreciate your collective efforts to do so. You are all in my thoughts and heart.

Having said that, I want to be clear that my blog was never really intended for such wide public scrutiny. In the days and weeks that come, I will continue writing my feelings and experiences without apology. This means that there will be times when I write about my personal mourning process, and times when I will write about happier things. This does not mean that I have forgotten our friend, or that I am not thinking of her friends and family; it only means that I am human with fluctuating emotions and a deep need to "be okay."

Love and peace to all.

Michaela Farnum 1987-2007

I never know what to say about death, much less what to write about it. I can't leave it out, though, and I'd rather not wait, so:

My friend Michaela Farnum died Friday when we were hiking in La Campana National Park.

We had been climbing this mountain about an hour away for about 5 hours when Michaela was separated from the group. Another girl, SR, was already at the summit, but AF, IM and I were afraid and feeling dizzy/sick from the altitude so we decided to head back. Michaela was adament about reaching the top, so she decided to continue.

About a half an hour into our subsequent descent, we heard a woman's voice followed by the rumble of rocks sliding above. One rock rolled off the cliff above us and nearly hit AF. Of course, we were scared. We shouted for Michaela and SR, with no answer. IM took off to catch up with a group of French boy scouts who had passed us a minute ago to ask if they had seen the girls, etc. AF and I continued yelling, and began calling for the telephone number of the park guards. A bit later, SR came down. She hadn't seen Michaela, and hadn't even heard the rocks, except that she had caused similar sounds during her own climb. Because she knew where she was going, she went back up the mountain to look and yell for Michaela. About an hour later, she returned to AF and me. By then we had spoken with the park guards and the ISA office. The guard instructed us to go down the mountain, as it was getting dark and the terrain is dangerous at night, and he sent a crew of guards to go look for Michaela.

We spent the night at the guard station. The next day, around noon, her body was found by a heliocopter. She had taken the wrong path, one intended for rock climbers, and had fallen about 15 meters. She died instantly.

Rest in peace, Michaela. You were a beautiful person and I'm glad that you touched my life.

Chilean Veggie Tortilla

Some carrots, peeled, steamed, and sliced up all thin
Some brussel sprouts, steamed and sliced up all thin
Some sauteed spinich, chopped
Some red onions, chopped finely and fried
Some cauliflower, steamed and cut into chunks
Some broccoli, steamed and cut into chunks
Some salt
Some pepper
7 eggs
Oil

Heat a glug of oil in a frying pan. Mix all other ingredients in a bowl. Pour into frying pan. After the edges look crispy, flip over onto lid of frying pan. Drain juice over sink. Add another glug of oil to pan. Slide tortilla off lid, back into greasy pan, uncrispy side down. Repeat flip twice, cooking for 5 minutes between each. Cut like a pie. Eat.

That's what I did this morning!

Two Sets of Women

Last night was a pretty good night out in Chile overall. However, there was clearly one high and one low point, each punctuated by the Chilean women who caused them.

The first high point was this very cool girl AF and I met in the bathroom at this smokey bar. It's become my habit to start talking to the Chilean girls in the bathroom, mostly about whatever Chilean man we're having questions regarding at the time. So far, we've done this 5 times, and each time it's been amazing. Usually, speaking English in public gets people looking at you. Very infrequently do I have the guts to respond to the inquisitive stares, but the combination of a bit to drink, adrenaline of dancing, and a real need to know something breaks down the timidity very quickly. So we ask this girl, Marisol, how one would know if this guy RF has been bringing around is sketch, as he has brought a slew of sketch friends with him each time, but seems ok himself. Not only does she come hang out at our table to check out the situation and give her opinion, but she introduces us to her friends and tells us about some other cool places in the area that foreigners would probably never find. We definitely made plans to go out next weekend. SO chill. Do women like that even exist in the United States?

The second category, women who suck, is a group with which I am familiar in the US. We were finishing our night with a completo (very fancy hot dog) from a snack shop, and this random girl starts telling us how she hates gringas. We didn't even say anything to her, were already sitting down when she walked in, and were completely and totally minding our own business. We left quickly because we weren't enjoying her speech, and she followed us out the door shouting her hatred after us. Quite a sour note on which to end the night.

Chilean Entertainment

Not having cable at home and hardly watching tv at school has limited my idiot box consumption to things I know I like: news, fake news, and Adult Swim. But televised entertainment is a very big deal here, and it is quickly invading my brain.

You see, I hate the buzz of a tv playing in a next room over. When you can only catch bits and pieces of dialogue and music, you recognize how shallow the entertainment actually is. The television in my host parents' room next door is constantly playing. Ugh. The good new is I've found a way to combat it! The bad news is it's by watching my own tv set...

I've very much grown to enjoy the Travel and Living channel, with cooking and eating and skydiving shows, and watching US sitcoms in English is a quick way to feel capable of understanding human communication again. I feel as though I'm gorging myself on the worst of both cultures- and unfortunately, loving it...

Something I Would Totally Do

(The scene: Dancing on Floor 3 (of 5!) of El Huevo, a discoteca in downtown Valpo.)

Chilean guy: (Trying to be cool by using english) Dancing with you is funny.
Me: FUNNY?!?!?
Chilean guy: Si po, me gusta. (Yeah really, I like it.)
Me: Funny...?
Chilean guy: .....
Me:.... (Lightbulb) Ohhhhh, no no no... FUN, not funny!
Chilean guy: ¿Como, divertido?
Me: Si! Funny es como chistoso, fun es divertido.
Chilean guy: Ohhhhh....

A Thousand Words

¿Me Gusta el popo? No po!

To add to the list of things that scare me: Chilean police.

I know, right? Probably the least corrupt law enforcement in this hemisphere, and certainly the most trustworthy faces on the streets here. But I can't even look at the faces because I'm too put off by the uniforms. Army green from head to toe, funny hats with oversized foreheads, huge biker jackets (also of army green) and serious weapons. I know police in the US carry guns, tasers, batons, etc, but it just looks more intimidating when the accompanying uniform could be of the Gestapo.


Hopefully I never do anything wrong here, or have anything wrong done to me. Obviously, but even more so because of them!

The Bad

All this is harder than I thought. I go between feeling like an outsider because people are staring at me, and feeling like an outsider because I blend in but am all alone and no one notices me.

It's not that I'm not happy (and for goodness sake don't let my host mom believe otherwise!), it's just hard. And it's not that I expected it to be easy, just that I thought it would be more of an adventure. Instead, it's the daily exhaustion of thinking things twice in different languages, of being watched because I'm a woman, because I'm an American, because I'm young, and (sometimes) because I'm by myself, of hearing the buzz of human communication on the metro and not being able to pick out more than a few phrases. It's that daily grind, that longing to be accepted and to UNDERSTAND and to be understood that's got me feeling a little down.

The Good

Sometimes I forget how much weather can affect my mood. Today was a good reminder.

For all my grumps about cold and rain last night, today dawned absolutely clear and full of ocean sunshine. The metro to Valpo in the morning was warm and almost cheerful as the stoic chilean commuters watched the bright houses on the hills and the beautifully blue ocean and sky. After lunch, BC, RF, EM and I used our free hour to find a way to get to the beach. Roughly 6 minutes by foot from the ISA office, we found the boardwalk. The sun was warm enough to take off our jackets and we wandered and lazed around on the long pier, sunning ourselves like the sea lions on the nearby rocks.

The best part? I'm 80% sure we saw some penguins! They were small black birds with white belly stripes, and they swam and dove, surfacing far away and playing in the waves. When I told my brother, he said it's possible. Apparently, a weather system here has driven cold currents higher along the coast, taking with it the animals who enjoy it. For now, at least, I'm definitely considering it to have been my first penguin experience!

Hace MUCHISIMO FRIO

I don't think I've ever been so cold in my life. It's not that the weather is too horrible, 30-40s and rainy, it's simply that there is no place to escape from it.

For a country so modern, so comfortable, people here really aren't big fans of warmth. Certainly, heating one's home or office is expensive; sure, very few buildings have central heating systems; of course, it's better for the environment and economically sound to not waste energy. But to me, those are not reasons for leaving doors to buildings wide open in the middle of winter. Especially the one about conservation!

My bed has two huge comforters and I've been bundling up in as many layers as possible, even wearing my host mom's slippers! My friends AF and RF and I hung out in a supermarket cafe this afternoon, drinking hot cocoa and eating alfomjas (a cookie sandwich with dulce de leche in the middle, dipped in chocolate), and I had some tea in the afternoon and hot soup with dinner. Still, I feel like a freezer-burnt steak, with sections of flesh frozen off the bones. Que tragica!

(PS: I know I'll toughen up soon and get used to it, and I recognize that things are different here, not better or worse, just different. And colder. I just needed someone to feel sorry for me, who wasn't also adapting to the middle of winter from the middle of summer!)

My Dream House

Some girls are taught to imagine their wedding to help them sleep at night. For me, I would imagine my dream house. I never thought it would be possible- the bright walls, spiral staircases, and hidden passages- but yesterday, I visited it.

Pablo Neruda had three homes, each of which different and very special to him. The house we visited in Santiago was his primary home for most of his life, though not his favorite of the three.

It´s built on a hill, which is crucial to its design. There is a "river" running throughout, with built waterfalls, fountains, and other designs. The house is not a single building, but three increasingly private sections connected by outdoor stone staircases, twisting through gardens and past patios with ornate mosaic floors. The three sections together are themed of the ocean: the base as a ship, the second as a lighthouse, and the third like a lookout tower.

The lowest section was primarily for entertaining. Upon entering, guests would find a captain´s bar, with old bottles and retro bar stools for decoration. Next is a long room with a huge table, set with bright dishes and red glasses. Neruda was known to say that red wine tastes better in red glass, something I plan to test while I´m here. The cabinets at the end of the room serve dual purpose: a place to store his expansive collection of china from around the world, and a secret entrance to the "special" entertaining section. Through the door in the cabinet is a kitchen with sunshine walls and more decorative bottles. A spiral staircase leads to a open bedroom with lanterns for lighting and the initials "P" and "M" for his lover in the window. From here, a set of outdoor stairs lead up to the more private second section, where intimate friends would visit.

This section was dark inside, but with a wall of windows to take in the sun and view of the city. A central column made of a tree trunk is surrounded by animal rugs, 1950´s furnishings, and beautiful paintings made by Neruda´s artist friends. One particularly interesting is a portrait of his lady, a profile attached to a view of her face, with Neruda´s profile in her curly red hair to represent their secret and scandelous relationship. Their primary bedroom is upstairs in this section as well, very romantic in all of its oddities.

The final section is where Neruda would write, and several of his original drafts are displayed in the area next to the awards he had won over time. A wide, dark desk with model ships and a mold of one of his lover´s hands (to inspire him!) sits next to thick armchairs and benches where other poets would collaborate. This, his study and library, with a view of the city and the garden, was a sanctuary for him. The second room in this section is a reading room, with orate and kitcsh tables displaying collection upon collection of glass and shells and stones and pin-up art and everything else one can collect. The floor in this room is deliberated slanted, because Neruda felt that a person should always be in motion, like a ship at sea. A beautiful concept, and a beautiful home for a man who needed personality in his home to feel at home in his person.

So far...

...totally awesome.

We spent the first day at this great big park with a ferrocaril, which is a scary rollar-coaster-like elevator-trolley that you use to go up insanely tall hills and an ancient telofonico (gondola) that rattled and rocked around a lot. I finished the looong day with a couple pisco sours in this awesome Irish pub. Chile was playing Argentina in the World Cup semifinal, and though they lost, sharing the experience with a bunch of drunk men in business suits pounding on the table and screaming curses at the screen was pretty cool.

Yesterday, we did the tourist thing again at the Presidential Palace changing of the guards, La Plaza de Armas with an amazing cathedral and the central post office, and a sweet fish market/restaurant with greasy whole-friedly delicious fish. Good thing I'm not too vegitarian anymore...

For the evening, we explored el supermercado for some dinner, including this strange soft cheese like cream cheese and tofu mixed together. Then dancing, in this dark, smokey, sketch club that was fun for all of its creepiness.


We started today with a tour of Chile's oldest vineyard. Pretty cool to be sampling wine at 10 am! They make this special wine, Gris (gray), which is a dark grape prepared like a white wine. It's not as thick as red wine, and a bit less acidic than white. Delicious, but only sold in Chile and Peru. After lunch at this sweet arabic restaurant, we visited one of Pablo Neruda's three houses. More on this later, because it deserves a post of its own. We just finished up another 4 hour orientation session, which is significantly less fun than the tourist thing... but now a crowd of us are going out for empanadas, which should make it all better.

I miss you all and promise less "daily agenda" in future posts- I'm just too excited by everything we're doing to skimp details just yet.

Leaving

MaryAnn Almeida
c/o ISA
Aveneda Brasil 2715
Valparaiso, Chile

My flight leaves in 5.6 hours. Goodbye, everyone. Thank you for your nice notes and phone messages recently and today. I will see y'all soon!

Chile -2

In 53 hours I will get on a plane. I will fly to Chicago, then Houston, then Panama City, then Santiago, where I will wait 3 hours for a group of strangers to drive me to the hotel. I will meet some 20 students, nervous and excited like me, and do my best to speak in Spanish as we get comfortable with each other. Thus my adventure will begin...

I'm feeling very afraid right now, mostly from realizing how unprepared I really am. I know this feeling will pass as soon as I am there, because at that point there is no reason to worry about preparations that should have been made long ago. I will have jumped in, and I will be swimming. That tends to be the way I live my life: fret, take action, and figure it all out later. As for now, I'm tired of fretting- good thing the action part is coming quickly.

Chile -7

Inside the final information packet from ISA was a very exciting bit of information: who and what is my host family.

The Ordenes live in Vina del Mar, which is basically the more-touristy suburb of Valparaiso. The dad (my dad??) is a publicist who mostly travels for business during the week and is around on weekends for the family. The mom stays home, keeping house and feeding the family. There are two sons, aged 17 and 24. AWESOME, because that means a ready-made connection to young Chilean social life. I'm actually really psyched to have host brothers near my age to talk to and learn from, and I've always wanted a big brother anyway. It also might be fun to be the mom's only "daughter." I'm hoping she'll teach me some Chilean recipes, go to the market with me, etc.

Knowing a bit more about my living situation has made me significantly more excited to go. The nervous energy has subsiding, replaced with this bubbling anticipation which I'm quite enjoying. I'm sure as this last week flies by, I'll grow more nervous again, but even that is alright because it won't last very long now!

Official Business

I finally have my visa! After months of stressing about forms and rules and qualifications, the actual visa interview was amazingly casual. And/or sketch.

I spent the night previous to my interview in Seattle with my friend Shannon, and left early in the morning for a 10:30 appointment at the consulate. After the I-5 morning traffic and a scenic route through Olympia, I was feeling pretty good. All that changed as my mapquest directions ended at a condominium development. After freaking out for a few minutes, I called to confirm the address and get the phone number from my brother. The address was right: I was looking at the Chilean consulate inside an upscale gated residential community. I called, just to figure out what was going on, and received no answer.

At near panic, I paced the sidewalk in front of the gate. There was a car of confused-looking Latinos staring at the gates and street signs, which I took to be a good sign. Deep breath, enter the gate. The consulate itself was exactly like each of the other condos in the park: columned, white, with manicured lawns and flowerbeds... and a basketball hoop in the driveway. Very sketch. Even more sketch when I heard voices inside but had my doorbell rings ignored.

Eventually, a short man in khaki cargo shorts and a red tshirt opened the door, barked at me to take off my shoes, sit down, and wait. I was so nervous I was happy for any instruction. Twenty minutes of mob-sounding Spanish conversation from the upstairs later, Jorge Gilbert, the consulate official ran down the stairs, barked to me to follow, and ran back upstairs.

The actual interview was nothing. He corrected a few things on my form, had me cut down my passport-sized photos to fit the form in triplicate, and took my thumbprint. Then he stamped my visa into my passport, filling out the relevant details by hand. THEN he asked me for the documents I had so painstakingly gathered over the past two months. All that work, completely an afterthought. Argh.

Not complaining too much, however, since I'M LEGALLY READY TO GO!

Poll Notes

An interesting poll from Pew Research casts light on the relationship between Venezuela and the United States in the eyes of Latin America. An article in the Santiago Times gives some good analysis on the opinions of Chileans as the battle for the affections of the western hemisphere continues.

According to this poll, Chileans hate Chavez the most and Bush the least of the 7 countries included in the survey. Only 14% of Chileans approve of Chavez, though this stacks up pretty evenly with the rest of the region. Brazil, Mexico, and Peru all rate Chavez under 20% popularity, and even politically-close Bolivia gives him 30% approval.

The low approval of Chavez is likely a result, in part, of his inflammatory rhetoric toward Chilean leadership. He has compared their congress to the oppression of the Pinochet coup, following a vote in which the congress condemned Venezuela for shutting down opposition media.

The Bush numbers, however, don't match up with the numbers from the rest of the region. Only 35% of Chileans disapprove of Bush, practically inverting his domestic approval ratings. Further, the rest of Latin America seems to agree with the domestic opinions: Argentina led with 72% disapproving, with the rest of the countries somewhere in between. One notable exception is Venezuela, where a full 56% actually approve of Bush, despite the anger of their leader.

Packing

I've officially moved my suitcase into my room and left it hungrily open on the floor. I figure if I pack bit by bit I won't be so likely to forget anything important. Unfortunately, I'm having a really hard time figuring out what is important. So far: 6 sweaters, 3 button-down shirts, 3 lighter long sleeve shirts, and my favorite black skirt.

I think I have a ways to go.

Party like it's 1810!

We Americans love our Independence Day, with barbecues, fireworks, and Uncle Sam hats. But no matter how much fun I plan to have at the park tonight, I imagine that September in Chile will blow it out of the water.

In Chile, the independence day is more like independence month, as September is called Mes de la Patria. Historic independence is celebrated on September 18th (el Dieciocho, they call it, proper), the day on which the war for independence from Spain began in 1810. The celebrations center around the 18th and the 19th, Armed Forces Day, and the week of the 16-20th is thus the most important. During this time, most communities hold "fondas," huge gatherings in temporary halls (ramadas) traditionally made with thatched eucalyptus-branch roofs and sawdust floors. Here, indoor-outdoor parties are held each night for 5 days, with loads of food, rivers of drink, and crowds of Chileans dancing the cueca. This nightly rhythm is punctuated by daytime activities, like military showcase parades on the 19th, religious ceremonies, and kite-flying competitions.

An interesting side note: a leftover Pinochet-esque policy requires all homes to display the Chilean flag on September 18th and 19th. Public service announcements leading up to the date instruct citizens on the proper decorum for flag care and display, and homes who fail to follow the rules may face fines.

All said, Chileans know how to party for their country, and I'm looking forward to learning a thing or two myself.

Mystery in the Lack of Water

Anyone familiar with the Dishman Hills park in Spokane knows how tricky lakes can be: the little buggers in this particular area are all named in variations of "Lost Lake" due to their hit-or-miss existence. But these are the mud puddle kind of lakes. Lake in Chile was a full-blown, year-round, take-your-canoe-and-go-fishing kind of lake. Now, it is in the past tense.

A 12-acre lake in Patagonia mysteriously disappeared last month from the Bernardo O'Higgins National Park. Now, local scientists have a theory.

The glacial lake is normally fed by melting ice and snow pack throughout the year, sufficient to keep it full and 130 feet deep. The lake changes throughout the year, depending on seasonal temperatures, but is just a part of the natural rhythm of growth and retreat of the glaciers that feed it. Local scientists now believe that global warming is to blame: higher temperatures translate to more water, which built up pressure on a glacial dam that made up part of the lake wall. This, according to experts, lead to the breach of the dam through an existing crack in the ice, letting the water flow from the lake, to a nearby fjord, and then the ocean.

This seems to be just one other example (or harms story) of the snowballing impact of global warming on natural patterns. For Chilean environmentalists, it could be much more: a rally cry.

The Accidently 100-mile Diet

My upset tummy yesterday was the negative half of a very split attitude toward Chilean cuisine. While the lack of vegetarian options and the heavy grease and sugar useage might prove challenging, I'm ridiculously excited for the fresh produce.


Since the seasons there are swapped from ours, I'll be in Chile for the spring growing season. Central Chile has a huge agricultural industry, which will be wonderful to see and taste. You might be surprised by how much Chilean produce ends up on your plate, actually. Farm products account for some 6.2 percent of all exports, and a lot of that ends up nearby. Most early winter produce comes to the West Coast from Chile, especially avocados, kiwi, grapes, apples and pears. While here, the fresh fruits and veggies are a pleasant break from winter citrus and frozen peas, Chileans experience just-picked produce from street market stands on a daily basis. Picture a farmers' market capable of being open every day. Crowded with customers picking up something for dinner, buzzing with activity and humanity, smelling of warm nectarines and herbs. MMMMMmm.


I'm going to go find a snack.

Feeling a Little Bit Chicken

I feel absolutely, no-joke awful, again, and it's all my fault/choice. Again.

As I began preparing for studying abroad, one terrifyingly major aspect of the culture to consider was the food. Seafood, especially in port towns like Valparaiso, is a point of national pride. In the mountains, cattle farms are common. In general, soy is used as seasoning, not protein. Now, I have/had been a vegetarian since I was about 8 years old, and the concept of such a diet is pretty darn foreign to Chileans. This posed a challenge and a delightful summer project: learn to eat meat.

I started in May, with bites of fish. Not too bad, really, I felt a little silly, but experienced no physical results. Practice makes perfect, and I'm now capable of cooking and enjoying most kinds of fish (animal-looking things like shrimp are the exception). Graduating to chicken has proved significantly more difficult. Today was my 5th attempt, and the first time I've prepared it myself. Though I generally like the food that I cook better than when someone else cooks for me, I can't tell if the awfulness is any less than my previous experiences. Ugh.

As I sit here, praying to vomit or die, I can't help but worry about my gustatory capacity. With luck, my host family will be understanding and accommodating to my apparent inability to eat land-dwelling animals. I just don't want them to have a beef with me over my pickiness.

Hot of the 1970s Press

Anyone interested in a little light reading about sketch US relations in Latin America has a hot new document to peruse: the recently released, 693-page CIA file on American support for the military coup conducted by dictator (that is, president) Augusto Pinochet in Chile. Known internally as the "family jewels," the file is described to detail CIA involvement and financial support for the overthrow of Salvador Allende's socialist government on September 11, 1973.

Apparently, this and other files cataloging the CIA's involvement with military coups during the Cold War were originally ordered by former director Jim Schlesinger in the wake of the Watergate scandal. His successor, William Colby, presented the files as "skeletons" in the CIA closet to Ford upon Nixon's resignation. The agency's charter specifically prohibits involvement in domestic operations abroad, though anyone familiar with Nicaragua, Guatemala, Cuba, Iran, Italy, the Dominican Republic, Angola, Granada and Libya (to name a few examples) will realize the historic impotence of such a ban.

Until now, the closest the American public has been to full disclosure had been some incomplete testimony in a few weak Congressional investigations in the 1970s and some minor leaks to the press. Gen. Michael Hayden is truly taking a big step toward transparency with this move. Still, it is unlikely that anyone will take much notice: bigger, more recent intelligence scandals barely receive a blink these days, and everyone knows that history is irrelevant.

On Seeking Somethings

I've been thinking, lately, about what it means to be seeking something. It seems as though everyone is, at all times. Whether seeking companionship from a SWF 18-45 in the newspaper, adventure in a foreign country, or comfort in the arms of someone they love, every person has some need they are trying to fill.

For me, the choice to study abroad promised fulfillment in several areas: enlightenment through another culture and people, excitement in a new experience, education in the form of language immersion, and independence in choosing my own path. Now, this final aim seems ill-suited to my theory of everyone needing someone. At root, independence is weakening ties to any single individual, while increasing reliance on oneself and the kindness of strangers. And perhaps this is the most consuming need there can be.

The paths of people wander and twist, and you never know when your path and those of the people you love will diverge (or converge, but that's less traumatic). When they do, the transition can certainly be rough. At this time in our lives, especially, these changes come harshly and regularly, as we watch our chosen family of friends going through major life transitions, unusual in life before (or probably after) college. The independence previously felt from living away from one's family is replaced with the realization of just how dependent we become on the people with whom we surround ourselves. This dependence is human, it is normal, and it is painful.

I suppose the independence I seek is from these hurtful transitions. I hope to reasonably distance myself emotionally from my changing world, as to minimize the impact such changes have on me. As I seek this freedom, I expect to acquire a deeper appreciation for the time I do have with special people, regardless of how brief and transitory, of friend or stranger. It is in this appreciation that I hope to find peace in a tumultuous world, the deep peace of faith in humanity and of confidence that there are beautiful people everywhere.

...Or maybe I'll just take out a personal ad.

Mother (Earth) Knows Best: Forest Activism

The Mapuche Indians of Central Chile, like most any indigenous American group, have been persecuted, massacred, "integrated," decimated, and virtually every other verb having to do with identity destruction since the Spanish conquistadors first strolled through. And as with most indigenous American groups, their native land has been sorely hurting ever since.

Traditionally occupying a strip of Argentina and Chile just south of Santiago, the Mapuche people were one of the last remaining native tribes in South American. They repeatedly resisted conquer from both the larger, more powerful Incan civilization and the Spanish colony of Chile. It was only in the 1880s, when the Chilean population was exploding and the army was celebrating its recent victory in wars against Bolivia and Peru by crushing minority populations that the Mapuche nation was dissembled and integrated into mainstream Chilean politics.

Today, some 600,000 Mapuche descendants make up about 80% of Region IX, the state including their homeland. While most Mapuche citizens identify as Chileans (and most Chileans have some Mapuche heritage), recent movements have strengthened native identity around land use issues. At heart is forestry, or more precisely wood-farming, an increasingly important industry for Chile that brings in more than $600 million each year.

Policies similar to land-use laws in Chiapas, Mexico have effectively routed most remaining Mapuche individuals from their traditional subsistence farming and artisanship in Region IX. Now, wood farms have taken their spot, mostly growing non-native, environmentally harsh Monterey Pine and Eucalyptus trees. This kind of monoculture is not only harmful to the land, but also to the people who live near: few jobs and low wages are provided by this kind of mega-farm. Mapuche activists are working to regain legitimacy for their native lifestyle to slow the commercial development of their homeland.

There has been quite a bit of success: a conservation group called ForestEthics has waged a successful international campaign against environmentally dangerous wood farms in Chile, leading major brands like Home Depot to adopt healthier purchasing policies. When the world makes bad land stewardship unprofitable, even the worst companies will shape up. And that's something everyone everywhere should support.