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.