A Country of Poets

This photograph is clearly a metaphor.

I believe it was Isabel Allende who wrote in her memoir My Invented Country that if you turned over a rock in Chile, a poet would crawl out. Something about the extremity of the landscape, the breathtaking skies, the absurdity of the geography all calls out to the hearts of men and women and pulls (quite forcefully) verses straight out into the world. I have begun to experience this phenomenon in the desert. I will walk some evenings to the edge of my barrio, where the houses just stop and the emptiness begins and look out toward the western mountains that frame the city to watch the the sunset. As I watch, if I am not holding pen and paper at that moment, my fingers begin to reach to my chest to try and carve verses into my flesh.

I had begun to write poetry again, after many years, shortly before leaving for Chile. Something about the immense change taking place in my life and the weight of everything and everyone I was leaving behind seemed to only be relieved through prose (albeit, I'm sure, a mockery of anything one might have called poetry in the decades ago when such an art form was significant.) However, since I have been here in country, and even more so since coming to the Atacama, my pen has been constantly at paper. Not all of what I scribble is poetry (and some that is meant to be certainly isn't poetic) but verses are issuing forth from me unbeckoned nevertheless.

There have been two Nobel Prize winning poets to come out of Chile (Neruda and Mistral) and they are even pictured on some of the money here. Countless other, no less talented but less recognized names could fill the remainder of this post. Clearly there is something about his place. When I first arrived in Calama, I mused to Ryan that in the country of poets, we had been dumped in the least poetic place--and certainly that applies when considering only the city. Beyond though, and beyond that....there lies the poetry.

There is a great deal on my mind each day here, and without playing the part of a romantic, it is suffice to say that there are things stateside that still dwell in my thoughts...both in waking hours and en las manos de la noche. When I am not teaching (which is proving to be more often than I had anticipated) I have not much else to do but wait for sunsets and write loves songs and prayers in blank verse; often enough the two are one and the same.

To help my Spanish, I have committed to the task of memorizing at least one Neruda poem (nearly everyone here has at least a dozen memorized from childhood) and given the constant state of longing that persists in defining me, I chose the following piece. For those of you who cannot read Spanish, I apologize. However, the title in English is "Tonight I can write the saddest lines." It comes up immediately on any search engine.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.

Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche está estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos."

El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.

En las noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.

Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.

Oir la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.

Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche esta estrellada y ella no está conmigo.

Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.

La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.

De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

Porque en noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Aunque este sea el ultimo dolor que ella me causa,
y estos sean los ultimos versos que yo le escribo.

And I Failed To Mention...

...that at the hostel in San Pedro, Iquisia, there was an ancient old man who had no hands. Both of his arms ended in nubs, and the first time I noticed this, he had a flyswatter taped to one of his nubs like a third world Inspector Gadget. I hypothesize, since I had no gall to ask, that he was either Roberto's (the owner) father or grandfather, as Roberto's mother also lived and worked in the hostel, along with Roberto's young daughter.

Roberto himself had a habit of always flashing a languid thumbs up every time you passed him; a gesture that bridges all language gaps.

Alvero, on Sunday morning as we were cooking breakfast, made a sandwich of ham, egg, and avocado. I commented on how delicious it looked and he smiled and told me it was a
"Championship breakfast."

Habla Espinaca?

There is a place only about an hour and a half by bus outside of Calama, close to the Bolivian border, known as San Pedro de Atacama. What was once simply another colonial pueblo on the frontier of the Spanish empire has, over many years, become a tourist magnet. San Pedro is world renowned for its proximity to many of the worlds most fascinating and perplexing natural wonders such as volcanic geysers, vast salt flats where flamingos flock to breed, and other-worldly landscapes where giant sand dunes afford idiots the opportunity to strap snowboards to their feet and pretend to have fun as sand gets in every possible orifice while speeding some thirty miles an hour downhill.

In such a place, there are always tourists and adventures, and over the years San Pedro has become sort of a "gringo paradise"--as the locals I interact with in Calama are quick to point out. Ryan and I had been told since day one that the only thing to do in Calama was go to San Pedro. So we did.
For a frame of reference, it cost less for a one-way bus ticket to San Pedro then it does for me to take a radio taxi home from the mall. The downside is that San Pedro has all the same problems that other tourist destinations suffer from: namely high prices and overcrowding. Knowing this ahead of time, Ryan and I went on Thursday night to the supermarket (Unimart!) and bought a bunch of cheap chow, pasta, fruit, and the like, so that we cold eat in the hostel and not be beholden to gringo-tailored meal prices. We also did a little internet research and found an inexpensive hostel that was available. Ryan called the place and spoke to the owner, Roberto, who welcomed us and offered to pick us up from the bus stop when we got into town.

That Friday afternoon, once Ryan had finished with his debate team coaching, we took a colectivo (which is sort of like a taxi that follows a set route for a set price of 500 pesos) to the Frontera del Norte "bus station" where we boarded a bus and headed out. After lots of ear-popping due to the increasing altitude, we arrived in the dusty bus stop just outside the little town. In moments, Roberto showed up in a ancient van to pick us, and his mother, up. We piled in the back along with the supplies Roberto's mother had picked up in Calama (no doubt at the Unimart) and were shuttled to Hostel Iquisa.

The hostel was small, but perfect. The rooms are arranged around a courtyard-type common area with tables for eating and hammocks for lounging. There was a grill as well, but we didn't make use of it. As we arrived, a group of other travelers had gathered to cook and eat dinner and we were invited to join. Within an hour of arriving, we were already part of a new, impromptu family. There was Alvero, our new Chilean friend who is from Vina del Mar and speaks great English, having lived in New Zealand. Then there was a polish mother (who spoke polish, German, English, and Spanish--all perfectly) with her 5 year old daughter, a young french woman name Amelie, and a tattooed Brazilian fellow. Also staying the night was a very humorous Isreali who spoke deliberate and limited Spanish.

Ryan and I became fast friends with Alvero and that night we sallied forth to check out San Pedro at night. The place is littered with restaurants and cafes complete with hawkers who, during the day at least, try every they can to get you to eat at their nondescript joint. At night though, things are more tranquilo and we found a great place with an outdoor area complete with fires pits (as the nights are quite frigid) and a small group of interesting people to talk with. Alvero convinced us to get pisco sours, which are the drink de jour in Chile, consisting of pisco (which is a liquor made out of the parts of grapes left over after pressing wine), egg white, sugar, and lime or lemon juice. People seem to love them, but I find them far too tart to be refreshing, far to sweet to finish, and pisco just tastes like watered down rubbing alcohol.

We stayed until the others around the fire were leaving to go to a party somewhere, and they invited us to join, but as it cost money we politely declined. San Pedro is expensive enough as it is since it is necessary to purchase water. Walking back to the hostel, we kept switching between languages with Alvero and he accidentally said, at some point, "habla en espinaca (spinach)" . Thus we had our running joke for the weekend.

In the morning, Ryan and I rented mountain bikes from the hostel and rode out to the Valle de la Luna (Valley of the Moon) which is in the heart of the desert and distinctive for its salt formations, lunar like landscapes, and stretches of sand blasted by the sun into glass. Leaving San Pedro we picked up a trio of vagrant mutts that followed us, relentlessly, for miles into the desert. I threw rocks at them, but they were undeterred. Finally, as we turned off the main highway, oncoming traffic helped dissuade the beasts from their pursuit.

Valle de la Luna was incredible, and the spectacular sights were earned by us through toil. Heading into the valley meant first an incredible uphill battle under the strongest sun in the world in the driest air known to man. The altitude made it hard to breath, and the moisture-less air made it impossible to sweat. We had each brought a five litre jug of water apiece (to which we had added fresh lime for maximum refreshment) and it seemed like we were chugging aqua and reapplying sunscreen every fifteen minutes. At one point, the heat started to make Ryan go mad, and he may very well have suffered minor sun stroke. However, we found a shade in time, and after resting and eating some food, he was good as new.

We rode for a total of five hours that day, and for more then forty kilometers. The ride out of the valley was must easier, as it was nearly all downhill. At one point we picked up dangerous amounts of speed and, I'm embarrassed to say, I couldn't handle on of the sharper turns and ended up skidding offroad. My front tire hit the loose sand and before I knew it I was moving, but without a bike. It happened in a split second and I think I must have simply been launched over the handle bars as I flew for a good five feet before sliding uncomfortably to a stop in the rocky sand. I came away relatively unharmed, with only scraps on my left leg and the palms of my hands. I'm happy no one saw it happen though, as Ryan was far ahead and already around the bend when I ate dirt.

At the bottom of the hill, after I'd let my adrenaline settle, we poked around and found a network of caves that we had been tipped off to by Alvero the night before. I had a flashlight with me, and we crawled around the tunnel like caves for a while admiring the darkness and the odd salt formations.

The ride home was long, as we were both brutally exhausted, and by the time we made it back to the hostel neither of us had any energy left. Ryan fell asleep around 7:30 and was gone for the next twelve hours. I stayed awake for a while, reading and admiring the cool night air. It was a good time for meditation and I was able to catch up on my scripture reading. One is never so struck by the nature of an Almighty God then when in the presence of something as vast an incomprehensible as the desert, or the ocean, or the dark heavens with their multitude of stars.

We had thought to explore another of San Pedro's wonders on Sunday, but as we were both worn to the born and out of cash (tours and most of the attractions have a sizable fee) we caught an midafternoon bus home to Calama. Ryan and I are resolved to return, probably after our first stipend payment. San Pedro is so close, and so packed with adventure, that we really have no choice. At that moment though, waiting for the bus, I felt oddly dispossessed. There I was, waiting to leave San Pedro to go home. Yet home meant Calama, which is yet just as foreign and unfamiliar a place as San Pedro. Thankfully though, Calama holds a family that at least tolerates me, and I was welcomed home to tea and empenadas and a host of excited questions.

Book Does Not Sound Like School

"En qué parte de tu país viven los Estadounidenses?"
--Ximena (my host mom)

I stood my ground, puffed out my chest, and got a closet...for a classroom.

To be fair, there are windows. There is a white board on the wall, and enough room for at most twenty chairs crammed close together, and the electrical outlets don't work--but it's mine. I control when the students enter, and when the leave. The small space actually makes it easier to keep them in line too (not that discipline is really an issue at my Liceo), one stern snap of my fingers and they shut up. It's funny to watch too, because Chilean students (for whatever inexplicable reason) are not expected to be quiet, or raise their hands. The teachers here just let them talk to each other, get up and move around, listen to their mp3 players, eat in class, etc. As I said, things aren't as bad at my school as I understand they are in other places, but it will take a while to adjust my students to "sit still, speak when spoken to" approach to classroom behaviour that I was raised on and have come to expect. Oh, and PDA is out of control, and perfectly acceptable in Chilean culture.

I have decided, at least for now, to remain at Liceo Lucho (as the kids call it.) The concession of a teaching space helped, but my decision was really made by the students. They seem to genuinely appreach my being here, and there are more then a handful that are really eager for the opportunity to learn English from a Gringo. I actually had a student (who speaks impeccable English with a very strong British accent) sit me down and confess that he had read my blog. He said that even though the teachers here are very prideful (and apparently they have that reputation throughout Calama at other schools as well) I should stay for the students. I couldn't argue with that logic.

I began actually teaching on Thursday, in my closet, and I didn't actually have anything prepared as my planning meeting with the three English teachers was not scheduled to take place until that day at lunch. Things went well though, and it's not hard to come up with a lesson quickly when the majority of your students almost no English. My objective with the third level students (equivalent to Juniors) is simply to get them speaking in English, and listening to native speech. The older students I work on pronunciation, and elocution (which is actually the most fun for me, oddly enough). In one class, just to have some fun, I showed them the part of this clip from the film Hot Rod in which Rod introduces himself and his crew to Isla Fischer's character:

I got some of them to say "Hi my name is [name] and I like to party." Mostly though it would come out, "Hi my name is [name] and I like to parties" or "I like to go to party."

Before I had started teaching, I was observing, and trying to get a feel for the students and where they were as far as speaking ability (most aren't very far along at all.) The highlight of my observation period was when there was a sudden commotion and I turned to see the students responding to the discovery of one of the dreaded Arana de Rincon spiders skittering across the floor. In a flash the kids calmly went to action, pushing back desks to isolate the intruder and then hemming it in (the spiders are known for their speed and evasion skills) so that one of the boys could stomp it into paste. Then, they re-situated themselves and return their attention to the lesson as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The whole episode happened with such speed and fluidity that I can only assume these kids are used to dealing with the poisonous foe.

Part of my observation period included introducing myself to each class and allowing them to ask me question, which was generally tedious with me repeated answering the same stock questions ("Do you have a pet? Where do you live? Do you practice a sport?"). However, there were two back to back classes that blew me away with such absurd questions as "Do you know Hollywood?", "Do you like Ricky Martin?", "Do you feel alone?", and so forth. One very insightful youth asked me how I felt about the looting that took place following the major earthquake in the south. Another popular question that never ceases to elicit interesting reaction is, "Do you like Chilean Women?" The girls of course expect me to say that I love Chilean women because they are very beautiful (awwwwwwwww!) and the boys are looking for me to make some rude or lewd remark. I normally just tell them women are women. Though in truth, the Chilean women are very beautiful (when you find them in Calama) and they really stand out with the high amount of Bolivian, Peruvian, and Colombian immigrants. Bolivian and Peruvian women especially do not age well, I have noticed.

Speaking of immigrants, my host family is probably what you could call "casually racists" according to the generally accepted attitudes of Chilean superiority (they consider themselves white). This leads to hilarious conversations about sleepy Mexicans, the Chinese always eating dog, and questions that translate basically to "where in the United States do all the white people live?" Also, according to my host mother, all Colombians are black.

Quaker or Kwacker

"No [one] loves the desert. We love water and green trees. There is nothing in the desert and no man needs nothing."
--Prince Feisel in Lawrence of Arabia

Today, as I write, it is Wednesday and I have the day off, which is good because I did not sleep hardly at all the night before because of the bloody dog, Mota. She barks loud, long, and incessantly at every other dog that wonders nearby; and there are thousands of other dogs that wander by. The rough (and probably made up) statistic is five dogs to every one person. Good thing there aren't guns in Chile, otherwise...you get the picture.

Today marks my one week anniversary in Calama, and already I have learned a lifetime's worth of lessons about living in a South American desert town. I have been told constantly to wear sunscreen, but I don't. Sunburn has yet to be an issue, but what surprises me is the toll the sun and dryness take on my lips. Before I knew it they were burned and chapped and Ximena was chastising me. My skin is dried out too, and for the first time in my life I'm actually considering using lotion. I am constantly thirsty, and since the water in the tap is dura (literally "hard" but more specifically contaminated) I can really only drink water in the house out of the cooler (the family buys those big multi-gallon jugs) or break down and spend a small fortune on some aqua mineral. The general rule of thumb here, and in Chile everywhere mas o menos, is that if there is a bin next to the toilet, you don't flush your toilet paper--it goes in the bin. In my house, and in the school, there are bins.

There is a tradition here called sobre mesa, one that my family adheres to, where after you finish eating a meal everyone remains at the table and chats forever. Most of the time, this is a good experience for me as it gives me an excellent opportunity to practice Spanish...but when the words run out I end up just sitting silently wishing I could tell them how much I want to strangle that mutt (or what-have-you). I've gotten to the point where I can follow some conversations, and I can understand statements or question directed at me, but I can't always respond or interject with my own ideas. When the whole family is together and rattling off at five thousand words a second, forget it. The other day, at one such sobre mesa we got to talking about avena (oats) which lead to Quaker, a brand they have here, except that they pronounce it "kwacker"--like a duck. I couldn't help laughing, which probably made me look crazy. Choo choo and kwacker. Sometimes I just say those words to them and laugh, and they have no idea what I'm on about. However, since I can't joke in Spanish very well yet, I have to entertain myself somehow. I tried to explain to them who the Quakers are, but that was a lost cause from the start. My family now thinks Quakers are essentially Amish, with no TV or cars. I figured that was good enough.

[CORRECTED FROM EARLIER] I finally met the other of my host brothers who lives in town, Mauricio. He is only a year older then myself and attends some kind of higher learning institution in town (I was not aware there was one) at night and works during the day. He and I got along swimmingly, and out of all of them he is the easiest to converse with in Spanish. Whenever it's clear that I don't get a word or concept, he slips in an English word from his limited vocabulary to ease me along. We have a great deal in common, and he invited me to hang out with his "crew." I have a feeling Mauricio and I will be fast friends.

He doesn't come around much because, according to Mena, he and Rual (host dad) don't get on with each other. It is clear to me, just from our limited interaction, that he suffers from middle child syndrome as Carlos is the oldest and most successful--the typical first born son--and Pancho (who is at school) is the pampered and much loved baby of the trio. In fact, Pancho's name (which is actually Fransisco) comes up lovingly from Ximena's lips at least a hundred times a day. I seldom had heard of Mauricio before I met him, which is a shame. He seems like just the person to show me what's what in Calama. They are all good people though.

Oh, and there is a bloody Blockbuster in Calama! I almost collapsed from shock when I saw it. Mena nonchalantly shrugged and said, "Yes? I didn't tell you. We have a blockbuster." I proceeded to explode into laughter at the sheer absurdity of Calama, no doubt re-enforcing my loco Gringo reputation.

On Tuesday, the other Gringos in town and I went to get our ID cards made. It was not unlike going to the DMV in the states, except that first we had to visit the International Police to get our visas registered, then take the registration over to the Registro Civil and wait in line. We had been tipped ahead of time on the long lines, so one of our group (Mary) went and grabbed four tickets at the Registro, then joined us at the Police station. By the time we had all registered our visas and returned to the Registro, our numbers were up. American ingenuity at work (oh, excuse me. Everyone is American here. I am constantly having to correct myself. Estadounidense ingenuity at work.)

Next post: Update on the school, and an account of the quick and methodical execution of the dreaded Arana de Rincon.

They Keep Saying Choo Choo

Twin volcanoes!

My first Sunday in Calama was by far the best time I've had yet in the city, and maybe even since I've been in Chile. However, before I get to that story, I need to catch up on some minor anecdotes I have failed to mention.

As is probably the case for all my fellow male gringo volunteers, one of the first questions that is asked by any class is, "Are you single?" If you answer yes, there comes a chorus of "ooooooooooooo"s, followed by giggling and lots of questions about what kind of music you dance to, etc. If you answer no there is a similar chorus of "awwwwwwww"s followed by statements like, "is she in the United States, because you are in Chile now." After class I have been mobbed a few times with high school girls clamoring to tell me their names and saying any word or phrase they can in English, followed inevitably by giggling.

My host mom asked one day is I liked lasagna. I replied, yes, and then asked out of surprise, "Ustedes comen Lasagna en Chile?" She said yes, with meat, with chicken, or with tuna. I made a face and she asked what was wrong, but my Spanish isn't good enough to explain how tuna lasagna is a foreign concept to gringos. On a related note, the fish known as tuna to English speakers is called atun in Chile. Tuna is a name for a small, green cactus fruit that is enjoyed here. I tried one and it was fairly flavorless, but packed with pepas, or seeds. There is another fruit here that they call a pepino (which mean cucumber in the rest of the Spanish speaking world) which tastes exactly like a cantaloupe. I could go on about the fruit here, as there is quite a variety, but I will spare you dear readers for now.

As to Sunday, I woke up in the morning and attended mass (misa) at the barrio's church, which is a few blocks away, with my host-mom. I am not catholic, but I figured some church was better then no church. Also, I think it made my host-mom happy, and it proved to be a delightful cultural experience. The misa was different from most other catholic masses I have attended, with the cantos being lead by a man playing the guitar. The songs were upbeat and actually not unlike many modern worship songs sung in the States...just in Spanish. I only partially understood the actually message portion, but I think it had something to do with the calling of the first Disciples as I kept hearing "pescadors de hombres" (fishers of men.)

After mass, we returned and woke up Mena (Floja! Her mother kept saying. "How lazy!") Karina was already off for the day at confirmation classes. Once Mena was up, we had tecito (tea time, of which we can have several during the day) and then went to what they kept calling the feria. It turns out one of the main streets near the house is converted every Sunday into a sort of farmers market, with nearly a hundred different stalls selling everything from fruit and fish to vegetables and shoes. It was quite a sight, and I promise to gets some photos next time I go. The feria was a sensory overload with smells, sounds, and colors ranging all over the spectrum. Mena and my host-mom bought fresh produce and some fish for lunch, which was later fried up and served with potatoes, rice, and the typical Chilean salad (ensalada de chilena) of diced tomatoes, onions, and celantro. Twas a fine meal indeed, and I was in desperate need of a siesta but the women kept saying something about "choo choo." I more or less ignored the comment as another silly chilenismo and proceeded to pass out on the couch.

My respite was short however and soon Mena woke me up and said it was time to go to Chiu Chiu. I got up and looked out the window to see my host-brother, Carlos, with his wife and five-year-old son Emilo packing into a truck with Ximena (my host-mom). It was then that I realized Chiu Chiu was a place and we were off for a day trip.

Chiu Chiu is an ancient looking puebla that is located near a natural oasis where underground aquifers seep to the surface feeding a large, out of place laguna--or saltwater lake. The surrounding countryside is green-ish marsh where ducks nest and wild llamas roam. The Rio Loa, the reason for Calama's existence if you'll recall, also runs through the little town making it a green and fertile place where carrots are grown in profusion. The area was apparently originally settled by far ranging Incas during the reign of Atahualpa and some famous Inca princess drowned herself and her son in the laguna for some stupid reason, you know how those Incas were.

It was a grand time being out with the new family. Carlos insisted I take pictures of everything. Mena did take pictures of everything. Emilo kept reaching up to me and saying "mano", wanting to hold my hand and jump off of stuff. He is quite the precocious child and he asked me to teach him English, but when he'd mess up he'd get shy and say I looked ugly. After visiting the laguna, we went into the puebla of Chiu Chiu to see the ancient mission there, where I met a priest who spoke English due to having studied at George Washington University in DC. He asked why I was in Calama, because there were so many better places. I told him it wasn't a choice and he shook his head and said it was going to be a long eight months for me. Gee, thanks Padre.

Afterward we sat down in a little food stall where we once again had tecito, this time though Carlos insisted I try all of the horribly unhealthy Chilean snack foods available such as empanadas con queso (fried pockets of cheese), sopaiapillas (just large disks of fried dough, like funnel cake but not sweet) and these little fried carrot cakes. Everything was delicious, but I felt understandably ill afterward.

By then the sun was set and the sky was littered with thousands of stars that each looked like a small moon for they were so bright on the deep blue of the desert sky.

Reality Sets In

"If there's a bright center to the universe, you're on the planet farthest from it."
--Luke Skywalker

Calama is like the wild west, just without the cool hats, boots, horses, or gun fights. Sure, people apparently get murdered here all the time (there are little shrines everywhere erected by the families of the fallen called animitas to confirm this), but here in Calama the weapons of choice are either blades or bludgeons. Murder in Calama is a very personal experience. If all that seems a bit dramatic, perhaps it is, but it comes from the mouths of the residents. My host family doesn't like me walking anywhere, especially at night. Pero, no tengo miedo.

Ryan and I set out on Friday night to see if there was anything to do, and as we searched the centro, we became more and more saddened by what we saw. Packs of miners squeezed into dive bars, or packed into these "game rooms" that are nothing more than slot machine palors. There are one or two nice looking restaurants, but they are more then ridiculously expensive. Cost of living in Calama is high, and the program supposedly is giving us an increased stipend to compensate. However, when a cab ride to go two miles costs more here then it does in New York City, an extra 30 bucks a month probably isn't going to cut it. I did see one interesting sight that eve that made me think maybe Calama isn't all frightening: a hair salon was open and filled with people singing worship songs in Spanish. On a Friday night, mind you. I had almost jokingly made a comment to the others when we were in Antofagasta that if they hadn't found Jesus yet, they sure would out here. It seems, perhaps, I wasn't that far off. When your two choices are "tragos y putas" or religion, it probably isn't long before you're dead or saved.

At least my family is great. I have a feeling that I'll be spending most of my time here with them at the casa, at school, or ranging out to the fabled gringo-filled paradise of San Pedro de Atacama. Ryan and I were both told the same thing when we asked what there is to do in Calama: "Go to San Pedro."

My school is not so bueno, however. Let me rephrase that: my school is large, prestigious, and the students seem well disciplined but the teachers do not seem to care that I am there. They refuse to give me my own room (which is a stipulation of the program set forth by the Ministerio de Education) and they treat me as though an inconvenience. I told this to my support people in Antofagsta, and Rio told me that I am well in my rights to be moved to another school. I might, but I figured I'd submit the issue to prayer and in the meantime give the Liceo a few more days to see how things would pan out, should I remain. I like my schedule, and I like that Mena attends the same school, but neither of those points outweigh the lack of respect for my presence and the foreseeable disaster of me not having control over a classroom full of high school students who don't speak my language yet.

Calama

Giving a good face to Calama

I was met at the bus station in Calama by my new host sisters, Ximena and Karina who are seventeen and fifteen respectively. Ximena came over to me I was unloading my bags and said, "are you Yohn?" When I said yes she smiled and said, "Oh, good. I am so nervous."

Ximena, who later asked me to call her simply Mena because "it's much nicer", speaks the best English out of anyone I've met yet in Calama, save for maybe one of the teachers. For this transitional period, having her around has been very helpful as she also is a student at my school. Besides translating for me in certain sticky situations we have begun a relationship where I improve her English and she attempts to improve my Spanish--no small feat. Karina on the other hand, speaks no English nor does her mother, also Ximena, or her father, Raul. Ximena Grande, as she jokingly called herself is a wonderful host mother, and having raised three boys already (the youngest, Pancho, is in university in Valparaiso) she is excellent at anticipating my needs (today she washed my clothes) and more or less forcing me to eat all the time. Raul...well, he drove me home from the bus station, showed me my bathroom and told me simply to "apague la luz" (turn of the light.) He works in the mines, which are two hours away, so I haven't really seen him much since,
There is also a mangy dog that the women love named mota (which is a brand name in Chile and not slang for marijuana).

I have my own room with a bunk bed (who wants to come visit?!), and a bathroom for myself that is in an odd location outside the back door. Ximena (henceforth referred to simply as my host mom) won't let me go out there, or anywhere for that matter, without shoes on because she is certain I will get sick. I must shower at night for the same reason. Here in Chile, showers are warmed using what they call a calefont (easy to see the root words there), which is (in most cases) a gas-powered water heater that must be lit and turned on at least five minutes prior to showering. I've heard there exist electric ones, and some that stay on constantly. Our particular calefont is solar powered, but you still have to light a pilot...so, maybe something is getting lost in translation here.
I've noticed that, and Mena has proudly confirmed such, Calama is attempting to implement a lot of solar technology. This makes perfect sense since it is sunny here todos los dias. Maybe two days or so out of the year are there clouds, as I gather from what everyone says to me.

Calama is pretty much a dust bowl. Outside of the "city" there is nothing. The one bright spot is the Rio Loa that flows through the southern part of town, just around the corner from my house. They have a nice park there and I took a couple of good photos the first day.

The Loa is the reason Calama exists, as this was a miniature oasis that the original miners used as their base camp. It has since then grown into a rather dirty little city that looks virtually the same anywhere you go. The sunsets are spectacular though, and at night the skies are so clear that the abundance of celestial bodies visible to the naked eye is breathtaking.
And there are dogs.
As with most of the other major cities in Chile, strays roam everywhere. They go where they please, crap where they please, harass whomever they please, bark at all ungodly hours of the night, etc. I'm fairly certain Mota was a stray that just decided to stay at the house, and the family took her in since she is white and most all other strays are a khaki brown.

The reality of Calama.

Oh, and there is a mall and movie theater that are the pride of the city (called MallPlaza, their signs reads "Mas, Cerca, Tuyo" or "more, close, yours"), complete with the South American version of Wal-Mart known here are Lider ("Leeder"). I took a stroll through and was thoroughly impressed. The theater is playing Clash of the Titans--pardon, Furia de Titanes--so I hope it is simply subtitled so I can watch it. Though perhaps with such a film you don't really need to know what they are saying.

Next up: My school and the problems that began one day one.

Exodus

Antofagasta

On Sunday, April 11th, our mass of volunteers began the inevitable fragmentation that would eventually lead to fifty some odd gringos scattered across the length and breadth of Chile. Those going to the far North (como yo) and those going to the upper South boarded buses bound for lengthy hauls across the vast length of country. We who went North ended up riding in a straight shot for seventeen hours, with our end destination being the capital of Region II, Antofagasta.

That morning, however, we all made a valiant attempt to spend as much time as a group as possible, and to that end a sizable chunk of us met up with "Ministry Mike" and his polola (girlfriend in Chilean) Nicole, who were the two top Volunteer leaders. They promised us a "gringo" breakfest, complete with bacon. Many of us, myself included, could not pass up the opportunity and thus we joined them in one of the richer, cleaner areas of Santiago known as Las Condes. What they promised was true; there was a cafe that claimed to serve gringo breakfast. However, though my plate had on it eggs, bacon, hashbrowns, and toast...it was still nothing more then a poor Chilean attempt at a proper brekkie. The portions were very small, and the hashbrowns tasted like stale french fries you eat of the floor of your car days later....not that I do that. However, the eggs and bacon were perfecto, and probably the last I will have for many moons.

We all eventually made it back to the hostel, and by 21:15 I was on a bus that would take us to the bus station, to get on another bus. We were given a proper send off, and there was lots of hugging and hand shaking and besitos (the kiss on the cheek common to Latin America.) As a group, and as individuals, we became quite close, so it was sad to break off and head in different directions. Such is life.

The bus ride for me was not bad at all. The seats were "cama" seats (meaning bed in Spanish) and thus reclined to an almost flat position, allowing me to sleep nearly the entirety of the trip. Sleeping also offered me the mercy to not have to endure the slew of awful movies they played (10,000 BC, 2012, He Just Not That Into You, etc...) I didn't miss anything outside either, because by the time the sun rose and we could see out...there was nothing to see. Desert, hills that look like heaps of dirt, and the occasional rock formation. Then we reached Antofagasta, and as soon as we did, the sky clouded over. Thus, my first vista of the second largest city in Chile was a dismal one. The place looked rough, despite being on the mighty Pacific, and we were all equally bummed. However, the next day, with the sun out, proved the city to be "not too bad."

We stayed once more in a hostel, in a room that we (the four of us gents involved: Mike the Surfer from New York, Matt, Ryan, and myself) all agreed was an improvement over the ones in Santiago. We had a porch that faced the sea and that night, with both doors open and the sound and smells of the sea wafting in, I slept the best I have since I arrived in this country. That night we shared dinner and vino with the group of volunteers already in Antofagasta (the year long program people--we are 8 month.) They brought us fresh made guacamole and we chatted long into night as they told us their horror stories and lent questionable advice (one girl told us she throws tennis balls at her kids when they act up. You can do that here, apparently.)

The next morning our Regional help person, Rio (who is awesome) led us to a swank hotel where we had a "regional orientation." About mid-morning our partner teachers for our respective schools showed up for a little one-on-one work-shopping and scheduling. I write our, but I mean theirs. Mine didn't show. I had to sit sad and teacherless while everyone got the 411 on their school. Afterward they fed us a fantastic meal courtesy of the hotel (palm heart salad or palmitos, fresh salmon, peaches* and ice cream), and then two of our group, Mike and Vanessa, left with their teacher to head south to the coastal hamlet of Taltal. An hour later, Matt's host family showed up and took him away (he was staying in Antofagasta city), shortly after that Ryan, Mary, Hannah, and I were on a bus bound three hours into the heart of the desert for Calama. We watched the sun set over the Atacama desert and by nightfall we were there; Calama es un oasis de opportunidad (read the sign.)

Next up: Meeting the family.

*They eat an insane amount of peaches in Chile. On the bus ride to Antofagasta alone we were each given four peach cups and boxes of peach juice to drink. The national "treat" in Chile is mote con huesillos which is literally an entire canned peach, pit and all, dropped into peach syrup to which puffed wheat germ is added. It tastes exactly like it sounds.

That Far Southern Shore

Take one look at Chile and it's no surprise to say that almost the entire country is coastland. Growing up in a coastal town, this is part of what made the country so appealing to me. Yet, I get sent to teach one of the only major inland cities. Go figure.

That in mind, I quickly jumped at the opportunity to join a group of folks sallying forth from Santiago on Saturday to the major port town of Valparaiso and her sister city Vina del Mar. They are more like one sprawling coastal metropolitan region, but the difference in each area is stark. Valparaiso is in decline, as it's port no longer holds the importance it once did. It is built on a series of hills, with houses packed in at all levels, the tops of many being reachable by funiculars built by the French long ago. Vina, on the other-hand, is a rich city full of resorts and tourism money. Both, though, are filled with fishermen and an abundance of delicious, varied, and fresh seafood.

To get there, we simply road the metro and boarded a bus heading west. A round trip ticket cost us what amounts to 7 USD for the two hour trip; and these buses are nice tour buses. It's strange the cost disparity in Chile. Anyway, the first sight we witness as we arrived in Valpo was a crowd of people in the median of one of the main streets selling used clothes.
After de-busing we were approached by a very friendly tour guide who convinced us to take a bus tour of Valpo and Vina for 10, 000 pesos (which is less then twenty USD). She also promised to take us to a good seafood restaurant, which, since none of us had eaten and it was already past 2 in the afternoon, sold us on the whole thing. It ended up being a great decision. Both cities are so large that had we attempted them on foot/metro, we would have never seen a fraction of what we got to see.
By the end of the tour, we had gone from the top of Vina all the way to the bottom of Valpo, hitting the highlights in between such as poet Pablo Neruda's home. The meal we ate was the best I've yet had in Chile and consisted of an amazing seafood soup chockablock with shrimp, mussels, calamari, and stuff I've never seen before. The main course was a grilled Chilean ocean fish called reineta, which I don't think has a name in English. During the day we went to the rich beaches of Vina and Renaca (which has great surf), and rode a funicular to the best view of the the whole Valpo/Vina coast where we arrived just as the sun was setting and the city was beginning to light up and twinkle.

We were there till late evening, and all told is was a wonderful trip. That next morning I had to be packed up and checked out of the hostel by 1130 in preparation for our departure North.

Next post: The long journey through the desert.

Picture Post

The End of the First Week

EOD, class of 2010

The week spent in orientation for English Opens Doors (Ingles Abre Puertas) was a most rigorous and...interesting experience. Aside from the fact that I was back in the classroom again after a two year gap, the situation was uniquely problematic because the students were all soon to be "teachers" themselves. Teachers teaching teachers is frustrating to say the least because everyone has to get there two cents in, and before long the room is floor to ceiling with pennies.

We were fed a great deal of theory via powerpoint presentations that really isn't going to be useful at all, and the simple fact that government education is about as inefficient as you can imagine was reinforced ten fold. Things don't work in the US in the government schools so you can imagine how much more things don't work in a "developing" country like Chile. The former volunteers helping to instruct us did their best, and I actually do feel partially equipped to jump in front of classroom and yell English at kids. We had two days to actually plan "microlessons" which we then taught to the group as though they were our Chileno students. The exercise was particularly helpful. I have to pause here to mention an interesting facet of our group of volunteers. There are nearly fifty of us and we subdivide into two groups: those recruited by outside agencies and those who were recruited straight through the EOD program at the Ministry of Education (I fall into the latter category.) Those recruited by agencies split into a few other subgroups, the largest being the World Teach group at 13, who were all here two and a half weeks before us direct recruits. They received lots of additional teaching instruction and were near pros by the time we showed up (they paid out the rear for the privilege, however). As such, they are a very tight-knit group who know what they are doing. This meant they would nail their microteaching lessons and then act like total hooligans when the rest of us went up, they pretending to be hellacious Chilenos. They overdid it at times, but it was honestly very helpful to have to get used to dealing with discipline problems.

The orientation ended Friday, and we were all overwhelmingly relieved. They put on a nice cocktail for us after the last class on Friday, with a tolerably fine spread of hors'doeuvres including some insanely good bleu cheese. I was exhausted and went to take a nap, but apparently the wine kept flowing (this was in the courtyard of the hostel) and I was eventually woken by the sound of shattering glass as not one, but three people broke their wineglasses. It was a tough week and, I fear, merely a taste of the struggles to come; particularly for me and my fellow Calama-bound volunteers. On that front, the news just keeps getting worse. We already knew Calama was a tough mining town in the middle of the desert, and as such no one wanted to go there and we became the running joke of the group. We then went on to learn that the place is crawling with the araña de rincon, Chile's only poisonous spider similar to a brown recluse. Also, the water is contaminated from all the copper mining so they recommend we drink only bottled water as a precaution. Further, the next quake is expected to hit up there. And finally, my fellow Calama-ite Ryan and I ran into a man who mined in Calama for two years. He told us the best thing about Calama was watching it disappear in the rear-view mirror as you leave. He also said the only thing to do there is "tragos and putas." I'll let you google that, but let's just say I am not interested in either.

The next post will be more upbeat, because I got to take a day trip to the beach sister cities of Valparaíso and Viña del Mar.

Orientation

Soon to be my home for the 8 months, give or take.

Our first week in Santiago has been dedicated to orientation and training in teaching English as a second language. I am back in a classroom for the first time in two years, and after two days it has already gotten old. I'm ready to be on the other side of the desk.

We've been given a lot of information and teaching techniques, and in the next three days we will be fed more. The EOD people instructing us are all used to teaching kids, so they address us in an insultingly didactic way that has really started to grate on me. However, I keep a good attitude and try to pay attention because I have never taught professionally and probably need a good schooling on how to school.

It's interesting because I am going to be teaching my language as though it is a foreign language, and all the while trying to learn their language, which is foreign to me, better. It occurs to me that my students and I will be on the same level, just in different tongues. Tis quite a dynamic.

I found out today, which is Tuesday the 6th, that I am going to the city of Calama, which is the one place I had no desire to be assigned. The Lonely Planet travel guide for Chile says this about Calama, "How do we put this delicately...Calama is a sh*thole." God clearly wants to challenge me in some kind of serious way. I prayed that he would put me where I was needed and would best serve his kingdom...Apparently that place is a dry mining town in the desert of Northern Chile. While everybody was celebrating their placements, and looking at pictures of beaches and lush forests, me and three other poor saps tried our best to put on a brave face.

The long and short of it is: we are here as volunteers to teach and try and help make life better for a few kids and give them a leg up in the world. We are not here on vacation, so it really doesn't matter where in the country I am...but the taste of disappointment crept into my mouth a little anyway.

The seven of us going up to the Antofagasta region, where Calama is located, have to take a twenty hour bus ride up there, leaving Sunday at 2100hrs. We are set to meet our Apoyos Curriculares (regional support staff) in the city of Antofagasta (Chile's second largest, and where one guy is set to teach) and then after a day, four of us will take a three hour bus north and east to Calama...and there see what adventures await us.

That Was Aftershocking!

Chilean Carabineros (police) like to walk around all tac-ed out for no reason.

Today was the first day of orientation, but I'll get to that later. Here is a handful of anecdotes from my first weekend.

Sometime before midnight on Easter, I lived through my first aftershock here in Santiago, and I didn't even feel it. It was a 4.8 tremor and I literally had no idea until the others around me explained it. We were out in the courtyard of the hostel and suddenly there was a pounding sound coming from a fourth floor window. I figured it was simply someone who was trying to sleep and was banging the window to express their contempt for our loud jibber-jabber. Apparently people on the fourth floor felt it more significantly, which sent a large group of Chinese women screaming through the hallways as though Godzilla was after them. I'm sorry I missed such a scene.

Speaking of the fourth floor, that is where I am bunked. And there is no elevator. There have been at least five times already that I get to the bottom and realize I forgot something, and have to jog all the way back up. The plus side is the exercise, I suppose.

I woke up the first morning earlier enough to make breakfast. When I got down to the cafeteria all I saw was a basket of bread and trays set with little bowls of butter. Other than hot water for tea or instant coffee (the infamous Nescafe), there was nothing else. I looked to the other volunteers and asked if I had missed something. They laughed and said everyone so far had had that exact reaction. “I should have stayed in bed.” I grumbled.
They laughed and said that everyone had also had that sentiment as well. We weren’t sure if they were serving us lunch, but we weren’t willing to take chances with grumbling guts, so a group of us headed to the Plaza Armas which is where the national Cathedral is and where a group of shop-lined pedestrian streets converge. (While I was typing we randomly lost power. Go South America!)

Since it was Easter Sunday, the Cathedral was packed to the seams and, though I haven’t confirmed this, the President of Chile himself might have been in attendance for mass. Mass wasn’t a very worshipful experience since I had no idea what was going on, and the place was so overrun that all you could really do was stand in the back and snap a few photos. It was a great look into Chilean culture, however, and worth popping in for regardless.

Outside the Cathedral, in the Plaza, the national police force known as Carabineros had their band set up and was giving a concert that was….pretty bad. The brass section was overwhelming, and there was just a general lack of, let’s say, musicalness. As they went on, they improved, but we all agreed they should stick to policing.

Near the Plaza, we found a grocery store and I got my first Chilean shopping experience. Apparently you had to weigh the fruit yourself and print a sticker for the cashier to scan, and not knowing this led an interesting cross-cultural interchange as I attempted to buy my avocado.

Night One: A Bunch of Gringos

It is Easter morning in Santiago, 2010. My hope is to find a church to, at the very least, observe mass in Spanish. However, I searched around my barrio last night and the only church I found had been destroyed in the earthquakes and was vacant. I will range further today.

Last night was an interesting experience, as nearly all the volunteers present in the hostel came together in one big group that turned the hostel courtyard into a veritable beer garden. The beer of the Chilean common man is an awful fluid with the apparent misnomer of "Cristal." It is brewed in Chile, and is cheap and prevalent and thus was the drink of choice for most of the group in light of our mutual lack of expendable income. They sell it in litre glass bottles that if you return to the tienda, you receive back a part of the price you paid. It's an interesting system.

I managed to meet nearly everyone, at least in a cursory fashion. The big three questions were, "who are you?", "where are you from?", and "what is your region." I am John, from Atlanta, going to Antofagasta. There are quite a few of us going to the Antofagasta region, one of them being the first guy I met here, Mike the surfer from New York, who is currently also my roommate. As for fellow Southerners, there is a cute girl from Alabama and a gent who grew up in Atlanta but has since lived all over the place, and he claims to have been to 50 some odd countries.

After a while, we all decided it was better to go be Gringos out amongst the Chileans, and thus the entire group marched out of the hostel and down to the Avenida Brasil where all the cafes were open. Of course, because there was more than twenty of us, we couldn't find a place to fit us all. Eventually, we comprised and some people left and our group fragmented. As we sat and chatted, and the women drank the national Chilean cocktail known as a pisco sour (more on that later) were we accosted by extremely precocious Chilean children hawking trinkets and stealing kisses on the the cheeks of the Gringas.

Oh, and stray dogs are everywhere, which of course means that stray-dog-crap is everywhere. They aren't mangy though, and the people look out for them so they are friendly.