Gringo Reunion Dos: San Pedro de Atacama

The time to celebrate my birthday was drawing near and, like every weekend that has come since my arrival in the vast wilderness of the Atacama desert on the 13th of April, I was desperate to escape Calama for better vistas. That opportunity arose in the form of a second Gringo reunion (the first being some weeks before in the coastal hamlet of Taltal) that was to take place over a long weekend in the oasis town of San Pedro de Atacama. I had been before to "Gringolandia", but as recounted, had left many deeds undone and many sights unseen. Thus, the night of the 24th saw Heather, Mike, and Vanessa reuniting with Ryan and I in Calama. Peter, Alex, Matt, and three new Gringas were to join us the next day.

The others of our group finally got to experience what Ryan and I have been suffering through now for nearly three months, and there were a good deal of jokes about sand, rocks, and the dryness. At one point, Ryan picked up a guitar at the hostel and began to compose an ode.
"Calama, you took everything I had. You wanted more. You took my saliva. You took my mucus. You dried me out. Oh, oh, oh....Calama."
On the other hand, the weather was gorgeous over the weekend and San Pedro really looked about as beautiful as it could have. We had booked the same hostel Ryan and I had used the first time, called Iquisa, and packed the place out. It was almost our own private lodging for three nights, with a handful of interlopers mingled in for good measure. However, because Roberto (the owner) was not present the entire time, there was some confusion as to who had a bed and where, resulting in Matt and the new friend he had brought along (the delightful Mexicana, Monjuith) having to spend the weekend in a different hostel nearby as well as some bed sharing between those of us left in Iquisa. These problems were minor in my opinion given that fact that the whole town was booked up and we had brought eleven people along.

The bulk of us arrived on Friday in the early afternoon and walked to the hostel while kicking a soccer ball back and forth, which made Peter a bit indignant because he is convinced that all we do in the desert is kick rocks, not balls. The following days and nights were filled to the brim with activity and celebration, for not only was it my birthday on Sunday, but Vanessa's as well on the preceding Saturday. The festivities began immediately on Friday with a trip into town to watch the Chile versus Spain match (which I correctly predicted the outcome of HERE.) We found a small restaurant that offered us ten percent off the bill as a group, along with free pisco sours. The had a large flat screen inside showing the game in HD, which contrasted starkly with the bare, plywood tables. While inside, we were met by a separate group of English Opens Doors volunteers from Iquique, whom I had never met. Ryan and I were goaded into telling the story of our "incident". All the while, the Iquique volunteers nodded knowingly and afterward offered their own tales of attack and theft.

After the game we went searching through the myriad of tour providers in town for cheap options, finding a company that would take us sandboarding that night under the full moon for a discounted group rate, and even throw in snacks and pisco if we wanted. I, up until that point, had not possessed the desire to sandboard, as it is like snowboarding, which is a sport I failed at, and furthermore, involves sand, a substance notorious for its getting-into-every-orifice properties. Yet, I figured if we were going to willfully trudge up sand dunes and then tumble down them in the name of fun, we might as well do it at night under a full moon so that it would be harder to see me busting my butt (and head) repeatedly. Also, I was eager to experience the desert landscape illuminated in the cold blue of a full moon. The experience was excellent, and I actually managed to accomplish a run without falling by the end. However, the spills I did take left me loaded down with a few kilos of sand in my scalp and ears that remained for days, despite repeated washings. Sandboarding is, in my opinion, a one time experience as it took nearly fifteen exhausting minutes to hike up the dune for a measly thirty seconds or so of downhill action. I think I only managed five runs total. The most dangerous part of the trip turned out to be our return in the van, as the driver was clearly drunk and continued to play the same awful techno song over, and over. At one point, almost to our return destination, the van approached a shallow river and the driver stopped. Then, inexplicably, he turned on the windshield wipers for a few minutes, cut them off, and then proceeded across the river. Needless to say, we moved onto a different tour company the following day. Returning to the hostel, as it was now past midnight, we toasted to Vanessa turning twenty two, she being the youngest of our group of 8 month volunteers.

Saturday we awoke late. Alex, along with another American staying in the hostel, left the group to go on the bike ride through the Valle de la luna that had nearly killed Ryan and I on our first trip. The remainder of us went into town to book a tour that would take us out to see the lakes in the great salt flat known as the Salar de Atacama where we would swim and watch the sunset. We lunched in town on the always cheap, always satisfying combo of pollo y papas fritas and later met up with Matt and Monjuith. At three o'clock, we piled into a bus with an incredible guide named Eric, whose sense of humor was somewhere on the funny scale between fifth grade and grandpa (though all in English, to his credit.) The lagunas were simply incredible. The first stop was Laguna Céjar which is second only to the Dead Sea in salt density, meaning you float like a cork and it is impossible to sink. We were all able to stand straight up and lift our hands in the air as though on a flat surface, despite the bottom being a good sixty meters below us. Because of the density of the water, all the heat sinks, meaning the surface of the water is freezing and you have to stir up the heat from below you so as not to get hypothermia. A few bright pink and white flamingos flitted overhead as we swam.

The next stop was the Ojos del Salar, which are two perfectly round lakes that resemble eyes. There is some not particularly interesting reason as to their existence that I do not feel the need to recount here. Our final destination was a vast, shallow salt lake whose name escapes me, where we watched the sunset and wadded out into the inches deep water where salt deposits had forced jagged white islands. Because the lake is huge and incredibly shallow there were many none-to-clever jokes about Jesus and walking on water, etc. I mentioned Peter as well, but was greeted with blanks looks.
"Peter? You know, Saint Peter. San Pedro. The person who this whole place is named after!"
The sunset was absolutely incredible and was closely rivaled by the full moon rising over the volcano minutes later.

Mmmm. That's good salt.

Upon our return, the group went into town to eat, but I wasn't interested in spending a lot of money, so Alex and I left them to grab cheap grub from the Bolivian feria on the outskirts of town. You can't beat a meaty empanada and grilled meat on a stick. By the time the others returned to the hostel it was nearly midnight. I was relaxing in a hammock when, at the stroke of twelve, the girls led the group in a rendition of the Happy Birthday song. Thus began my first birthday abroad.

We woke early on Sunday to take a tour to the Termas de Puritama, which are a series of natural pools in a river of thermal water that flows up from underground near the volcano that provides the heat. The water was delightfully warm and an indescribably clear, bluish green tinted color, and the entire area was lined in pompous grass bushes. We had to pay a hefty entrance fee, but it was worth it. A few of us explored the river discovering waterfalls that formed natural jacuzzis at their base. We had two hours in the termas and then it was out into the bitter cold wind as we scrambled to get dressed and then climb out of the canyon at the base of which the river is located.

For our return into San Pedro, the tour company took us halfway back to where the road began a long, steep downhill stretch. At the top, we debused and were given bikes. Having taken a spill going downhill in La Valle de la luna the previous trip, I was admittedly apprehensive about flying at even greater speeds for longer distances. However, the ride proved invigorating and I managed to avoid injury (mostly by riding the brakes), and to see the small green dot of San Pedro grow in the distance as you speed headlong towards it was worth the fear of death.

That afternoon the members of the group that had not visited Valle de la luna decided to take a trip out to see the sunset, while Ryan, Alex, and I opted to stay behind to prepare an asado (nominally in honor of my birth.) We collected money from everyone (including the two other Americans staying in the hostel) and went about buying the necessary materials. There is only one market in San Pedro that sells meat, and most of what they had smelled rotten. We ended up with chicken, pork, and chorizo along with a mix of vegetables to skewer and grill and the last bag of charcoal left in the store. The grocer was incredibly rude and if anyone reads this before going to San Pedro, I urge you not to give Tienda Sol your business.

Ryan, Alex, and I along with our two new friends (both students at Arizona who had just finished a study abroad program) returned to the hostel and set about chopping vegetables, salting meat, and trying to get the grill started. The charcoal was old and obstinant, and we had no lighter fluid. Shortly into the process Peter and Mike returned saying the tour to Valle de la luna had been a bust because all the vans in town were booked already. They joined in on the developing circus of trying to start the grill and soon we had burned nearly every piece of wood we could find in the hostel to no avail. The ancient parents of Roberto (the owner) laughed at our futile attempts before finally taking pity on us and stepping in to help. As we watched with open mouths and dumbfounded expressions, Roberto's mother produced a hair dryer and began to blast the coals with hot air. In minutes, the grill was lit and ready to use. By the time the girls returned from shopping, we had a right proper feast going.

JFM approves of this birthday asado.

By that time, I had just enough money left to pay the hostel and get home (San Pedro is absurdly expensive), as was also the case with Ryan and Alex. Thus, when the bulk of the group awoke at four o'clock in the morning to go visit the famous geysers at Tatio, we remained in bed. That afternoon, we watched Chile lose again, this time to Brazil. La Roja bid a sad farewell to the World Cup and glory, and we all bid a equally sad adieu to San Pedro. Vanessa headed directly back to Taltal, and when we reached Calama, we saw Peter and Alex off as they had a connecting bus that evening home. The other three girls, who I failed to mention in detail (Stacey, Lisa, and Maggie...all good sports) had gone back ahead of Alex and Peter before our asado (their loss.) Mike and Heather were staying the night in Calama and leaving the next day.

Heather and I got back to my house around six o'clock on Monday night to find the remains of a birthday asasdo for Ximena, my host mom. My whole family was there and soon Ryan and Mike joined us for even more meat and celebration. We sang Happy Birthday and had a cake that served to commemorate mine, my mom's, and Mike's birthdays (Mike's being that following Wednesday.) My aunt could not pronounce Heather's name so she decided to simply call her Maria, and she kept forgetting Mike and thus called him Flaco (meaning skinny.) There were a lot of absurd Chinese jokes inspired by Heather's presence, but she handled them like a champ. By some late hour, I was finally abed, fully exhausted from the whole experience and likewise sad to have to wake up and go teach the next morning. The entire weekend proved to be unforgettable, and I'm hard pressed to imagine any further birthdays even coming close to being as awesome.

Sangre

I am about to get philosophical and equally hypothetical in a reflection on football. I make no apologies for this, but I am warning you up because it might get absurd.

I promised to elaborate in the previous post on my belief that Chile will not beat Spain when they play against each other Friday, the 25th. Though Chile has shown incredible spunk, and demonstrated a fighting spirit that is more than admirable, the factors that will ultimately lead to their defeat are far less tangible then skill and good coaching. Spain, in their opening match against Switzerland, lost zero to one, which was surprising to say the least given Spain's second place ranking in FIFA going into the World Cup. However, their next match against Honduras saw them dominating the field, crushing the Hondurans, and ultimately walking away with a two to nothing victory. For the record, Chile beat both Honduras and Switzerland, both by one goal to nothing.

The reason I believe Spain had such a turn around against Honduras is based mostly in history. Honduras, and Chile like her, are both the products of Spain. For better or worse, Chile and Honduras like the rest of the Latin American world, are Spain's fault. Switzerland has no such shared history with Spain, and as such things were equalized.

No matter what science tells you, it is a fact that the history of memory runs through bloodlines. Honduras, Chile, and Spain share an often sordid history that has left scars in the memories and in the lives of many generations, and the blood that flows in the veins of most of the players remembers, even if the players themselves do not. Spain will not loose to Chile because both sides know, maybe unconsciously, that they occupy very specific roles: those of the conqueror and the conquered. The conquistador and the indio. No matter the anger, or resentment that Chile can drum up against Spain, nor the spiteful pride of being for decades now its own entity independent from Spain, they cannot fight their blood and what it knows--that Chile is merely a bastard child whose entire existence as a country is owed, and therefore belongs to, España.

Spain knows this just as they knew it with Honduras, and por eso, Spain will win.

Granted, should this theory prove entirely wrong, and Chile in fact conquer their formers conquerors, I will be the first to cheer alongside them. However, I'm not holding my breath.

Moving On

"I ain't cutting my hair till the good Lord comes."
--Joshua Jackson

There are certain points in the life of an individual when it becomes clear that few following events will have any sustainable amount of consequence. For most fortunate people (as well as an equal if not decidedly disproportionate amount of unfortunate folk as well) such moments are often characterized by marriage or childbirth. If one would take the time to consider all of human celebrated occasions, with little exception, the grand majority would be found to involve one or the other of the aforementioned events. There is a third option, and that is death.

Having to repeatedly recount the story of my pummeling by Chilean youths in Iquique has unfortunately forced me to realize that the event can easily be characterized as one of the few exceptions to the above mentioned rule. I often sit and think about whether aspects of my daily life in Chile are worth recounting in written form, and after the incident in Iquique, nothing really seemed quite notable enough. However, as Lone Watie was told by the American government as recounted to Josey Wales, I will endeavor to persevere.

I have decided, for better or worse, that I will not be cutting my hair while in Chile. The reason for this is twofold: 1) I don't trust any Chilean with a pair of scissors, especially one with the intent of placing those scissors near my brain box. Also, haircuts here are expensive and terrible, at best. The Chilean specialty seems to be the quasi-mullet. 2) I may not have another opportunity to grow my hair out and still be considered respectable. I get a "gringo pass" down here. I intend to return home at the end of August for a weekend to be in my best friend's wedding, and it is then that I intend to be shorn. For the time being, I am following the path of the Nazarene.

Last Wednesday was a huge day in the life of the country and in the life of my family. Chile won its match against Honduras by a goal (1 to 0) and a second son was born to my host brother. Tiny Pablo Martin finally came into the world and the next few days were eaten up with congratulatory phone calls and well-wishing visitations. Because Claudia, the baby's mother, isn't what you would call terribly responsible, the baby is almost always over at our house under the watchful eye of Ximena, my host-mother.

Carlos and Pablito

That also means Emilo, the five year old, is also always over here trying to get me to play his favorite game of annoythegringo. Digging through his toys I found an old Fischer Price See n' Say and then, as payback, I spent a good fifteen minutes repeatedly making Emilo listen to
"The cow says, mooooooo!"


The following Sunday was Día del Papas (Father's Day) and we celebrated the only way Chileans know how, with lots of meat. We had a great asado late in the day where Carlos was the only father actually present. I saw Raul, my host dad, that morning and told him "Feliz Día de Papa"and then didn't see him the rest of the day. While my Aunt grilled the meat, Mena and I played a modified version of football with Emilo that was really just the three of us kicking around a yellow ball featuring characters from the cartoon Ben 10 while inside the garage.


The next day saw Chile playing again at ten o'clock in the morning, which essentially meant I didn't have morning classes. The first game had been at seven in the morning, which meant I watched it from bed and went back to sleep afterward. As such, I had missed out on the excitement. Thus, I went to the school anyway the morning of the second game and watched the proceedings with the teachers and students alike. Everyone was decked out in red, white, and blue. Waving flags. Blowing horns. It was utter madness, and then Chile won and the floodgates of insanity burst forth. All over the school the students went wild, singing in unison the national anthem and cheering repeatedly
"Chi chi chi, le le le, viva Chile!"
Out in the city, people took to their cars and drove around for hours honking and waving flags. You would have thought that Chile had conquered Switzerland instead of simply winning a football game (again, by one goal.) The match kept my attention as it was suitably violent (my father consistently points out that "soccer is an effeminate sport"), prompting one of the commentators to say it was "casi rugby." If Chile can win against Spain (which I doubt, and will elaborate on in a separate post) then this country might very well implode.

People going wild in Santiago after the win, courtesy of a friend living there.

One more point of peculiarity. Chileans in general, and my students specifically, seem very interested in conspiracy theories. I have heard the Masons brought up more in the past two and a half months than ever before in my life. One of my students claimed "the Church" killed John F. Kennedy, and I'm pretty sure my host brother Mauricio believes in Aliens. I was having my students write questions for me in the passive voice and then supply answers, as a small quiz of sorts, and in three seperate classes I had kids write the question "Who was Marilyn Monroe killed by?" When I tried to explain that nobody killed her, and that she had died of a drug overdose, I got sympathetic stares that seemed to be pitying my naivety. I imagine that the adherence to bogus theories and absurd, no-longer relevant points of speculation are simply more signs of the deep cracks left by years of a totalitarian dictatorship. I'm sure that one of the byproducts of suppression of the press is not only ignorance, but gullibility as well.

That Time We Got Beat Up by Kids

"I get a kick out of you."
--Frank Sinatra

There are some stories that you know you have to tell, despite the embarrassing consequences. The story of Ryan and I being beat up by teenagers in Iquique is one such tale.
"Maybe we should just forget that ever happened." I mumbled to Ryan while spitting blood onto the concrete.
"No man, you've got to post about this."

We had returned to the beach side town of Iquique, mentioned some posts back as the port city once belonging to Peru that is now a resort destination for wealthy Chileans and international surf enthusiasts. We liked the place, and thus in an effort to escape the drag of Calama, we had come once more for a weekend visit. We arrived late at night and quickly met some fellow Estadounidenses who were going down to the beach to hang out, play guitar, and speak in English (the last part being the key to my potential enjoyment of the weekend.) The weather, as always, was enjoyable and the weekend was starting off swimmingly.
During our previous visit, we had found a late night food stand that served what we remembered as being delicious papas fritas and, having not eaten dinner, Ryan and were determined to find the fries and elevate our night from pleasant to fantastic (and greasy). Thus we left our new conocidos on the beach began our search.
Here is where things become interesting. At a particular intersection close to the hostel, Ryan and I argued about the direction to head. I was certain of the location of the food stand, but he was adamant. He ended up yielding to my expertise, but not wholeheartedly. Thus, as we continued on the course I had plotted, Ryan decided to appeal to some locals for help. In a plaza (pictured below) he spotted a group of eight or ten teenagers loitering.


In Spanish, he asked them where we could find the papas and then indicated the direction where he thought the store was located. The kids replied that there was a place, but it was closed. I was convinced that they were speaking about the wrong store, so I bid the kids adieu, thanked them for their trouble, and then encouraged Ryan to follow me a bit further.
Then I turned my back--I would like to point out that, as we discovered the next day, I was right. We were heading in the correct direction. However, if we had instead just gone the way Ryan had insisted upon, none of the following would have taken place. Moral of the story? Being right hurts. Back to the scene--In a matter of seconds I felt the rush air that precedes a body moving toward you at speed. Just as quickly, a hand reached into my back pocket. I responded by instantly wrapping my right arm behind my back and hooking the arm of the potential pickpocket. The kid was smaller then me and easy to restrain, but as I forcefully extricated my wallet from his hands, his punk friends lept on top of me and I fell backwards. They then proceeded to kick me in the head and torso as the pickpocket wormed his way out from where I'd landed on him. One kick must have connected pretty good and "rung my bell" as we used to say in football, because the next thing I knew I was lying alone on the ground and my assailants were nowhere to be seen.
The entire episode occurred in under thirty seconds, in a well lit area right next to a major road. I stood up and turned to see Ryan also picking himself up from the ground. As he tells it, as soon as he saw the kids jump me he ran over to intervene. However, as he was drawing back to strike one of my assailants, his arm was caught and he was likewise driven to the ground and kicked in the head a few times.
"Do you have your wallet?" I asked, rubbing a hand on my head, still a bit dazed.
"Yeah, you?" I checked to make sure.
"Yeah. I don't want those fries anymore."
"Me neither."

We headed back to the hostel and Ryan spent the rest of the night repeatedly telling the story, with the ages of the kids changing each time (at one point they went from fifteen years old to eight.) The next morning he had a pretty decent sized mark on his face, and the inside of my left cheek was cut up from being kicked into my teeth. We made some beautiful egg, cheese, palta, and tomato sandwiches but both our jaws hurt so much it was hard to enjoy them.

As we walked around Iquique the next two days, we made a joke of pointing out each group of kids and saying, "that's them", and then fantasizing about delayed comeuppance. The rest of the trip went well, and we ended up having a grand time in the hostel watching the England v. United States match that ended a bit anticlimactically. Unfortunately as well, there was only one Brit present and she didn't even stick around to watch the whole game. Thus it was mostly a few of us Americans chanting halfheartedly "U. S. A!" while one of the Australian guests pretended to pull for the Limeys (his team in turned got destroyed the next day by Germany.)

The highlight of the weekend was discovering a small fish market selling the freshest of fish and shellfish for incredibly low prices. For about two dollars Ryan and I bought some shark fillets and a cup of locos (abalones). We cooked the shark at the hostel and it was perfect, though we had to cook and eat in the span of fifteen minutes because of a scheduling snafu that meant we were forced to leave on an earlier bus then we had planned. I also made a point of getting those papas. They weren't as good as I had remembered.

Two Months Down

No, but it's probably killing me.

The house is made of concrete, and during the day it is colder inside then out. My room gets no sun and is thus the coldest. My family jokingly calls it the morgue.
Other than a refrigerator and a range/oven, the only appliance in the kitchen is an electric kettle, which is used frequently throughout the day as my host family only drinks hot beverages during the cold months. We are heading into my second winter this year, and I have now been in Chile for two months.

May went by considerably quicker then April, no doubt due to the fact that I have some semblance of a routine now, though I have only had one entire Monday-through-Friday week of classes. Because the nights and mornings are often so unreasonably cold in the desert (it has been hanging around -5 centigrade lately) the last week of May saw a shift in the school schedules in Calama. Classes now begin at nine o'clock as opposed to eight, but the day still ends at five thirty. This means each class is five minutes shorter and the ridiculous twenty minute break in the morning has been cut in half. Thus my one "hour" class on Wednesday morning is only in reality forty minutes, and as such my partner teacher for that block has not had me come in. Next week there is a solid four days of testing that will not see me entering the school until Thursday at the earliest. Therefore, it is my intention to take a trip, though my destination is not yet known.

As the days now progress well into June, a great deal has been on my mind. Two months behind me has given me a lot to reflect on in-and-of-itself, but in addition, June is the month of my birth and will mark the first time I have celebrated a birthday outside of the United States. In fact, this year will be the first in which I have not celebrated my birthday with my family in Savannah since before I left home for college in 2005 (Anno Domini).

Two months is a long time, and I have six more to go before I return home. Two months is a long time and I am increasingly missing more and more about home. Looking at the list I made after the first month, there are some clear changes; for better and worse:
Family
Friends (though I now regularly Skype with everyone, so that helps)
My stupid gatito O'Malley (I'm sure he's still stupid. Probably even stupider.)
I can cross peanut butter off the list, since I now have two jars in my house (gracias a Dios)
Movies in English (Robin Hood comes out here next week and I will cut someone if it's dubbed.)
Chick Fil A (and they just came out with a spicy chicken sandwich too. Kahhhhhhhhhhn!)
Taco Bell (I found out there is a Taco Bell in the Antofagasta mall, but the menu is as foreign as you please, and I'm not strong enough yet to bear that disappointment)
Not having to wear shoes at all times
Daily workouts
Hamburgers
Summer

Two anecdotes to wrap things up.
The other day during the break at school, one of the teachers jokingly said the reason Nescafe (the powdered instant coffee drunk here since there is no real, drip coffee) got it's name is because it is a shortened form of "No es cafe."
That night at dinner I tried to tell Mena a joke in English. The joke goes,
"What did the man say when he walked into the bar?"
Punchline: "Ouch!"
Thus, I asked Mena, "Mena, what did the man say when he walked into the bar?"
Without missing a beat she replied,
"What man?"