Sunday, June 20, 2010

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.

1 comment:

  1. FWIW, I've had 2 haircuts here in Valparaiso, at CH$2500 and CH$1900, and they've been just fine, with the same directions I have to give US barbers. But Calama is slightly more remote, and also my hair is short and not mulletable.

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