The House that Murder Built

Peter pointed out to me after reading the chapter entitled "Ciudad de Piratas" that I had left some things out.  It is worth noting here that I leave a lot of things out on a regular basis, because to chronicle the entirety of my life and its adventures, experiences and tangents, would fill a book.  Which, coincidentally, I intend to write once all is said and done--should God let me live long enough to leave Calama.  For the time being, I implement a technique I call "literary triage"which I believe is commonly known in learned circles as ellipsis.  However, there was one particular incident that can fill a small entry of its own, and I believe Peter is correct in pointing out that I should make mention of said event.
We, being myself, Peter, and Ryan were on our way back from the small fort known as El Fuerte.  There was a question about housing when our amigas Heather and Vanessa arrived over the course of the next two days and Peter knew of the existence of a hostel somewhere near the extreme edge of Coquimbo, where we where located at the time.  Thus he led us down a street of run down houses that no doubt were over capacity, if the amount of clothes on the clotheslines were any indication, and right up to an ancient, rusted gate through which we could view an enormous, dilapidated house-turned-hostel that advertised itself with a small sign almost completely obscured by weeds that read "Hostel Nomad." Immediately the scene that presented itself to us was one straight out of any throw-away horror film.  We hit the buzzer, were greeted by a crackly voice that inquired as to our intention (at a supposed hostel, mind you) and, once we had stated the obvious, told us to wait a moment while he came down to open the gate.  We were laughing to ourselves at this point, but only as a defense mechanism.

Before long, a skinny man in shaggy clothes and long hair came loping down the path to the gate, which he unlocked and beckoned us inside.  Once we were all in, he locked the gate behind us before waving up the path that led through a jungle of unattended foliage and up to a side entrance.  The inside of the massive mansion was still and empty as a tomb.  Peter told the man that we would like to see the rooms, and the hosteler obliged, leading us through a maze of antechambers.  Everything seemed covered in dust and age, including the dilapidated pool table, the ancient and long since outdated brochures on the mantle of the fireplace, and especially the planks that made up the floor which (true to form) creaked with every step.  It was not hard to imagine the foundation of the house (which we were told was an old English colonial mansion in the Victorian tradition ) behind filled with the bones of past guest/victims.  On the way around to the bedrooms, we passed the office where we all peeked in to see a rifle laying across a stack of papers next to a large pickle jar filled with water and containing a single goldfish.   Our eyes widened at the sight of the rifle, and Ryan nervously chuckled.

The rooms were all named after artists, and we were shown the "Dali" room that featured reproductions of his creepy paintings on the wall above the frightfully old beds that looked as though the last people to have slept in them were subjects of the Crown.  We had, long ago mind you, made up our minds to seek lodging elsewhere and at that point is was simply a matter of getting to the exit without passing the office and allowing our extremely off-kilter host the opportunity to take hold of his weapon.  Peter mumbled something to him about coming back later when our friends arrived and he nodded silently, following us out as we walked towards the gate.  He let us out finally, and though we didn't run away, we certainly walked at a very brisk pace until we were out of the line of fire.

Peter also thought you should see this video of the giant Sea Lion that had taken up residence next to were the fisherman docked to haul in their daily catch to market.

Ciudad de Piratas

Imagine it with sails in the bay, and slightly more pirate-y.

 "There must be a beginning of any great matter, but the continuing unto the end until it be thoroughly finished yields the true glory."
--Sir Francis Drake

There is nothing romantic about bus travel.  Chile, long ago, was crisscrossed by a rail system engineered and implemented by the British that allowed people to cross the vast distances and experience the marvelous vistas at their leisure.  However, as it is told to me, Pinochet had all the tracks ripped up and instead made way for the fleet of buses that now dominate intra-Chile travel.  Today, one must pack into an often stinky, small space and sit cramped for hours on end subject to the the mercy of drivers who neither adhere to nor seem to acknowledge timetables.  True, the buses are much better than, say, a schoolbus or the public transit in Lima.  However, the fact remains they are still just long vans that are cheaper then flying, but often not by much.

In one such bus, Ryan and I arrived in Coquimbo, which was once a harbour and hideout used by Sir Francis Drake.  Now, it is a sprawling city that starts at the coast and works its way over the hills towards the cordillera beyond.  It is the uglier, poorer sister to La Serena and its chief claim to fame is a giant cement cross that towers over the middle of the worst neighborhood in town.  It was late evening by the time we arrived, and Peter (the Slovakian) and Stacey (one of the six monthers who came with us to San Pedro and whom I also met up with in Arequipa by chance) met us at the bus station and led us the fifteen minute walk to their neighborhood.  It turns out they live virtually twenty seconds from each other.  Both Ryan and I were staying at Peter's house that night, and the four of us spent the evening having tea and chatting with Peter's very genial host family.  We then, exhausted from either teaching or bus travel, decided to turn in early (very un-Chilean of us, I know.)

Let's play "What doesn't belong?"

The next morning, Ryan and I had a late breakfast with Peter's host dad and then set out to explore Coquimbo while we awaited Peter who, like Stacey and Alex, had class that day.  We traversed the center of town and, out of curiosity, decided to climb up to the very, very conspicuous mosque that stands opposite the city from the giant cement cross in what appears to be a gesture of Islamic defiance.  The name of the mosque in Spanish roughly translates to "Muhammad's Middle Figure."  There was an aged Chilean keeping guard over the otherwise empty building who gave us a spiel about how it was a Sunni mosque, and they weren't the crazy blow-stuff-up ones.  He also informed us, before giving us a tour, that though there is a population of approximately one hundred and fifty Muslims (Palestinian Immigrants I later learned) in Coquimbo, the mosque is not a true place of worship.  It was built simply to serve as a means of "cultural exchange." If this makes no sense to you, then you are among the ranks of millions of sane people who do not inhabit Chile.   After the rather baffling encounter with the mosque, we meandered through town seeing the Plaza de Armas (there is one in every Chilean city, town, and pueblo) and the water front.  It was down by the bay that we encountered the fish market, which is by far the most amazing place I have yet visited in Chile.  Why might I write such?  Because arrayed in the incredibly odorous stalls that populate the market was the most amazing and varied assortment of fish and sea creatures I have ever seen in my life--and all are available for you immediate consumption.  Think ceviche piled high with all sorts of shellfish that have no names in English, or cups of pure crab meat that you simply attack with a fork, or an entire octopus the size of a small calf complete with beak intact.  Enormous squid lay chopped up into manageable sections that still required two hands to heft.  Thousands of scallops (ostiones) the size of baseballs sat next to quartered sharks that in life would have been large enough to swallow a small child (or average Peruvian man.)  There are food stalls and small restaurants in the middle of the market, where we would later return with Peter to lunch.  At that time, however, Ryan and I both dropped a luca and picked up a giant cup of the cooked ceviche that had, from what I could understand: fish, razor clams, scallops, piure (in English I think we would call them sea squirts), shrimp and some other unidentifiable mariscos.

Bringing in the days crab catch.

After the market, we met up with Peter at his school.  He had for a while told us how the school resembled a penitentiary, and he wasn't far off.  The three of us returned to the market and ate cheap, delicious fish sandwiches and seafood and cheese empanadas.  Finishing lunch, Peter led us out to the edge of town where the bay opened up to the sea proper and where is located the Fuerte; the remains of a small, colonial defensive structure built by the British.  Beyond the fort were enormous rocks that form the coast that turns away to the south from the city, and I was imbued with a strong urge to explore.  Thus, eschewing the beaten path, as is my want, I wandered into the cactus-riddled rocks and was soon followed by Ryan and Peter.  We discovered excellent climbing, and spent probably a good hour bouldering and needlessly imperiling our lives while the perturbed sea crashed below us, thirsting for our doom.  Bored pelicans watched on as we clambered up to their roosts while, in the distance, angry sea lions bellowed out their discontent with our presence.

The Fuerte as seen from above.

 Once thoroughly sweaty and worn out, we trudged back across the city to clean up and meet up with Stacey.  Peter had an asado at his school that night, so Stacey joined Ryan and I in taking the micro over to La Serana to reunite with Alex.  I hadn't seen him since Arequipa, and it had been since San Pedro for Ryan.  I was to stay with him the remainder of our time there, so he led us to his amazing home so I could drop my gear.  He then led us into the incredibly beautiful city of La Serena, with its Spanish architecture, immaculate streets, and tree-filled plaza.  Peter would soon join us at a place called Duna for what is fondly known as luca night, as it was the only joint on the strip in downtown La Serena not playing Reggaeton (which is, without a doubt, the most odious thing about Latin America.)  They actually had US music going, and at one point Stacey and I no doubt puzzled the Chileans with our impassioned sing-a-long to Counting Crows "Mr. Jones"  followed by an extended period of mocking the Boston accent. Peter and Stacey still had one more day of classes, so we split up early and went to our respective places of repose with plans to reunite in the mañana for a day trip to the tiny fishing village of Tongoy where another of our volunteers friends was stationed.

Road to Fiestas Patrias

 "Like all great travellers, I have seen more than I remember, and remember more than I have seen."
--Benjamin Disraeli

It is an amazing phenomenon that life can be perceived as moving at different speeds.  Days in Calama drag, and the infinite emptiness of the desert with it's set climate and lack of seasons make it seem as though time is stuck.  However, as soon as I leave for other parts of the world, time seems to contract, as though space is folding over and in the very moment I am leaving Calama, I am actually returning.  I call this the Calameñan Paradox. 

This paradox was last experienced as Ryan and I traveled south to the Norte Chico region to visit the last bits of Chile north of Santiago that we had yet to come to know.  Thus, though I have a week of events to recount, it doesn't even feel like I've been gone.  However, knowing that as soon as my hands begin to translate my thoughts into words, the tale will inevitably lengthen, I am breaking up the week into installments.  Beginning--wait for it--now:

After indulging our North American sensibilities by setting up three computers and streaming three NFL games (twas fine indeed, except Ryan's Steelers barely beat my Falcons) we boarded a bus bound overnight for the tiny seaside hamlet of Caldera.  Our actual destination was the famous beaches at Bahía Inglesa, located a short taxi ride south of Caldera.  I had been hearing about the beach there since my first arrival in Santiago, and Ryan's teacher had graciously offered us his seaside condominium to use while there.  We arrived in Caldera before the sun was up, around six o'clock in the morning, to find empty streets that echoed with the all too familiar sound of distant packs of dogs wailing.   The two guidebooks that Ryan and brought both indicated that we should make for the plaza to catch a colectivo.  Thankfully Caldera is about as big across as a Super Walmart, and there was little trouble had in locating the plaza, where probably the only colectivo driver awake happened to show up.  He shuttled to the even tinier town of Bahía Inglesa, where we found the condo and I proceeded to nap until the sun decided to show.

We spent the day at the beach, which lived up to its reputation in beauty.  The water was cold, but not frigid, and I decided to take a swim.  This proved a problem when exiting the ocean due to strong winds that picked up by late afternoon and drove everyone--including us--from the beach.  Since Bahía Inglesa in the off season is virtually uninhabited, we decided to walk the five kilometers or so back into Caldera for an evening meal of seafood.  That night actually began about four days solid of seafood consumption that only ended because it was taken over by asado--but I'm getting ahead of myself.  That night in Bahía Inglesa, after walking back in the darkness, we explored the little town and found that there was absolutely nothing to do.  There were no people, the wind had made it chilly, and we had no fire making materials due to the terrain still being desert-like (for a beach bonfire would certainly have taken place otherwise, as secluded as everything was.) Thus we diverted ourselves like children do, as I proved to Ryan I could climb a light pole to the top free-hand.  After he failed to scale the pole, his ire was up and we proceeded to challenge eat other to climbing everything else in town to include trees and rooftops.  After we used a high rock wall for him to demonstrate some professional free-climbing techniques to me, we decided to go home.  On the way we passed a restaurant with lights on that had two girls sitting by themselves out front.  We attempted to talk to them but they wanted nothing to do with us (which, honestly, is very surprising.)  We did at least learn from them that there was a good pizza place around the corner that made one killer seafood pizza.  There is also the issue of "party cat", but the world is not yet ready for that experience.

The next morning as we were packing up, Ryan discovered that he had lost his cellphone, but we had no time to go looking for it.  Presuming it lost, we returning to Caldera and sat down to lunch.  While eating, his phone called mine and the helpful person on the other line explained she had found the phone on the beach and would wait there for him to come retrieve it.  Thus Ryan rushed back by colectivo, picked up the phone, and returned in time for us to catch the bus down to Coquimbo.

Getting Ready to Fiesta

Ryan and I were in the back of a colectivo riding home from the mall the other night, each of us silently watching the tragedy of Calama roll by outside our windows, when Ryan sighed and said,
"It sucks that I'll never be able to fully explain this place to people.  There is just no way they could fully understand."

Since the beginning of September, which is coincidentally our sixth month in country, things have been in high gear in Chile.  I returned home to find a country adorned from every corner with flags and banners in preparation for the Bicentennial celebration during Chile's independence holidays of the 18th and 19th.  The holidays are known as the Fiestas Patrias, and as this is the 200th year that Chile has been (ostensibly) independent from Spain, everyone's national pride is at such high levels I'm afraid that on the 18th people are literally going to explode in fiery balls of patriotism.  I came home from Antofagasta last weekend to find that my own, generally reserved, family had decked out the front of the house in streamers made of miniature flags as well as placed a giant flag--on a pole mind you--in the middle of our patio area.

All week long at the school, the students have been decorating, making costumes, and practicing the national dance known as the cueca, which is inspired by the "mating dance" performed between a rooster and a hen.  It is a terribly silly affair that involves miming a chicken while waving a handkerchief above your head and it is possibly the only traditional Latin American dance where the partners circle away from each other, as opposed to towards.  Children are taught this dance from kindergarten.  I know this because my six year old nephew tried to demonstrate the finer points of cueca to me but ended up looking like a retard trying to stomp ants and wave off flies.  The music that the dance is performed to is a bit like polka with trumpets instead of accordions, and it has been playing out of nearly every speaker in every store, school, and home for the last two weeks.  Since known of my students were particularly focused last week, I spent every class playing card games with them and laughing to myself when they kept pronouncing "ace" as "ass."  I would begin every lesson by showing the cards and asking, "what do we call these in English?" In each class, someone would shout out "poker!"

For our part, Ryan and I are leaving the Norte Grande and spending a week traveling back South to see the remainder of the country north of Santiago that we, as of yet, do not know. This includes the famed Bahía Inglesa (literally English Bay), which is supposedly Chile's nicest beach and where one of Ryan's teachers has a beach home that he graciously has lent out to us. After that, we continue on to Coquimbo and La Serana to meet up with Peter and Alex and experience the Fiestas in a celebration known as the Pampilla, which is (outside of Santiago) supposed to be the biggest throw down for the Bicentennial in the country.  I have no idea what such a celebration would entail, but I am almost positive there will be an excessive amount of hot dogs consumed.

Región Dos Represent

"Give thanks and praise to the Lord and I will feel all right;
Let's get together and feel all right."
--Bob Marley 

I arrived from my long journey back from the States on a Wednesday around lunch time.  I slept most of that day, and woke wearily to teach my first class in nearly two weeks.  The kids were happy to see me, and because my mind was still exhausted from my travels, I ran through a simple poem with them. Since the whole point of being a volunteer in Chilean schools is to actually get kids using the language, I find that things like simple rhymes are more effective then elaborately constructed lessons designed to enforce grammar or what-have-you.  There is nothing quite so satisfying as rapping up a class and actually having many of your students be able to recite the poem from memory.  After class, I ran around the school searching out my teachers and certain students trying to get caught up on everything I'd fallen behind with because of my absence.  I quickly figured out though that, as I had suspected, nothing was really going on. The debates are coming up at the end of September, and as such I had to register my team, but other than that it was as if I had never been gone.

Once I had everything in place, I buggered off back to the house and ate with Ximena, then went about packing things again for my trip that night back to Antofagasta; I had just been through the capital of the region the day before on my way back to Calama.  The reason for such a quick return was a ceremony and lunch that the Fundacion Minera Escondia was putting on for all the volunteers in the Antofagasta region.  Now that all of the various groups (year, 8 month, six month, five month, and four month) had arrived, it was time to bring us all together.  When I arrived Thursday night, the total of volunteers was at 38, but by Friday morning that number had dropped to 36.  I know this because we were standing outside Casa Codelco (the hostal they always put us up in) when the only two Calama volunteers I hadn't met came out toting loads of gear.  Apparently the two individuals were a couple who had come down together, had a rough go of it, and decided to bail.  Thus it was hello/goodbye forever all in the span of five minutes.

Courtesy of Mary Scallion

The ceremony was very formal, and mercifully quick.  We were all called on stage and presented a certificate and a notebook with an engraved copper binding (naturally).  Then, after a brief interlude in an exhibit of Picasso facsimiles that I still do not understand, we were taken next door to a fantastic restaurant and fed the most amazing meal I have yet had in this country.  I was given a plate with an enormous side of beef (short-rib) that had been slow roasted to perfection and actually seasoned with rosemary.  I was not even aware that Chileans knew of the existence of rosemary to be perfectly honest.  After the lunch, we were finished with our program duties for the weekend but as so many of us were together we decided to stay the weekend.  Our friend Peter, the Slovakian, had come all the way up from Coquimbo and we were obligated to show him everything that the seaside desert Paradise of Antofagasta had to offer.  First, we spent the day on the little man-made beach where the weather was exceptional and the water gorgeous.  However, the wind was such that even though the water was bearable, getting out was not.  Thus Lorna and I were the only ones who braved the seas.  It felt good to finally swim in the ocean after so long (it has been a year), and I was, in the moment in which I floated gently in the crystal waters of the pacific, utterly content. 
Having Peter with us also meant I finally got out to see La Portada, which is a giant naturally formed rock arch out in the ocean that serves as the symbol for Antofagasta.  Matt came with Peter, Ryan, and I as did Cameron, who is an enormous and extremely genial black man from Chicago who was a volunteer back in 2007 and now lives and works out of Calama where he goes around to the tiny desert towns to teach English.  He seems to know everybody, and we couldn't walk five feet in any direction in Antofagasta without him stopping to talk with an acquaintance.  To be fair, he is unmistakable.

It's really just a big rock with a hole in it.

I will now take a moment to elaborate extensively, and unnecessarily about my eating experiences. The day after our incredible, free meal at the expense of the Fundacion, a group of us found ourselves at a pizza place called Mundo pizza.  As I am seldom impressed with Chilean attempts at other country's cuisine, it is worth noting that Mundo pizza was delightful.  The pies were all themed by different countries and we decided on a half Peru, half Ecuador (since they are neighbors) and a half Argentina, half Germany (since all those Nazis fled to Argentina after the war.) Out of the four, the Argentina/Germany was agreed to be best, with strong favoritism toward the Argentine half.  That night, and the next afternoon as well, we ate at an amazing empanada joint where I sampled different kinds of fried empanadas filled with cheese and seafood (such as crab, shrimp, and a scallop-type mollusk called an ostion.)  Sunday was again spent at the beach, until Ryan and I finally bid goodbye to Mike, Peter, and Cameron (the only ones left by then) and dragged our butts back to the bus station to ride home to Calama.  Before leaving though, we stopped by McDonalds where I tried the "hamburger of the bicentennial" which was topped with tomato, mayo, and the Chilean equivalent to pico de gallo known here as pebre. 

The only downside to the weekend was our having to pay for lodging, which proved to be more expensive than anywhere I've yet been in South America.  The first night we remained in Casa Codelco in the rooms were had already been given, but on Saturday we were given the boot to accommodate a hoard of Argentinians.  We ended finding a room with three beds that four of us shared in a hostel that was also a Chinese restaurant.  Two of the beds were double and had only a box spring and thus were really no better then sleeping on the floor.  I finally experienced a bit of good fortune and scored a single bed with an actual mattress.  Monday it was back to teaching.

Return?

 "For since the creation of the world God's invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse."
--Saint Paul

Riding up the coast from Santiago to Calama was a breathtaking experience.  Though it was my third time making the trip, it was the first time I had left during daylight and was afforded the opportunity to witness something other than vast expanses of empty desert.  As I looked out the window of the bus my eyes were immediately drawn to the sea.  The sky that day was flat and gray making the point where the ocean and sky met at the horizon almost indistinguishable so that it appeared as though the sky simply folded over and continued back towards the shore.  The coast itself is a dramatic spectacle with waves that rush violently at the cliff sides and about the reefs spraying white jets skyward; a perfect picture of beauty and fury.  Where the land stretched away from the shore appeared undulating hills of green that were bare and windswept so that a picture of such could easily be mistaken for Eastern Scotland.  Then the road would become an alley of eucalyptus trees on either side and I could swear that I was driving south of Sydney, or along the southern shore of Victoria.  Sheep, goats, and ponies roamed the moor-like landscapes, and precious few dwellings were seen.  The closer we drew to the North, the more the trees disappeared and the cacti began to dominate.  The last I saw of the coast was as we stopped in the fishing cities of Coquimbo and La Serana, where the beaches swept wide in a palm-lined crescent, and the hills rose beyond adorned as they were with the picturesque houses all uniform in their Spanish influence.  I awoke at first light to once again see the tyrannical desert asserting its dominion over everything in sight.  I sighed and let it all wash back over me, knowing that for better or worse, I was back home.

The trip to the States was a whirlwind of reunions, eating, and wedding activities.  The entire time I was overwhelmed by the green, the heat, the humidity and I kept thinking that maybe I shouldn't have come back so soon only to turn around and leave after five days.  That thought changed by the fourth day to maybe I should just stay and forget everyone and everything in Chile.  It was a soul wrenching experience that was only intensified after 34 hours of consecutive travel back into the desert; the emptiness, the dryness, the cold.  From the moment I landed in Chile, I knew I was back in a different world.  My Spanish came back to me slowly, but I was able to get through immigration and customs easily enough (though the immigration agent refused to believe that the fat face he saw in my passport was actually me.  I finally had to pull out my Chilean ID to convince him.)  Getting from the airport to the bus station was easy, but expensive because I had to use a transfer service, whereas getting from the bus station to the airport I was able to ride a cheap bus.  I was at least dropped off right outside of the station and able to find a place to leave my bags for the day.  My ticket was for a bus that left at three o'clock in the afternoon, and I had arrived at the station around nine in the morning. I had an idea to go into Santiago for a while, but as I sat on a bench outside in the damp cold and tried to think of somewhere to go, I drew only blanks.  It was chilly, I had very little money, and most of all I just wanted to be on my way.  I said a quick prayer asking God to inspire me to action and immediately the thought dawned on me to just try and change my ticket.  It had been easy enough to do so for shorter trips, and my hope was that I could hop on an earlier bus and not have to pay more money.

That is precisely what ended up happening.  As providence would have it, there was a bus leaving at eleven that morning with one available seat left.  I had my ticket changed free of charge and was shortly on my way, after a quite early lunch at Chilean burger king (palta on a whopper?  Delicious.)  The next I ate was at a small security stop somewhere an hour and a half north of Santiago where I purchased an empanada de mariscos (shellfish) .  I knew it was a bad decision, but I was hungry and I wasn't about to eat a hot dog.  Thankfully I didn't vomit the thing up later, but the shellfish burps were pretty bad and I was glad no one was sitting next to me.  The bus was the longest I have yet ridden, simply because we stopped so many times for very long periods.  By the time we reached Calama the next morning, I had been on the bus for almost exactly twenty four hours.  I was able to be dropped close to my house, which was empty when I arrived.  After I showered and unpacked, Ximena came home and was very excited to see me.  As we lunched together, Carlos came over and I was able to give him a baseball jacket he had me buy for him.  He was eccstatic, and he could not stop expressing his pleasure.  When he finally left, I dropped like a stone into bed and slept in an unconcsious state for a few hours before waking to meet Ryan for a workout session.  Things fell back into place, and life has resumed the Calama rythm I left.  For three more months.

I left with an odd feeling from the States with some lingering questions answered and some new concerns acquired.  Travel has begun to define my person, and I do have a somewhat undefined desire to wander.  Yet, at the same time I saw the threads of my life in the States still laying much as I had left them and looking as though they would be easy enough to pick back up and follow into new directions.  I know my mother prefers the latter, and I personally would love to settle and have a family (she so clearly wants grandchildren), but every time I have attempted to move in that direction, God slams doors and points to far more obscure portals.  On one hand, there is a reason that we have the phrase "can't see the forest for the trees" ingrained into our idiom.  However, if Christ is the ultimate model of how were are to live our lives, then there aren't many ways one can interpret the phrase "foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head."