South, and South Still

Eso es Todo

2010-12-22T09:37:00.001-03:00

I'm going North. Back to the States.

Thus brings this Chilean chronicle to a close.

Keep your eyes peeled for when the book hits shelves.

Patiperro

2010-12-02T10:37:00.002-03:00

I would love to sit down and recount the final days of my time in Calama, as a teacher and otherwise. To tell of the sweet goodbye parties thrown by my students, and of the melancholic goodbyes given by my teachers. To recount the last moments with my family, or the sinking feelings that filled my gut as I walked out of my house for the last time before being absolutely elated to be on my last bus out of Calama. To paint a picture of the absurdity of the last days in Antofagasta and Santiago as the program came to an end. One day soon, I hope to give life to such tales. However, as it stand, I am now a traveler on the move towards el fin del mundo and as such I have precious little time and internet to allow myself the to ramble on about what was, without a doubt, my most emotional time in Chile.

That having been stated, I intend to go on when I can and give little travel anecdotes to give a rough outline of my travels at the moment. The program ended on Friday night, the 26th of November and that next morning a group of us boarded a bus out towards the coast to spend a few days with Heather Tang at her host-family's house in Quilpue. Beginning there, and having yet to cease, the sheer beauty of seeing trees and, well, life everywhere has overwhelmed me and my fellow desert companions. Heather's backyard was a miniature orchard where Matt, Ryan, and I threw up our tents and slept atop grass--sweet, soft, green, grass--for two nights where we lay simply enjoying the sounds of birds in the trees and the smells of flowers slowly turning into fruit. We made a day trip to the beach at Viña del Mar where the water was far too cold to enter, and made asados at night with vigor.

On Monday, Heather and Vanessa took a bus to Pucón and the rest of us (Matt, Ryan, Peter, Stacey, and myself) boarded the lovely train bound south for the town of Molina. Our goal was the national park called Siete Tazas where we heard that gorgeous crystal blue waters poured down seven "tazas" or cups in a succession of waterfalls. Getting there was an adventure that involved a bus ride, the train, a micro, and a 11km hike straight uphill with full packs. We made the campsite well after dark and spent the night exhausted. In the morning we hiked the canyon seeing the amazing waterfalls and enjoying the thick forest that bordered them. We were able to climb down to the final fall to swim, and each of us took turns jumping into the coldest water I have ever felt. Only for a few seconds, just to say we did it. We then napped on sun-warmed boulders lulled to sleep by the roar of the falls. Providence aided us that evening an a random micro driver showed up at the campsite to drop off a group of school children. He offered a ride, for a fee, to the town of Talca further south. Matt had a host-family connection there so we decided to accepted the ride, saving us having to walk the 11km back down the mountain. We were met on the edge of the highway by an old man named Hernan who was extremely friendly and gave us all a ride in his pickup to his house. There, he offered us tea and pernil de cerdo (pork dish) as we chatted and got to know each other. He then took us all in his truck on a nighttime tour of Talca; up the giant hill on the edge of town to view the expanse of the city laid out before us. Matt, Ryan, and I once again threw up our tents to sleep in and Peter and Stacey were given mats to sleep upon in the banquet hall that Hernan owned.

The next morning, we parted with Matt and Ryan, saying our goodbyes to Matt for good (or at least, for the time being) and promising to meet back up with Ryan down the road. They were both aiming to remain in Talca to visit host-family members. Peter, Stacey, and I went into town and caught an 8hr bus to Pucón--where we are now. We reunited breifly again with Heather and Vanessa, before they took off for Valdivia for a few days. The town of Pucón is small and resembles an alpin village, situated as it is amongst thick forest on the shore of an enormous lake. An active volcano smolders just outside town and the smell of wood-burning stoves is thick in the air at night. We have reached a completely different world in this long country, and the wonders are only bound to increase the further we go.

Last Days

2010-11-15T12:33:00.001-03:00

"In the end, everything is a gag."

--Charlie Chaplin

Goodbye to Northern Beaches

I grew up in a small coastal city situated on the Atlantic Ocean and surrounded by marshlands; effectively it was a swamp. My people are coastal folks, going back as far as I can tell in the States, or their respective countries of origin. Thus, I was raised with a strong love of the sea and everything that goes along with it. When I arrived in Chile to teach, I was sent to the one city farthest away from the sea, in a country that is almost entirely coast. Such a reality depressed me, and as such I strove as often as possible to make it to one of the nearby port towns. I say nearby, but the closet beach is in Antofagasta which is three hours away. On top of that, Antofa (as we call it) is ugly and undesirable with el mar being its only true saving grace. The better choice has always been Iquique, which is unfortunately five hours away. Ryan and I, over the course of our seven and a half months in Calama, made four trips together to Iquique (he numbered five himself) for the beach, to hang out with other gringos, and most importantly to forget we were in the desert for a few days.

Immediately following the last debate, Ryan and I along with Lorna hopped a late afternoon bus heading north. Ryan's host-grandparents have a house in Iquqiue, and I was invited to stay there and ride back with Ryan's host family on Monday afternoon. I technically was supposed to teach Monday, but a simple email informing my teacher's of my absence sufficed to get me out of work. It's a good thing that I didn't know things were that easy, otherwise I most certainly would have abused the system. Lorna was staying at Backpackers (my personal favorite hostel in the world) and as such we spent a lot of time hanging out there over the weekend. It being our fourth time there, we were known and remembered and allowed to do what we liked. We once again participated in the Saturday night asado where we met two American sisters called Megan and Danielle, a Chilean engineer named Ricardo who lives in Calama, and a French backpacker named Benedicte. These people became our defacto hostel friends for the weekend. Ricardo and Benedicte had apparently met each other the week before in San Pedro, and the sisters were fresh from Perú where they had flown into on their way down to Santiago to live and work for a spell. English was our common tongue.

On Sunday afternoon, after talking about it since our visit visit back in May, we finally went surfing. Ryan and I woke up, walked over to the hostel were Lorna was already waiting with Lalo, the hostel employee who taught lessons. We were given wetsuits and boards and led out onto the beach. Even though I had been on a board before (some six years prior) it was nice to have actual lessons on technique. After drilling us, Lalo took us individually into the beach break where he helped us get started. After about two hours, I had the hang of things again. Ryan took to the waves easily as well, but poor Lorna was not as apt a pupil. We had a good time for the two and a half hours our ten luca bought us (twenty bucks) while Megan and Danielle watched on from the beach in barely veiled amusement. After surfing, Lorna took off on a bus back to Anto and Ryan and I went for lunch with his family. After a considerable amount of napping, we returned to the hostel to hang out with our new multi-ethnic group of friends. Ricardo was set to leave that night to return to Calama at 2200 hrs, but we made plans to meet up again later that week. He is learning English and he wanted to take advantage of we gringos being around as much as possible. When I asked him how he gotten to such a good level conversationally in English, he told me it was from watching TV shows like "Two ina Hauffman." The owner of the hostel and his friends had another asado that night which they shared with us, claiming the beef they cooked was Argentine. However, like most things Chilean, it was too salty and ultimately a disappointment (but a free one.) Present for the asado was a skank of a woman who claimed to be from Argentina, but who spoke with an atrociously forced accent. All who heard her (English and Spanish speakers alike) agreed that her accent was fake and that she probably wasn't even an native Spanish Speaker to boot. Before leaving that night to return to our place of lodging, Ryan and I made tentative plans to meet back up with the sisters in Santiago when we arrived there at the end of the month. Ryan, I don't mind saying, had taken quite a shine to Megan.

Benedicte et moi.

Monday morning, or early afternoon I should say, we woke and returned to the beach. Benedicte joined us and we spent most of the day becoming sunburnt and talking about Paris. Eventually, Ryan received a phone call summoning us back to the house. I bid au revoir to my new French friend, promising to come visit should my travels take me back to France in the future. Then it was back to the house and into the family's twelve-passenger van. Not only was Ryan's host family packed in back, but his aunt and her three girls. That left Ryan, his dad, and myself crammed into the the front seat for a rather uncomfortable five hour ride back into the heart of the desert. As the image of the sea slowly vanished behind us, I said farewell to Iquique for the last time.

Goodbye to the Greenhorns

For many months, Ryan and I were practically alone in Calama as the only gringos. Sure Mary and Hannah were in town, but we hardly saw the one and never saw the other. Interestingly: Hannah, now after her seven months in Calama dating one of the locals, is engaged to be married. However, that all changed at the beginning of August when the five and four month volunteers arrived, almost all of which are female (the exception being former college quarterback Matt Dowdell from Pittsburgh.) We called them the Tourists, and we were happy to have them around. Whereas the first half of my time in Calama was marked by constant travel, the second half saw more weekends spent in Calama and San Pedro with the white people.

In the nonsensical way that things work in our program, despite having arrived later the Tourists would be departing first. Thus, the second weekend of November was the last weekend the five and four-monthers would be spending in Calama (we vets would be around for another weekend following.) To mark the occasion, Ryan and I brought things full circle and hosted another asado in Parque Loa on Saturday. The first asado was during "winter" and the only other people in the park were drunk vagrants. Our capstone asado found us now in "spring", with families frolicking about and giving the park a much more pleasant atmosphere. We also invited our new Chilean friends, Ricardo, Daniela, and Natalia along to bid farewell to their new gringo friends; too short a friendship, unfortunately.

We volunteers were set to travel together on the following Wednesday to Antofagsta to participate in an English Festival being put on by the Fundación Minera Escondia. After that, the Tourists would bugger off to Santiago while we 8-monther would return to Calama for one last weekend, one last hurrah; a victory lap. Though I've gotten to be fairly good friends with most of the short-timers, I have a feeling that once they are gone I shan't be seeing any of them again. Such, I fear, is the theme of the next few weeks.

Validation

2010-11-10T20:45:00.000-03:00

Debaters and winners all...just some more than others.

"Win as if you were used to it; lose as if you enjoyed it for a change."
-Ralph Waldo Emmerson

Thursday afternoon, the fourth of November saw me waking up and scrambling down to the Teatro Municpal in the center of Calama City. The English Teacher's network in town was putting on a muestra, or a show of talent in English. Many of the schools were participating, to include Luis Cruz Martinez, and the volunteers were expected to be there to judge the performances. I dutifully showed up and cast my votes that morning as kids struggled to sings songs, act out skits, and recite poetry (to include an absolute mutilation of Robert Frost's "The Road Less Travel.") It was, unequivocally, a waste of my time. Meanwhile, my debate team was assembling at the school to do some last minute practice.

All of Team Lucho gathered later that afternoon at the main bus terminal to catch a ride to Antofagsta, just as we had twice before. However, this time, I was not excited. The school had refused to support our efforts, and as such I was painfully aware that my team was not nearly as prepared as they needed to be or even had been before the last competition. The debate finale would cover both previous topics, which was an ill-advised mandate leaving my best kids with the responsibility of memorizing four different arguments; pro and con for both themes. For reasons I never came to understand, I could not motivate Mena or Ivan to share the workload so as to take pressure off of Jorge and Hristo. Thus, by the time we arrived once more at Casa Codelco, neither of them had anything prepared, and it didn't t look like they were ever going to. Since all that was left for the kids to do was memorize and practice, I didn't feel like my presence that night was relevant. Lorna came by after her classes and we went to see Ben Affleck's The Town, which I had been eagerly awaiting for some time. The film didn't disappoint, and I returned to the hostel that night thinking that the movie might be the highlight of the trip.

The semi-final round of the debates started early on Friday morning, with all eight teams assembled in the auditorium of the Fundación Minera Escondia. A sorting was held and each team was assigned a topic, a position, and an opponent. We were praying to get pro on either topic, both of which we were satisfactorily set to argue, but if we drew con on the "Immigration" theme, we were effectively screwed. Long story short, we drew exactly that. Not only did we draw the topic and position worst for our team, but we also ended up having to go first. Our opponent was Ryan's school, and Rio (our regional coordinator and a former volunteer herself) came up to us and smiled telling Ryan and I to shake hands. Ivan was supposed to be our third speaker, but of course he was absolutely unprepared and I was forced to send Hristo up. He had nothing to go on but his memory, a few notes from his old speech, and his ability to converse freely in English. I figured that the lid had been nailed onto the coffin and we were as good as buried.. Thus, the same four team members ascended the stage and debated while I sat by and grimaced at the thought of having to admit defeat to Ryan.

In reality, I had little cause to be concerned. My team was drilled, and they were sharp. I should never have doubted their performance, because as soon as Paulina stepped up and fired the opening salvo it became clear that even an under-practiced Lucho was still a tornado of talent. Paulina's opening was as impassioned and clearly delivered as ever, and she didn't miss a single beat. Then Jorge stood up and made use of the podium this time, assuming a casual air as he perfectly articulated his points as though he'd been discoursing in English from s stage his entire life. Ryan's team, by contrast, stuttered and drew blanks, and displayed an overall lack of public-speaking ability. Jorge and Paulina had executed their parts perfectly, and I knew that Rodrigo would come through, but Hristo was a wild card. By no fault of his own, he was thrown up on stage comparatively ill-prepared. He too used the podium, because I had told him that if all else failed to simply read from his old speech. However, to his infinite credit, he mostly spoke from memory. Before the first debate, I had taught the team a handful of keywords, and it paid off. Hristo threw out every one he could think off, combining them with ideas taken from Paulina and Jorge's speeches and a few lines he pulled and adapted from his con argument for street dogs. He repeated things like "it is erroneous to believe", "this is fallacy", "how can we belive these erroneous ideas", etc. In the end, what he offered wasn't much of an argument, but it well-spoken, cleverly improvised, and convincing. Finally, Rodrigo took his place at the podium, opened with another well-received joke, and proceeded to summarize Team Lucho's position with a confident and deft handling of both the material and the language. I told him later that the Rodrigo I'd seen during the first debate and the one I saw that day at the finals were completely unrecognizable. All told, despite our handicap, Luis Cruz Martinez gave a fine showing and handily beat Ryan's school.

The next three match-ups passed quickly, with our arch-rivals Lazaetta (the Catholic school from Calama where Mary is a volunteer) finally showing their inherent weakness. North College also flopped after a valiant showing. That left Sagrada Famila, San Jose, and Marta Narea (Matt's school) all strong contenders for the final round. There was a brief intermission for snacks after the semi-final and then we all reconvened in the auditorium to hear the scores read. I was fairly confident after watching all the matches that Lucho would make it through to the final throwdown, but it was still an electric atmosphere waiting to hear the numbers tallied. The results were San Jose, Sagrada Famila, Marta Narea, and Luis Cruz Martinez. Paulina was practically in tears as they called our name. Ryan simply shrugged and gave me a congratulatory handshake, admitting that his team had totally let him down and that mine had done better, clearly deserving to advance.
Another sorting was held and once again my team was set to go first. The opponent was Sagrada Famila and the topic was once again immigration. Then, to the complete surprise of no one, we drew con a second time. Both teams were effectively going to have to do the same exact debate they had done in the first round that morning. The event organizers from the Fundación were justing going to let that roll saying, "Es un sorteo" with a shrug. Thankfully for everyone, the judges intervened and suggested that we change things up. After much discussion between the teachers of both schools, the judges, and the organizers it was decided that both teams were to switch positions, but still argue the Immigration topic. Secretly, this is exactly what my team wanted.

Unlike in the semi-finals, Team Lucho was prepared to battle when they went up against Sagrada Famila. It was an even match, but I must say that Paulina and Rodrigo both delivered their best performances. They somehow managed to reach down inside themselves and pull out debaters that seemed for all the world skilled professionals. Jorge and Hristo both managed to top themselves as well. Jorge had an incredibly tight argument and he fired it at Sagrada Famila without a hint of pronunciation error. Hristo was more prepared the second time around, and he was able to forgo the podium and prance around the stage with his signature charisma. Unfortunately, and I don't know how I didn't catch it beforehand, his argument was weak and filled more with jokes than with facts. At one point, he said the following,
"As real live immigrant, John Ford Milton once said 'Immigration is vital to the lifeblood of a country.'" I had jokingly handed him that quote because I couldn't find one to fit his speech, and he busted it out as though it was gospel. I was amused, and the judges obviously didn't catch it, but I'm sure it didn't do us any favors.
Sagrada Famila was equal to Lucho in skill and English-speaking ability, though simply based on performance I would have put Lucho over them. My kids were enjoying themselves, and actually winning over the crowd.

The final match-up of Matt's school, Marta Narea, and San Jose (a self proclaimed "English school") was definitively one-sided. San Jose dominated and because of which, they ended up winning first place over all. They were all girls, who spoke nearly perfect English and had sound, fact-filled arguments. However, they lacked personality and their performance, though excellent, certainly wasn't memorable. Probably due to the weakness of Hristo's argument, we ended up being beat by Sagrada Famila by a very, very slim margin. Thus, Team Lucho ended its improbable run in third place, which by all rights is an extremely impressive accomplishment. We beat every school in Calama--public and private--and were the only public school to make it into the top three. My team had received no support from the school and had virtually pulled victory from the jaws of defeat based solely on their merit as individuals (and considerable help from a certain "real live immigrant.") Each of the winning teams was called up on stage and presented with medals (made out of copper, of course) to keep, a trophy for the school, and a prize (fancy cell phones for third, digital cameras for second, iPods for first.) I too was awarded a medal for my efforts, though I didn't get a prize. However, the most important thing Team Lucho's victory afforded was the ability for me to bring you this image:

Calama, you have your gringo champion.

Team Lucho winning third place was by far the culmination of my efforts as a volunteer in Calama. The victory was a very visible validation of my time as an English teacher. I got to see real development in the English skills of a group of kids who actually cared enough to learn, to take advantage of my presence. Especially in Rodrigo, who was already better at English than I may ever be in Spanish, I had the pleasure of witnessing a maturation and an increase of character; a change far beyond language skill acquisition. I can leave Calama honestly knowing that my time was well spent, and that lives were affected for the better because God saw fit to dump me off in the desert for a spell. I realize too that such results are not common, and that many of my volunteer compatriots will no doubt never have the same blessing of seeing actual fruits of their labours. For this, and for many other things, I consider myself fortunate and ultimately give the credit to the Lord because I know that I personally would have cut and run at the first opportunity otherwise (and tried to, from the school at least), and thereby would have missed getting to join my kids on stage as victors.

Close

2010-11-09T22:26:00.000-03:00

"We gotta get out of this place. If it's the last thing we ever do."
--The Animals

I blinked my eyes and November had arrived. My last month as a English Volunteer in Calama came rushing upon me with a surprising lack of subtly. I was caught up through the month of October in so much activity that I barely had time to stop and reflect on one event, before the next was overtaking me with a vengeance. I met many new people in a short amount of time, to include Daniela, a young math teacher at Ryan's school, and her pareja Ricardo. Both of them are so genial and fun to be around that it will remain one of the great tragedies of my Calama experience that I didn't meet them earlier. A group of we Calama volunteers met them, along with another young math teacher from Ryan's school named Natalia, as we camped again in San Pedro. We all proceeded to have a grand time in true, bilingual fashion. We made another asado (number seven or eight in the month of October alone) as well as rented bikes to ride out to a large public pool at a place called Pozo Tres where I swam for the first time in months, getting a good reminder of what I missed by not being stateside during summer.

Poolside Party Cat.

We had found a much better campsite the second time. It is a place called Buenas Peras and is essentially an ancient pear orchard run by another old Chilean woman who was the complete opposite of the curmudgeon we had dealt with previously. The vieja made sure we had a good site (complete with table, parrilla, and ample shade beneath a gnarled old tree) and even cut us a group discount. We were told we could have a fire, but it needed to remain in the parrilla. That night however, the cold proved intense and the parrilla too limiting. Thus, inevitably, we ended up huddled around a campfire that had been moved out of the parrilla and onto the ground. When the charcoal was almost gone, Ryan and Matt Dowdell (a four month volunteer in Calama) climbed the low wall that separated us from the lot next-door and recovered a large chunk of deadwood. The wood served to keep a nice fire going most the night, which also attracted the attention of the old woman. She came over to good naturedly chastise us, but Daniela and Ricardo came to the defense saying we dumb gringos didn't speak Spanish and hadn't understood the restrictions against fires. The old woman clearly didn't buy the story, but she left us alone saying we would just have to clean up the ashes in the morning and replace the wood (how she knew where the wood came from is beyond me.) Thus, come daybreak, I borrowed a shovel and wheelbarrow to scoop the ashes and Ricardo and Matt climbed up into one of the campsites dead trees to cut free some replacement logs. The woman joked with us saying we had misbehaved, but all was forgiven. She had no problem with us staying another night (but she did, in fairness, make us pay full price the second night.)

Daniela y yo.

The next day was Halloween, which I never celebrate. However, the Steelers were playing the Saints and, since both Ryan and Matt Dowdell are Steelers fans, we decided to get together at our friend and fellow volunteer Sarah's house for yet another asado and a viewing party. Matt and Ryan had during our camping asado figured out how to roast peppers on the parrilla, and on Halloween night they provided a repeat performance to delicious effect. Equally delicious was the Saints victory. Monday was All Saints Day (coincidence?) which is a national holiday in Chile and also the day we had picked to celebrate Carlos' birthday with--you guessed it--an asado. As I have already mentioned, Carlos' birthday wish was to cook up chicken grilled in ketchup. He told me how he had gone to the TGI Friday's in Antofagasta and tried the "barbecue wings" there, but he found them "too spicy" preferring instead his simply ketchup basting.

The following Friday was the Regional Final for the debate competion and as such I was able to get out of classes to try and work with the kids. However, for reasons only known to the mouthbreathers in charge Liceo Luis Cruz Martinez, I wasn't able to have all of the team out of class on a consistent basis, resulting maybe three or four hours of practice spread over three days. Boarding the bus to Antofagasta on Thursday, I was not at all hopeful about our prospects. Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion to the Debate saga in the next chapter.

A Month of Asados

2010-11-03T13:56:00.000-03:00

One of our family's little "urban" parrillas.

"Some have meat and cannot eat, and some cannot eat that want it. But we have meat and we can eat - And let the Lord be thanked."
--Robert Burns

The weeks that followed my Fiestas Patrias experience were punctuated nearly every weekend by an asado of some sort, which is to say I was living the dream. A week or two after returning to Calama, my host brother Carlos showed up on Saturday morning with Emilo and Sebastian, my host cousin's boyfriend, and told me to get dressed and come with them to a "camping." After six or so months in Calama, I was used to finding out I was doing something the minute someone came to pick me up. Apparently that day, Carlos was preparing a huge asado for his clients and socios. I was encouraged to call Ryan, who was still asleep (sidenote: Ryan has a reputation in my family of constantly being either tired, asleep, or falling asleep. A typical conversation will go, Mom: "Donde está Ryan?" Carlos: "Está dormiendo." Mom: "Comó siempre.") Five minutes later, we picked him up from his house and drove out to the outskirts of town where the "camping" was located. The place was simply a park carved out of the nothing consisting of a synthetic soccer field, a quite-obviously-never-used-before tennis field, a picnic area, and a half-full salt water pool. Part of the picnic area was covered by a plywood building, which we took over for our asado-ing. Note, there was no actual camping involved at all.

Whenever my family hacen asado, it is typically my Tia Marcela doing the grilling, which is a shame because that day in the camping, Carlos proved he is a master parrillero. We feasted on a ton of excellently prepared steaks, along with the obligatory chorizos and chicken. That day, however, Carlos was introduced to pollo barbacoa, or in reality, chicken basted in ketchup and grilled. He fell in love, and I tried to explain that in the States we always grilled our chicken in sauces specifically designed for such, but he couldn't wrap his mind around it. Later, at the end of October when we had another asado for his 30th birthday, his birthday request was more ketchup-grilled chicken. The notable story to come out of the camping asado is admittedly an odd one. Ryan and I were sitting next to the grill, baking ourselves under the desert sun, and Ryan happened to have his shirt hiked up halfway up his belly. Emilo walked over and very casually pointed out that there was lint in Ryan's belly button, before preceding to clean it out for him.

The very next day I was awoken again by Carlos arriving to take us over to Marcela's house where, true to form, we had another asado. This time it was simply a family affair. We put a table outside in the patio and spent most of the day eating and talking. At one point, Carlos' baby, Pablito, was handed to me and pictures were snapped. Later, when the photos made it up on facebook, all my host family took delight in claiming the picture was a snapshot of my future.

The following weekends were characterized by my real mother's birthday (she turned forty-eight, the exact age of my host mom), debates (which I have already recounted in previous chapters), and desert camping. After the first debate, the desert walk number one took place which was followed by Ryan, Matt, and I making our own asado at my house. We invited some of the girls over and spent the afternoon watching football on the internet and chowing on grilled flesh. After the second debate, Matt once again returned to Calama with us and we then went together to San Pedro where we met up with two girl volunteers from Antofa and pitched tents in a small campsite outside of town. The place wasn't the best site in the world, but it was cheap. The problem became the fire restrictions. Even though San Pedro is in the desert, and there is absolutely nothing to risk burning down (there are no plants and the buildings are all adobe), fires are prohibited in just about every local. The old woman who ran the site said we could make a little fire on which to cook. Thus, exploiting the loophole, we kept a frying pan poised on the side of the fire the whole night with some choritos (a type of Chilean mussel) simmering. The woman kept coming over during the night to harass us anyway, and at one point when I left the others to go meet up with some other volunteers in town that night, she apparently came over and doused the fire with a bucket of water.

The weekend was a long one as the following Monday was El Día la Raza, or Columbus Day depending on who you ask. The actual holiday was spent eating Chinese food at Marcela's where the news was officially broken that my nineteen year old cousin, Vale, was pregnant with Sebastian's child. Mena had already clued me in to this truth after having to explain to me why my host mom had spent the better part of one afternoon in tears. Marcela, Vale's mom, did not seem as upset. Teen pregnancy is unfortunately a common situation in Chile and as such it isn't as taboo. My own host mom Ximena, who is one of the most conservative women I've met in Chile, got pregnant herself with Carlos at seventeen. In any event, I certainly wasn't surprised at the news.

A week passed with regular teaching days, which generally consist of me goofing off with the kids or showing them an American movie with English subtitles. Things had begun to feel like they were speeding towards the finish, with October coming and going as quickly as a burrito supreme from Taco Bell through the bowels of...well, anyone. Once Friday rolled around again, I arrived at school in the morning to discover that is was Día del Profe (Teacher Day) and that there would only be one hour of classes and then all the teacher's were going to the "camping" I previously mentioned to asado. My host teacher Teresa and her extremely friendly (and short) husband Gonzalo came to pick me up in their car around lunch time and we arrived at the camping to find Oscar (the English teacher in charge of the debate team) already grilling an insane amount of steaks, chicken, and pork ribs. As was the case with Carlos, Oscar proved a deft hand at the parrilla and the meal was by far one of the most flavorful I've had in Calama.

Come the last week in October, I had more or less checked out mentally (maybe from meat-shock.) The seven months had worn me down and a real, powerful longing to leave for home, or anywhere else, began to take shape in mí alma. Before November would finally arrive, on the heels of another long weekend thanks to Día de Todos Los Santos, Ryan and I would have two more asados. Another at my house where we handmade hamburgers and grilled up chicken wings (a hit, of course) and then the last when a group of us once again went camping in San Pedro--a weekend that I will recount at length in the next chapter.

Dieciocho or The Mountain the Tried to Kill Me

2010-11-02T19:03:00.002-03:00

Artist's rendering of the Elqui Valley. Click to Enlarge.

Better late than never....

I came crawling back into Alex's home in La Serena when the sun was already up on the 18th of September, Chile's Independence Day. It had taken me a while to make it back from Coquimbo, and I laid down on the air mattress I was using and promptly passed out. Two hours later, Alex woke me saying that I should get some stuff together, because we were leaving for Valle de Elqui.

The family was already loading their car, as was a rather haggard-looking Filipe. Along for the trip was the adorable family cat as well, whose name I never quite caught. I stuffed some clothes in my day pack, threw on a hat, and hopped in the car with Felipe, Daraya, and Salimy. The drive to the valley couldn't have taken more than forty-five minutes, but nevertheless I was dead to the world for however long it may have been. When I came to, we were pulling into the tiny hamlet of El Molle, nestled near the start of the valley astride the Elqui river. The town was quaint and beautiful, with ancient villas that had existed since Chile first began to develop the region for vintage. One of the villas belonged to Alex's host-family. Built by a long dead patriach, it was now simply used as a retreat and summer home and as such it was charmingly rundown. I helped unload the cars, to included the parrilla (grill) we had packed in Felipe's trunk, and then sat down to enjoy an homemade empanada while the asado was prepared. Meanwhile, the girls grabbed a giant Chilean flag and a super unsafe looking ladder and proceeded to raise the colors. They only managed to get the flag halfway up, after which they all joined in with the Chilean national anthem; their hands over their hearts.

In the back of the house was a long dead and overgrown orchard where a wall-less tent was sent up and under which an old table, some equally ancient chairs, along with a couch and old armchair were placed. The sun was bright, the sky was blue, the plants were so green they were glowing, and stalking insects in the undergrowth was the pet cat. I sat for a while simply enjoying the life that surrounded me. At some point I commented on the big hill that loomed over us and Alex's host mom told us we should climb it while we waited for the asado (cooked this time by Felipe's father.) We agreed, and without fulling realizing just how great a trial awaited us, set forth. As soon as we were at the base of the "hill", I came to realize just how daunting a task lay ahead. There was no discernible path, the slope was incredibly steep, and the whole thing was covered in loose gravel, giant cacti, and multiple different varieties of stinging plants. Despite there being no real reason to even think about climbing the beast, we did it anyway.

Now, Spanish wisely has multiple words for hill, depending on size. This particular geographical beast was a monte, or as I translate it, baby mountain. By the time we made it to the top, I had come to realize that I had bitten off more than I could chew and that the decent was going to be near impossible. On top of everything, my irrational fear of heights inherited from my mother began to act up. Thus, I sat with Alex atop the monte, looking down at the tiny village of El Molle below, wishing for all the world that I had enough sense to not climb up onto high things. Alex, on the other hand, grew up in the Pacific Northwest ambling all over mountains (I grew up in a coastal, sea-level swamp) and as such had the ability to prance about upright like a bloody goat. He even admitted later that his favorite animal was, indeed, the mountain goat. His ease on precipices made me all the more miserable once we began the agonizingly slow decent wherein I had to pretty much slide on my butt most of the way down. Since the ground was covered in devil plants, this meant my hands were bloody and full of spines before I was even a quarter of the way down.

It twas a fine view though.

At least I had a camera, to document my inevitable destruction.

I could think of nothing more, as I scooted down the mountainside, then of how much I just wanted to be on the ground eating asado. I was in one of those positions where you are hopelessly stuck unless you continue forward. In other words, I was in a bad metaphor. At one point, because Alex was moving faster than I was, we became separated. His family was obviously watching the spectacle from below and tried in vain to shout out helpful directions, but their voices were lost to me on the wind. Thankfully, Alex took notice and was able to find me and lead me down a virtually non-existent goat path which eventually dumped us into a less steep ravine. Two hours later, we were back on the ground with a Independence Day mountain (pun intended) of meat awaiting our consumption. The family had a good laugh at our exhaustion. I showed them my hands and Salimy joked saying I had many free souvenirs to remember Chile by now. After we all finally finished eating, blankets were laid out on the grass under the sun and we all took a small respite before the festivities continued with "traditional" Chilean "activities." Activities meant games, the first of which being a ridiculous relay. To that effect, we were divided into two teams. The first person had to spin around a bottle five times, then wobble over and tag the next player. The second person in turn had to run a distance while balancing an egg on a spoon. The third person had to do something with a plate of flower. I have no idea what exactly, but it involved sticking your face in the powder and blowing. I was the fourth person on my team, and it was my job to run over to a tray that held half an empanada and a half glass of wine which I was required to rapidly down before my opponent. Then I had to grab a bandanna that hung from a nearby fig tree to secure victory. Maybe they could tell by simply looking at me that I was the ideal fourth man, or maybe I had somehow betrayed my talents over the course of the past two day's asados, because when it was my turn they watched in wide-eyed wonder as I made both the empanada and wine disappear in the space of a breath. Needless to say, we won hands down. The relay was repeated, but the second time Alex and I were in the first position and required now to spin ten times around the bottle. There is video somewhere of us spinning wildly, falling repeatedly, and stumbling hilariously into our teammates but unfortunately I don't have a copy. The second game was musical chairs, and the third was tug of war. They valiantly put Alex and Felipe opposite me on the rope, but in one tug I had them both on the ground.

The games were followed by more cueca, which I sat by and watched since my legs were still rubber from the maldito monte. When it got dark, we started a bonfire and pulled the old couches and arm chairs up to warm ourselves. I stretched out on the couch after some of the group left (not everyone stayed at the house that night) and promptly passed out. Next thing I knew I was being almost carried into a bedroom where I was tucked in under some sleeping bags. I was finally able to catch up on all the sleep I'd been missing, though I did wake up at one point dying of thirst. The water was shut off though and the only recourse I had was to chug two litres of coke. When I crawled back into bed, the little cat had found its way in and proceeded to fall asleep on my chest. The next day I had to catch a bus back to Calama by six that evening, and so after a light lunch, Alex and I said our goodbyes (which sucked, because another huge asado was being prepared.) Before leaving, the entire family sang what I gathered was a version of "He's a Jolly Good Fellow" in Spanish and kissed and hugged me profusely. Alex's host mom told me I should tell the program that I'd found another family in Serena and to stay. I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to, but I already had a great family back North.

Back in La Serena, Alex and I returned to his house where I gathered my things. We then walked over to the bus station where Ryan and Peter were waiting for us. Vanessa showed up too to see us off as Ryan and I once again, with great sadness, boarded a northbound bus into the Atacama Desert of Doom. By Monday morning we were once again home in Calama, ciudad de sueños rotos.

Diecisiete or Gringo Reunion Tres

2010-10-26T12:16:00.001-03:00

There was something slightly more interesting to the left.

"When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not."
--Mark Twain

In a move that at first seems more centralized in a romanticized view of the past then it does in practicality, Ryan has been filling pages of a journal en su puño y letra (handwriting) since we arrived in Chile. I in turn have been keeping this chronicle, electronic and intangible as it is, but in many ways I feel he has the better idea. Over a month has now passed since the Fiestas Patrias, and that time has forced many of my yet-unwritten experiences out of my memory. A handwritten journal, with passages scribbled on a daily basis, would have served to at the very least preserve a hearty portion of details now lost from my internal library. Thus, now as I write, the stories are more compact, bordering on summary. Caveat in place, I shall reach back to tell of....

...The morning of the 17th of September, the beginning of the long weekend of festivities celebrating Chile's Independence, I was in the house of Alex Olsen's host family. That day, Heather and Vanessa were coming into to town and we would all celebrate Peter's birthday. However, Alex told me he wanted to wait around La Serena that afternoon to have lunch with his family before we headed over to Coquimbo. I agreed and thus we were in the kitchen around eleven o'clock, awaiting his family, when a strange woman who was not a member of the family walked into the kitchen. She put down a box of groceries and greeted us, taking me for a Chilean off the bat and engaging me in conversation that was far too fast and peppered with chilenismos to understand. At one point, she asked Alex and I if would wanted something, I gathered, and (as I commonly do when asked questions in Spanish that I don't immediately understand) I said "Sí." She proceeded to produce two bottles of a Chilenan beverage known as "Lemon Stones" which is basically an ill-advised mix of lemonade and beer. As she handed a bottle to each of us, she said, "No tiene mucho alchohol. Es muy sauve." Mind you, it was not yet noon.

Around that time, Alex's host-mom returned from the store and helped the other woman prepare empanadas. I learned, somehow and at some point, that the Lemon Stones woman was the mother of the boyfriend of one of the Alex's five host-sisters. That sister, named Daraya, along with the boyfriend, named Filipe, and the two eldest sisters, Salimy and Dánisa respectively, were awaiting us at their house for an asado. With the empanadas finished, and the two younger sisters (the aforementioned Nadya and Isis) ready to go, we loaded up in the family car and headed around the block to the other house. Filipe and his younger brother Fransico were grilling up an awesome array of meet when we entered into the massive patio where there was a long table already set. Alex's host-mom handed us fresh empanadas to snack on, and someone started the cueca music playing. I was then ushered around and shown the house while being introduced to all of the other family members and friends present. There was even a rabbit running around somewhere, I was told, but no one could find him at the time.

Before eating, there was extensive cueca dancing. As the females outnumbered the males present 3 to 1, I was forced to do my best to pretend to stomp ants angrily while spinning a handkerchief above my head. I was unaware that my day would include much dancing, so I was inappropriately shod in flip-flops. This, however, did not stop Felipe's mother (The Lemon Stones woman) from insisting, nay, demanding that I learn every step and execute them with vigor. Finally, after Alex and I had thoroughly shamed the national dance of Chile, we were granted a reprieve and allowed to feast. We sat long chatting and eating, and at one point Dánisa lept from the table and ran over to the bushes that ringed the patio. She bent over and rummaged around for a second before coming up again with a giant rabbit dangling from her hand by the scruff while the girls cheered and clapped. As the afternoon wore on, dessert was produced just in time for the other gringos to make an appearance. Vanessa and Heather had arrived and Ryan and Peter had brought them over to meet everyone. Photos were then taken, and cueca dancing resumed.

We were all welcomed to stay and continue to cueca and gorge, but Peter's birthday called to be celebrated, and there was cake and coffee to be had at his host-home. Thus, we left one celebratory eating experience to go on to another. The silly hats worn the day before for Stacey's birthday reappeared and were put on heads as cake was eaten and birthday songs were once again sung (only this time much better, as Vanessa is a skilled vocalist in her own right.) Stacey came over to meet us during the celebration and informed us that Maggie, the other remaining Sixth-monther in La Serena (who had joined us in San Pedro in June) wanted to hang out, and would be waiting for us in the plaza back in Serena. That meant hopping back onto the micro that joins the two sisters cities and making our way back into the center of the much prettier of the two. We found Maggie easily enough, and our group now swollen to 8 gringos in total, made our way down to the beach next to La Serena's famous lighthouse, the Faro. The lighthouse is still functional, and as a special Fiestas Patrias bonus was flashing red, white, and blue lights out to sea all night.

Birthday cake and silly hats.

Before too long, the cold winds coming off the ocean made sitting on the beach in the dark a rather uncomfortable experience, and Peter declared it was his final birthday wish to visit the Pampilla, the great Fiestas Patrias celebration in Coquimbo that had inspired our reunion in the first place. Once more, we boarded a micro in Serena bound for the hills outside Coquimbo. Alex elected to remain behind as he was planning to leave with his family in the morning for their summer house in Valle del Elqui (I would, incidently, end up going with them.) On the mirco, which was virtually empty save for us, we passed the time singing any and every English language song we all knew the words (a decidedly limited selection) to include a mighty, patriotic rendition of our own national anthem. Under regular circumstances, such behaviour could be taken as obnoxious but...well, nevermind. It was obnoxious.

La Pampilla ended up being nothing more than a giant fair pitched on a dusty field. It had all the trappings of any sort of carnvial you may have visited elsewhere; there were rides, countless food stalls, hordes of drunks, and lots of people selling everything from kites to kitchen knifes (3 for a luca.) Given the already shady reputation of La Pampilla, the knives and slingshots available for sale were particularly unsettling, as if to say, "don't worry about bringing your own weapons to drunkenly assault tourists with, we will provide them for you!" There were also numerous fondas, where are essentially big party tents complete with eating, drinking, and dancing. In one such fonda, we ran into Daraya and Felipe and a group of their friends. Daraya was excited to see us, telling me that Alex never hangs out with them and is always so serious. She had thought all gringos must be that way. She was, admittedly, well tipsy off her terremoto (literally earthquake) which is a concoction of pineapple ice cream and white wine that people either love or hate. Our conversing was interrupted by a commotion involving a young flaite outside the tents trying to pick a fight with a slingshot. To my surprise and minor amusement, before anything could transpire bouncers appeared from nowhere and ran the punk off.

Before the night (pardon, early morning) would end, far more absurd events would transpire, but said happenings deserve their own chapter, as I fear this one has grown quite long.

El Camino del Desierto

2010-10-21T11:08:00.000-03:00

Inspired by actual events...which, coincidently, are recounted below.

The weekend after the first round of debates in Antofagasta, Matt Wilson (our only 8-Monther in Antofa) came back to Calama with Ryan and me. We had previously talked about of the three of us walking out into the desert, spending the night under the stars, and then coming back to civilization the next day. Ryan had somewhere along the line suggested that we follow the river out of the city so as not to risk getting lost, and then when we were good and gone, cut a little ways up into the nothing. Thus, come Saturday afternoon the three of us had convened at my house where we had a final meal courtesy of Ximena, packed our things (some food, water, over-wear, and a sleeping bag apiece) donned hats, put on sunscreen, and headed out por el Rio Loa.

We made the river at a bridge crossing near my neighborhood where, as we were descending, we encountered one of the young teachers from Ryan's first school. The two of them chatted for a minute and then we had her take our picture, joking all the while that she might be the last person to see the three of us alive. Then, once we bid her farewell, we trekked along the trickling stream that is the mighty Rio Loa. If there is any beauty to be found in the wastes, it is found on the banks of Chile's longest river. We passed waterfall-filled gorges, expansive marshlands, and many swirling pools of crystal water that was still freezing despite its long journey down from Los Andes. At one point, once we were clear of the city proper and close to being nowhere, our path was obstructed by a ramshackle farm from whence came wafting on the wind the threating call of many dogs. To avoid meeting any quadrupeds, we left the riverside and clambered up to the top of the ravine that was beginning to form. Before long, we were traversing the edge of a fairly deep canyon at the bottom of which wound the tiny ribbon of the Loa.

As we left the last vestiges of Calama behind, the sun had begun to set and we decided at that point to walk out into the desert proper, north of the river. We passed strange things out there, from piles of ancient garbage (volleyballs, mattresses, dolls) to the semi-devoured corpse of a dog that had no business at all being out that far. At one point, just as the light was fading, we came across a giant pile of wood. At some point in the past, someone had dragged an entire tree out into the middle of nowhere, chopped it up, and left it for us to find. Clearly a provision of providence, we accepted God's most irregular and unexpected gift by loading our arms full of all that we could carry before pressing onward. Thus burdened, and now in the dark, we soon ended up returning closer to the lip of the canyon with an idea of returning to the riverbed. However, since there was no moon and we couldn't find a reasonable slope upon which to descend, we just dropped down on the edge of the canyon in the best, clearest spot we could find. The wind had begun to pick up by that time, and with the sun now gone the cold was creeping up on us. Thankfully, we were surrounded by rocks which we built up into a rather nice wall. Once our shield was erected, we were able to use a few candles we had brought along to get a fire started with the providential wood. As the night progressed, and because there was no moon, the stars came out in such inexplicable brilliance that we could clearly see the cloud-like luminescence of the Milky Way. Despite our distance from everything, down in the river valley and off in the distance could still be heard the devil barks of desert hounds; reminding us that in Chile, dogs are inescapable.

Chileans who discover our wall will no doubt assume it was built by aliens.

When dawn broke, we packed our sleeping bags and walked back to the city, leaving behind our wall as a reminder to the desert that we had once been there.

Redemption

2010-10-18T20:47:00.000-03:00

"People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed, and redeemed; never throw out anyone."
--Audrey Hepburn

After the primer ronda of debates in Antofagasta, in which my team resulted in fifth place, my co-teacher Oscar ensured that each day leading up to the segunda ronda would be spent in preparation. This meant that neither the kids, nor I, attended regular classes. Instead, we spent Monday through Thursday morning formulating arguments, turning them into speeches, and drilling them into memory. Rodrigo returned and promised that he had learned his lesson from the first round and proceeded to prove his renewed dedication by practicing his speeches with the group. The topic of round two was "Chile should maintain its open door policy on immigration," which led to incredibly racist discussions by my group. On Monday, I spent most of the day convincing the kids that they must argue about immigration for all nationalities, and not specifically Peruvians. They, in turn, spent all day trying to convince me of how awful Peruvians are and why I should, like them, personally hate the entire population of Perú. By Tuesday, they had been able to come up with coherent speeches that were only partially xenophobic.

For the second round, we kept Paulina and Rodrigo as our opening and closing speakers respectively, with each of them preparing both sides of the argument. We then had Jorge and Hristo prepare for the opposition and Mena and Ivan prepare for the proposition. Daniza again helped by doing fantastic research as well as preparing speeches. She valiantly combed through the mess of incoherent jargon that is the existing Chilean immigration policy pulling out the vital points on which we would form our assault (principally on the opposition side.) I found them immigration statistics that, surprisingly, the Chilean government has posted online in impressive detail.
By Thursday, we were once again prepared as well as we could be, to include Rodrigo who had, as he promised, spent the week memorizing his speeches and reciting them to the group for critique and analysis. We all walked to the bus station and once more took the three hour ride through the desert to the coast. Once in Antofagasta, I put us on the only micro that didn't go directly by the hostel and we ended up having to walk a few blocks. However, we arrived just in time to eat the depressing fare that was given to us as "supper." After eating, we took a short walk down to the shore where Oscar and I drilled the kids and made last minute pronunciation adjustments.

In the first round, we had competed in the afternoon and had had ample time to observe the other teams and further practice. The second round was different. We were positioned in the morning session, and as the draw went, we were competing in the second bracket. Thankfully, however, the Tocopilla team that had finished first in the primer ronda went in the first bracket and, as fortune would have it, bombed. All the sass and charisma they had displayed in the first round was gone and the poor girls clearly struggled the entire time to recall their speeches. On the flip side, Lorna's motley crew improved dramatically. Oscar and I laughed as her kids recited their speeches (clearly and admittedly written by Lorna herself) in which they unknowingly, albeit passively, insulted their own country's food, culture, and ignorant bureaucracy. Then it was Team Lucho's turn to take the stage.

We had once again drawn the opposition, and as such the same speakers alighted upon the stage (Paulina, Jorge, Hristo, and Rodrigo in that order.) The proposition was a weak Antofagasta school with a volunteer I had not really met yet, but who I knew was originally from Russia (by way of Canada.) Both Oscar and I had encouraged the group to use the microphone this time, but Paulina was in the zone and forgot to grab one. Thus she walked right up to the edge of the stage, front and center, and dove headfirst into her passionate plea for Chile to change it's policy. She was even better than she had been in round one, nailing the high points and setting the stage for the rest of the team to shine again. Jorge followed and also forgot the mic, but he spoke with strength and charisma as he had before. He strutted the stage, directed his assault at the enemy, and implored the judges. Most impressively however, was how he managed to imperceptibly recover when he forgot a large chunk in the middle of this speech. Instead of standing open mouthed trying to recall the information, he simply improvised a few lines and jumped ahead to what he could remember. No one even noticed. Hristo followed hard and fast, and he too upped his game. He was pitch perfect, and had the entire auditorium laughing along with his exaggerated and smarmy delivery. Though it really didn't matter, the other team was completely demoralized by the time Hristo returned to his seat.

We were once again given ten minutes to confer with our final speaker, and this time I could tell that Rodrigo was holding it together. He was still nervous, but he planned to use the podium which (in light of the circumstances) Oscar and I both agreed was a good idea. When it was his turn to speak, I watched on with my stomach in knots. Because he was behind the podium, he had a mic and his fake British accent boomed out across the room as he opened with his joke. As the laughter of the crowd (those who got the joke at least) subsided, Rodrigo went on to prove himself. He powered through his speech with perfect timing and pronunciation, making it seem as though we was simply, and effortlessly having a discussion with the crowd. The night before, he had come to me and very maturely apologized for his previous behaviour, and promised me he had learned the lesson that public humiliation had taught him. That day, as he finished his speech and applause swept the room, it was clear that his words had been heartfelt and truthful and that he had indeed redeemed himself in everyday. Our team finished with the highest score that morning. With the scores from both rounds added together, we were a solid third over all. After seeing Rodrigo perform at the fullness of his capabilities, I knew that we belonged in first--and would have been there otherwise. No other team had exhibited the charisma and heart that Lucho had shown. The other teams that made the cut had simply repeated memorized speeches. Lucho had debated.

In the end, we only had to make the top eight teams to qualify to compete in the final. The other seven included Ryan's school, which finished sixth, along with the other schools that had 8 Month volunteers (coincidence?). The final takes place on the 5th of November (Guy Faulks Day).

Don't Hate, Debate

2010-10-06T20:13:00.002-04:00

Team Lucho

"He who wants to persuade should put his trust not in the right argument, but in the right word. The power of sound has always been greater than the power of sense."
--Joseph Conrad

A few weeks after the adventures that transpired during Las Fiestas Patrias, which I admittedly have not yet chronicled in their entirety, preparation began at my school for the English language debates that were to be held in Antofagasta. I had been prepping a team since my arrival, but things began in earnest after the Fiestas since the first round of the tournament was to be held Friday, the first of October and none of my team were particularly ready. The group of seven students had been hand selected by myself and given the opportunity to work outside of their regular classes, but it was only after a chewing out by Oscar, the English teacher officially in responsible for the team, on the Monday prior to round 1 that the kids got motivated.

Allow me to explain the situation. The English language debates were begun when the Programa Inglés Abre Puertas (PIAP) was initiated some seven odd years ago. Each year teams would compete on a regional level, with the best teams eventually advancing to a one-on-one showdown in Santiago. The prize was a expenses paid trip to Easter Island. That was in the past. This year, ever since Piñera was elected the new president of the Republic, education programs have been being scaled back--to include PIAP. Thus, in the year 2010, there is no nationwide debate competition. However, Región Dos (Antofagasta) is its own little fiefdom that is run, for better or worse, by the mining corporations; the largest of the private corps being Minera Escondida. As part of their deal with the Chilean government, Escondida has to contribute a significant amount of its considerable profits to "community development." This is done through the Fundación Minera Escondida which this year absorbed the PIAP in Antofagasta. This means the Fundación pays the volunteers, organizes all the PIAP events, and generally gets things done in a way only private organizations can--including keeping the debate competition going. Therefore, this year all of the high schools in Región Dos were invited to register teams to compete in a three round tournament held in Antofagasta city. Nineteen schools registered teams (which could include up to six students, even though only four debate at a time) and were given two topics upon which to prepare their arguments. The topics are as follows:

Chile should implement the humane killing of street dogs.
&
Chile should maintain its open door policy on immigration.

The first topic to be debated upon was the street dogs topic. I had a blast helping my kids come up with their arguments, because I personally hate every single dog in this country and would love to execute each and every one, by hand if necessary. My team consists of seven students, one of whom simply helps research and prepare because she can't actually participate in the debates themselves. The team is: my host sister Mena, a junior named Paulina, three sophomore boys named Jorge, Ivan, and Hristo; and two seniors named Danitza and Rodrigo. Rodrigo is nearly fluent in English, and my teacher assumed he was a lock and thus placed him in the crucial fourth speaker position. I had my doubts, especially when he refused to practice with the group. When, on Wednesday before the first round, I called on him to deliver his speech before the team, he flat out refused. He assumed an extremely arrogant manner that prompted Jorge to call out to him, "quit being a diva!" The rest of the team prepared exceptionally, and we were all pretty confident when we boarded the bus for Antofagasta that Thursday afternoon.

It's hard to be gangster in a cardigan.

The tournament was split into two parts, with ten teams competing in the morning and nine teams competing in the afternoon. If you can math things, you will see a slight discrepancy which led to one team in the afternoon having to compete two times. That team, called North College, ended up being our opponents when we finally went at the very end of the competition. They had the option to choose a side since they were debating twice, and they chose the proposition side, leaving our team (Lucho) to argue that "Chile should not begin the human killing of street dogs." While the team had practiced all morning, I had gone in to watch the first half of matches. First up had been Lorna's (the Brit volunteer, if you'll recall) school and a school from Tocopilla. Lorna had told me ahead of time that her team was not ready, largely due to the English teacher at her school quitting a week before leaving her the sole person in charge of the team. The match did go poorly for her team, and she was quite upset, but it was not in anyway her fault. The Tocopilla team (which ended up gaining the most points in round one) was on fire. They were a sassy quartet of young females who spoke fluently and strutted about the stage, dripping with presence. I took notes, and returned around lunch to impart the intelligence I had gathered on team Lucho. Thus, by the time we entered the auditorium that afternoon, my team was pumped and armed. My team was fighting for Calama pride, and to prove that as a public school they were just as good, nay, better then the semi-privates that competed against us.
Ryan and his school were in our group, and they fared well but not as good as we had expected, given their reputation for excellence.

My team finally took the stage at the very end of the competition. Oscar, their teacher, told them not to use the mic, which was a poor idea but it did free them up to utilize the entire stage. Paulina opened us with an impassioned introductory that encouraged Jorge to come out guns blazing as our second speaker. He spoke almost perfectly, without a hint of the stutter he usually has in regular speech, and his charisma level was off the charts. As I had instructed, he addressed the enemy and asked rhetorical questions to them, which he then answered while facing the judges. In short, he nailed it. Then Hristo came out and raised the energy level a notch higher, feeding off Jorge's success. He didn't speak as well, but he improvised wonderfully and had the audience laughing along with his performance. Then came the ten minute break in which the teacher and volunteer are allowed to come up and help prepare the summary speaker for the final engagement. I could tell right away that Rodrigo was going to fail us. It was written all over his face. The team gave him the notes they had taken while listening to the proposition, and I offered him a few notes. I then sat down and watched the proverbial train wreck take place as Rodrigo drew a complete blank when he stood up in front of the crowd. He babbled for about a minute, referring to his notes, then casting them aside, now picking them back up to finish his time by reading off his note cards from behind the podium. The team was crushed. Victory had been ripped right out of their hands by the pride of their "best" speaker. Rodrigo further dishonored himself by breaking into tears as we left the competition. I was not at all surprised, and likewise I had very little sympathy. He later admitted that his pride had caused his fall, and that he was extremely shamed for having let down the rest of the team after they had succeeded with such flair and vigor. We ended up in the fifth place slot out of nineteen due to Rodrigo's low numbers, but we at least managed to beat out Ryan's school by a fraction of a point.

The next round is a few days away, and my teacher insisted that Rodrigo remain the closing speaker. Whether or not he will redeem himself remains to be seen, but for the sake of the others I hope his public humiliation had a positive effect on his attitude. Como siempre, Vamos a ver.

Dieciséis

2010-10-04T11:38:00.000-04:00

City, thy name is Serenity.

"Tis healthy to be sick sometimes."
--Henry David Thoreau

I awoke Thursday morning, the 16th of September in La Serena and remembered that it was my Father's birthday. It wouldn't be until later that evening that I would be in Coquimbo and have the chance to use the internet to call him (even though I only ended up being able to leave a voice mail) and long before then a few interesting developments would take place. I had slept little, for when Alex and I returned to his house the night before we discovered his two youngest host sisters, Nadia and Isis, sitting around the kitchen table with a group of friends talking and drinking wine. I took the opportunity to meet the two of the five sisters present and in doing so betrayed myself as a gringo. Immediately, one of the people at the table began speaking to me in English. He was very excited, and would not leave me alone. He kept thanking me for speaking English to him, even though I was doing my best to ignore him and speak in Spanish with Alex's sisters (who are 17 and 20 respectively) because Isis spoke no English. Nadia clearly understood a good deal, but was not able to converse. As such, I found it very rude and annoying for that stranger to keep badgering me into English. I write stranger for we found out the next morning that the girls didn't even know who he was.

The next morning, Alex and I were up before the girls when his host-mom, who I had met the night before, came into the kitchen and chatted with us for a while. The day then progressed with us leaving for Coquimbo to meet back up with Peter and Ryan for our planned trip a little ways farther south to visit the town of Tongoy. We all squeezed onto a little shuttle bus that took us down the coast amidst the company of school children who apparently bus to Coquimbo to find better education opportunities then the tiny fishing village they call home can afford them. This is interesting, given the fact that there are two schools in Tongoy, both of which are staffed with volunteers. One of the volunteers, Ryan Ahern or "Otro Ryan", I hadn't seen since Santiago, and thus I was looking forward to surprising him with my presence. We found him asleep in the the house he shares with the other Tongoy volunteer, named Matt, he having spent the early afternoon at a school-sponsored asado. He was indeed surprised to see us, and once roused, took us to a good seafood restaurant located on one of Tongoy's two sweeping beaches. We enjoyed our food, but Ryan (Morrison) likely took ill from it, as we would discover later that evening. After eating, Otro Ryan and Matt took us on a tour of the town and beaches, which didn't last long given the tiny nature of the locality. However, despite the small size, I really fell in love with the place, especially after Otro Ryan told us how he spent most afternoons sea kayaking with his kids. We watched the sun set just beyond the natural harbour and then caught the last bus back to Coquimbo with Matt and Otro Ryan planning to meet us there later since they had a friend with a car who could drive them.

Tongoy Sunset

We made it back to Peter's house and I used Google talk to phone my parents (because Google talk allows you to call the States for free.) It was past their bedtime, I reckon, because I got the voicemail and was obliged to leave a message with Ryan, Peter, and Alex all singing "Happy Birthday" in English and then Spanish in the background. Around that time, Ryan began to complain about not feeling well, but we told him to quite whining and suck it up because Stacey was coming over soon and we had her birthday to celebrate. The other guys had, earlier that day, bought a bunch of stupid party favors to include a clown/princess type hat that Stacey was to be required to wear the entire night (this, as you might imagine, did not transpire.) It was a nice gesture however, and right as Stacey got to the house and we began singing "Happy Birthday" again, Ryan chimed in with a chorus of vomiting. Somebody said "hospital", and before you knew it Ryan was being carted off by Peter and his host parents to have an IV hooked up to him and....well, that's it. The experience undoubtedly lessened the enjoyment of the remainder of his Fiestas Patrias, but thankfully he recovered quickly and nothing more serious then a prolonged bout of vomiting beset him. The lasting result of Ryan's poisoning was to give every Chilean we would encounter over the next two weeks something to talk about other than the weather.

The next day would be Peter's birthday and the official beginning of the Fiestas wherein there would be mucho asado, my visit to the Pampilla, all followed by a trip out to the country for an amazing time with Alex's family. These things, and many more, are yet to be elaborated upon. However, as time has moved quicker then my ability to chronicle the aforementioned events, the next few chapters may not come in order. Vamos a ver.

The House that Murder Built

2010-09-29T12:52:00.001-04:00

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

2010-09-23T20:43:00.001-04:00

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

2010-09-21T14:16:00.000-04:00

"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

2010-09-12T10:21:00.001-04:00

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

2010-09-06T23:25:00.002-04:00

"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?

2010-09-01T23:42:00.002-04:00

"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."

Always on the Move

2010-08-23T12:11:00.001-04:00

"He's leaving,
On that midnight train to Georgia,
And he's goin' back
To a simpler place and time."
--Gladys Knight

I am returning for five days to Georgia to be in the wedding of one of my best friends, but by bus and plane as opposed to a train. It has been five months since I left, and I can't even imagine how strange it is going to be to see trees and grass everywhere, and to have everyone speak English. The week will undoubtedly exhaust me, and I already have two weekends of travel behind me from which I've yet to fully recuperate (or even partially recuperate, for that matter.)
I was sitting at lunch with my host mom and host sister-in-law the other day about to leave for the weekend to Antofagasta. Claudia, the sister-in-law, told me that she had been talking with Carlos, my eldest host brother, the other day and that he had said with a sigh that he wished for one week that he could be me because I am always traveling. In Antofagasta, I got to talking with some of the other volunteers stationed there and it began to become aparent that Ryan and I are by far the most traveled individuals in our region, and maybe out of the whole 8 month group. We have been to every noteworthy area in Región II, some places multiple times, and seldom a weekend passes that we are actually in Calama. Part of this is out of necessity, no doubt, but it does occur to me that I have been nursing an inherent wanderlust that infected me the moment I left the States for the first time.

The weekend before the Antofagasta trip we had returned to Iquique for the weekend (it was Ryan's fourth time and my third) where we stayed in the same amazing hostel and had probably the best time yet, at least on my part. The weekend was marked by our meeting of two dutch girls, Anne and Eli, and their 19 year old Viennese companion named Georg. We became quick friends and spent the weekend with them (among others, including your usual assortment of Aussies, Brits, and Chileans from the south.) However, to recount the entire experience would be impossible, or at the very least would fill up a blog by itself and still be lacking. Thus, I will not try to recount everything, but simply proffer an anecdotal summary.
Minutes after meeting the three, we dove into a deep religious discussion where I found myself explaining Christianity only to have that night end somewhere around six in the morning packed in a stranger's truck with four other people (9 total, including the girl who works at the hostel who knows us by name now) driving home from a dance club. The next night was sheer madness. Ryan and I returned from having our minds blown by Inception (best movie of the year, at the very least) and took a nap. Anne storms in around seven that evening, already drunk, and forced us out of bed screaming, "Is this a *expletive* joke?" We proceeded to spend the rest of the very, very long night pulling her from traffic, picking her off of supermarket floors, and explaining to a bouncer at the club, in Spanish, that she hadn't fallen in front of the door, she had just stooped down to pet a dog. The next morning she was bright and chipper as though nothing had happened.

I was understandably exhausted upon our return to Calama, but proceeded to have an excellent week teaching. Very soon I hope to post about my new semester, as it has been a far-and-away improvement from the previous four months. That next weekend, in Antofagasta, the program was hosting a public speaking competition for octavo students (eighth grade) and as such, there was a convergence of volunteers on the port city. I teach in a pure high school and was not part of the competition, sadly, but I left that morning after class to meet everyone for the weekend. Vanessa had come up from Tatal and we spent the weekend with Matt, Lorna, and one of the new five-monthers, Emmy, who is teaching in Tocopilla (a small, ugly fishing/mining village a north of Antofa.) We also met up with our Mexican friend Monjiuth, as well as Camilu (who, if you'll recall, I first met in Tatal.) Saturday, we gringos went about an hour north to the small, tranquil fishing village of Mejillones where we hung out on the beach and ate a most incredible seafood feast. That night, Emmy continued on north to Tocopilla and we returned to Antofagasta to attend a birthday asado with Camilu.

Matt, Ryan, and I retired early from the party because we were exhausted, bidding farewell to Vanessa and Camilu and heading back to his apartment. The next day, one of Ryan's teachers in Calama who has family and an apartment in Antofa invited us over for lunch. We spent the day with Walterio, as he is called, and his son. He drove us around to show us the sites, and we stopped at this amazing seaside restaurant where he bought us empanadas de mariscos which are filled with all sorts of delicious sea creatures such as octopus, abalones, and limpets. He even took us to the bus station so we could refund our tickets as he was dead set on us riding back to Calama with him in his SUV. It was a most excellent weekend, all in all, but I returned that night to Calama completely worn out with the task of packing for my return trip to the States still ahead of me. However, si Dios quiere, I will spend the next week in my homeland and return again to the desert for another three months. My friends here don't think I'll come back...vamos a ver.

Memory of a Thunderstorm

2010-08-12T19:54:00.003-04:00

"I get my best ideas in a thunderstorm. I have the power and majesty of nature on my side."
--Ralph Steadman

It rained in Antofagasta this week, and all along the desert coast of the Norte Grande. The city was thrown into a state of havoc, as it is neither accustomed nor prepared to handle any amount of rain. My fellow volunteers had their classes canceled as all the schools were shut down for fear of mudslides and flooding. Lorna, my British friend, told me her classroom took water and ruined her "useful words" posters. Ximena, my host mom, explained to me after that almost none of the houses in this region have roofs that are sealed, those that even have roofs and not simply tin sheets laid over each other or, worse yet, simple tarps. She spoke of how during the one time that it rained in Calama long enough to produce a noticeable effect, our kitchen had leaked. She then proceeded to show me the still extant damage to the molding near the ceiling. The news the day after explained how hundreds of people had to sleep in the schools because the insides of their houses had been soaked. Two days later, they are still cleaning up the damage.
However, it did not even become cloudy in Calama that day. I fell asleep in the silence that night imaging what it would be like to hear the soft drumming of raindrops on the window. I dreamt of storms.

Brisbane, post-storm.

I remember sitting on the second story balcony of a corner pub in Brisbane as a storm slowly rolled in from the distance; the deep guttural growl of thunder preceding as the bright afternoon sky turned a surreal gray. I could smell the water in the air before it came; rain that began softly, growing with the thunder claps into a rush that obscured the world outside. The rhythm of the rain drops pattering on the roof, crashing against the pavement of the street and the soft hiss that seems a sort of silence itself enveloped me. The storm didn’t last long, and it dissipated as quickly as the sun sinks into the ocean on a summer’s evening

Puns

2010-08-11T23:48:00.000-04:00

From Facebook comes an epic exchange of Calama themed puns between myself and my British friend Lorna:

Lorna: How was your BBQ?
Me: It was a true to form Calama experience. Two drunk crazy people accosted us and at least fourteen dogs joined the party. Good food though, cooked to perfection (if I do say so myself...and I do), and good people. In other words, it was Calamazing.
Lorna: Not a total Calamity then?
Me: Of course not, I'm no Calamateur.
Lorna: And the newbies are Calamiable?
Me: Oh yes, quite. I'd say we've Calamassed a good group here.
Lorna: Are you going to Calamalgamate again soon?
Me: Perhaps over drinks. The new girls are fans of Calamaretto.

After that, she conceded victory to me. However, I felt that the last entry was such a stretch that I call it a tie.

Calama: The Series

2010-08-10T10:41:00.000-04:00

"Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures."
--Ralph Waldo Emerson

Recently, my narrative side got the itch to return to fiction. Writing about everyday life and the events that occur during travel and such is interesting, and good for informing my adoring public of my movements, but it lacks a certain sensational aspect that I happen to enjoy. Thus, last week, I began a series of stories on a separate blog in the still of early magazine serials. Titled simply, Calama: The Series, I have decided to spin a yarn of crime fiction that incorporates the harsh truthes of Calama into a sensationalized narrative. I hope you will check it out and find it enjoyable. I'm certainly having fun writng it. My goal is to have one to two episodes appear a week.

So stay tuned to Calama: The Series to experience the drama of a dirty city full of dirty people and dirty deeds (the official tagline.)

These Days

2010-08-09T22:26:00.001-04:00

New Gringos in Calama, por fin.

"These days I seem to think about how all the changes came about my ways..."
--Nico

Vacation ended, as it must, after a very short two weeks and I was once again back in Calama, acclimatizing as best as I could. This meant congestion, nosebleeds, and ashy skin. Despite having spent fourth months in the desert already, it was a full two weeks before I was at stasis levels. I arrived on Saturday night from Santiago, had a day to decompress, and Monday I was back in the fray at Luis Cruz Martinez (my school.) This semester I was only teaching the Primeros (Freshmen) and Segundos (Sophomores) and after a week of observing their classes and introducing myself, I could already tell that things were going to be better than they had been with the Terceros (Juniors) and Quartos (Seniors.) The younger kids, by and large, are more interested in learning and already have a more proficient grasp on the language. This is due to a few factors, not least of which being that they are part of the first generation in Chile to have benefited from mandatory English schooling beginning during 5th grade level. The classes are better, but I have more of them and have to spend considerably more time at the school, getting there early everyday. My second week back, one of the the three teachers I work with, Nelida, fell ill and from Tuesday on I took over her Segundo classes. I volunteered to do this not realizing I would have to come up with a lesson on the fly for 80 minutes and 45 kids each class. Everything worked out and I became further convinced that I could easily be a regular English teacher in Chile, not that it's something I care to do.

Other things were different as well. After a few days back in Calama, I finally met the one host brother I had yet to see because of his being at university in Valparaíso. Pancho, as he is called (the nickname for Fransisco), is nineteen years old and an engineering student. While he was here he and my host-dad (whom he calls tio, or uncle) fixed the solar water heater and now it is not necessary to light the calefont every time we want hot water. We shared the bunk bed in "my" room during his stay, but he pretty much kept to himself; playing Wii or basketball, not much else. He looks very much like Carlos, whom he favors in temperament, but all three brothers are extremely different.

Our Star Trek-esque interface for the solar water heater.

Ryan and I began, on the Monday after I got back to Calama, a work-out routine. We were both sick of bread guts and decided to go out and join the fitness club. Our fee allows for three days a week for a month. Our schedules being what they are, we have to go after classes when the place is packed, but thus far it has worked out. We also started long distance running on the weekends. I immediately dropped two kilos just from exercising at all and cutting out the pan intake.

For the past four months there have only been four volunteers in Calama, and Ryan and I were the only ones who saw each other. Every once and a while we would see Mary (like when we went to Antofagasta) but we had started to believe Hannah had never really existed and we had just made her up. However, the past two weeks since the ending of winter vacations have seen an influx of new gringo blood into this dusty city. Almost all females, and numbering close to 10 people, the new volunteers belong to the 5 and 4 month programs and will be sharing our mise--er, uh, I mean, experiences until we all head out at the end of November. Ryan and I decided, since we hadn't met everyone yet, to organize and asado in Parque Loa (the one pretty part) and invited everyone. He and I mastered the grilling portion, and the event went quite well except for the cadre of dogs that surrounded our picnic table and the two extremely drunk, crazy people that accosted us at various times throughout the day. Mary came too, as well as Hannah, proving that she is indeed alive. Now we all have new playmates that speak English, so the next four months ought to be vastly improved.

As I write this, I am a few days over halfway through my time here, and its hard to imagine being here for the next half. However, to quote the under-appreciated masterpiece of Crusader cinema, Kingdom of Heaven, "God wills it!"

Yanquis in Latin America: Time to Santia-Go

2010-08-05T13:31:00.006-04:00

I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...

Day Fourteen: I am well aware that the title of this post is incredibly cheesy, but I do not apologize for it. After a whirlwind tour of part of Perú, Chile, and Argentina, the Yanquis found themselves in the (then) rainy capital of Chile about to part ways for a while. BT and Chris were to fly north, eventually reaching Lima again so as to fly back to the States, and I was to hop on a twenty two hour bus ride back to the wilds of the Norte Grande.

It was cool and rainy the majority of our last day together, and as such we didn't go to the top of Cerro San Cristobal as I had planned, since we wouldn't have been able to see anything. I did have the opportunity to show BT and Chris around Bellavista, the bohemian-esque neighborhood at the base of the hill, and we all enjoyed a last lunch together at the one "Irish" pub in Patio Bellavista creatively named Dublin. The rest of the day unfortunately passed quickly, and rather uneventfully, and by six o'clock that evening there was a cab waiting outside the hostel to bear Chris and Brandon away from me. I gave them a cheat sheet of Spanish phrases to help them on their way back across the border into Perú, and then we bid our goodbyes. The trip had been too short, but packed, and we all three were sad to see it coming to an end. I was particularly sad because they were going back to the States with Taco Bell, real coffee, and English whereas I was going right back to Calama with its rocks, dust, and dogs.

After seeing the others off, I sat around the hostel chatting with Mike and Nick, learning that they were former marines who had been touring Brazil and Argentina for about six weeks before (neither of them speaking Spanish or Portuguese.) I did some catching up on the internet, and finally around 2200 set out in the light drizzle to take the metro to the bus station.

I slept the majority of the ride back up, and the only notable occurrence was somebody stealing my snack box while I was dozing. By 2100 on the night of my fifteenth day, I was back home, exhausted, and set to teach in two days. I met up with Ryan and we swapped stories and commiserated on our next four months in Chile's ugliest city. I later learned that Chris and BT made it back to the States without problems.

Thus did the journey of the Yanquis in Latin America quickly pass into legend.

Yanquis in Latin America: You Shall Not Pass

2010-08-03T21:07:00.004-04:00

Day Thirteen: We had to be up before the sun on Thursday, the 21st to catch a flight from BA to Mendoza. The plan was to fly to Mendoza, and then take a bus through the Andes and into Santiago so that Brandon and Chris would not have to pay the 131 dollar reciprocity fee levied at the Santiago International Airport. Also, it was cheaper to fly to Mendoza and then bus as opposed to flying straight into Santiago. Thus, early that morning, we landed at the tiny airport outside Mendoza and were immediately greeted by the majestic, snow-capped Andes looking more spectacular than I'd ever seen. Vanessa accuses me of putting too much "Jesus stuff" in my posts, but I must say that if ever there were a natural reflection of the glory of God on earth, it is the peaks surrounding Aconcagua (highest mountain in the southern hemisphere) in the winter.

We took an extremely inexpensive taxi straight from the airport to the bus station where I preceded to seek passage to Chile. It turned out there was a bus leaving that afternoon at 13:30, which would theoretically put us in Santiago by 20:00 or so that night. Thus we bought tickets and sat down in the cafe over the station for a hearty, but rather uninspiring lunch. The bus was on time and we boarded with no problems. I was immediately struck by how much more leg room there was than on a Chilean or Peruvian bus (Argentinians I suppose are taller on average.) We then began the wonderfully scenic drive past the famed vineyards that surround Mendoza (now dead in winter) and into the mountain pass. We were all awed by the beauty of the scenery in the snow gilded mountains and I absolutely must recommend taking the trip by bus (or car) at least once in life. We had the rather dubious distinction of getting to see that stretch twice.

The problems arose when we reached the Argentine side of the entrance into the pass. It was closed, and the bus attendant informed us over the speaker that we would attempt to wait it out. An hour later, without ceremony, we turned around and drove back into Mendoza. Eventually the attendant came through and explained that we had to go into the office at the station and exchange our tickets for a bus leaving tomorrow, and pray that the pass would be open. It was then that I learned from one of the other passengers that the pass had been closed for three days, and this was her second failed attempt. We made it back to the station and Brandon brought to my attention two other Americans on the bus who had asked, as we arrived at the station mind you,
"What's up? Is this immigration?"
It turned out the two young men, Mike and Nick, spoke no Spanish and we had to fill them in on the situation. Taking them under my wing, I arranged for the tickets to be changed. There was a kid waiting by the bus hawking a hostel, and we decided to just go with him as he had a van to take us to the hostel and it seemed cheap enough. Thus the five of us ended up at some random place in Mendoza, the name of which I forget, to unexpectedly stay the night. The hostel was owned by a man named Ariel, who spoke self-taught English and was helpful enough, even if his house (which is what the place was) was not exactly the nicest of stays. He offered us free Malbec wine (the famed vintage of Mendoza) from his brother's vineyard--all we could drink--but we weren't there for wine (though later that night we could here another group of young Americans defiantly taking advantage of the offer.) He did suggest an amazing restaurant that was much like the parrillada buffet we had encountered in BA and, despite our set back, at least had one last incredible meal in Argentina.

Day Fourteen: We repeated the arrive-at-bus-station/board bus/travel-into-the-mountains routine we had tried the day before. However, this time we left at 10:30 because I had been told that if the pass were to be open, our best shot was morning. We arrived at the checkpoint and there was a long line of traffic backed up, which I took for a good sign. That morning, Brandon and I had prayed together that God would let us through, though I honestly would not have minded being stuck in Argentina for longer. I personally did not desire to return to Chile, but as Chris and BT had flights they needed to catch, it was best that we make it through. The wait at the checkpoint was long, but we did make it through. Then we stopped again for another hour. Then we drove for an hour. Then we stopped a second time somewhere else for another hour. By the time we made it to the actual border crossing, at the very top of the pass, it was already16:00 and we were at the end of a line of three day's worth of backed-up traffic trying to get through immigration. There was thick snow everywhere, and we could feasily see why the pass had been closed.

We got out of the bus at one point and took pictures in the snow, but for the most part it was a four hour waiting game trying to get in and through immigration and customs. If you'll recall, getting into Argentina had been a breeze, and we hadn't even needed to pass customs. Chile, on the other hand, is so mired in bureaucracy that of course there were three lines to stand in along with multiple baggage checks. The real bummer was that, once we finally passed the border, we still had another three and a half hours to Santiago. It was near 22:00 by the time we made the main bus station and debused. Mike and Nick had no plans, so they tagged along with us to our hostel, where we had made reservations the night before.

I led the group onto the Santiago metro and down into the Providencia district, which is one of the nicer areas (a step up at least from Barrio Brazil, where I had stayed when first arriving in Chile) and is right next to the famed Cerro San Cristobal. We found the hostel no problem, and were very pleased to discovered that it was new, extremely clean, and staffed by excellently helpful individuals. None of us had eaten the entire day, save for a few chips and cookies, and as such the first thing we did was set out to find something open. Our options were slim at 23:00, and we settled on Telepizza. Now, I had seen Telepizzas all over the place since first arriving (we have two in Calama) but I had at that time not yet tried them. We each got a person pizza combo, complete with pie, fries, and bebida, and settled down to sample Chile's attempt at delivery. After the first bite I realized I had finally found something in Chile that tasted like it should, and it felt like a small triumph. The pizza did not disappoint in the slightest, and BT even exclaimed that it was the best pizza he had ever eaten. Granted, he was delirious with hunger at the time.

Yanquis in Latin America: Buenos Aires pt. 2

2010-08-02T16:09:00.004-04:00

I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...

Day Twelve: I was determined upon awaking to actually find Vanessa that day, since our planned meeting in Plaza de Mayo the day before had been a failure. She told me that she and her friend would be in Recoleta Cemetery, around noon, and I found that we could walk there from the hostel. Thus, after rousing BT and Chris, we set forth under beautiful, clear, sunny skies. The weather that day was the polar opposite of the previous, and I could not have hoped for better.

After our brisk walk, we arrived at the cemetery and were immediately wowed by its grandeur. For a place filled with dead people, it was quite splendid. Recoleta Cemetery is filled with the bones (maybe) of many famous Argentinians, not least of which being Eva Peron. Her tomb, however, was quite underwhelming considering her enduring popularity. The place was huge, and we were once again late, and I had all but given up on the idea of finding Vanessa a second time when suddenly, as we were eavesdropping on a tour group, I heard my name called out. I turned to find Vanessa waving. She was with her friend Lauren along with Sarah, Marie, Greg, and Jeff. I wondered in that moment if so many volunteer English teachers from Chile had ever gathered together in that place, or any such place filled with so many corpses.

By the time we found Vanessa and Lauren, it was time to eat (especially given the fact that we had not eaten breakfast.) However, Sarah and the others still wanted to explore the cemetery. Thus it was agreed we would meet back up at the hostel later that night. Lauren, who is currently a student in BA and well acquainted with the city, led us out past the expensive touristy restaurants around the cemetery and to a nice, typical Argentine cafe sporting a cheap set menu. Brandon pretty much fell asleep at lunch and we decided we didn't want his dead weight around, and so stuck him in a cab and sent him off. The rest of us (me, Chris, Vanessa, and Lauren) went back to the park near the cemetery to meet up with Lauren's Argentine friend who would then accompany us to the Bella Arte museum (a famous art museum.) However, by the time the friend showed up, the plan had changed and we went off to a museum of photo journalism. The Argentine girl, whose name escapes me, didn't speak English but, oddly enough, was fluent in Norwegian. The museum was interesting, and free, but after about an hour there Chris and I decided we'd seen enough photos and bid the girls farewell to head back to the hostel where Vanessa said she would meet us later.

--Ah yes, Mr. Craft. Look at this photo. It's very cultural.
--Indeed.

Chris and I decided to walk back, enjoying further the excellent weather as the sun slowly set on Buenos Aires. We found Brandon still asleep in his bed and decided to join him in the exercise. I was later awakened by the hosteler telling me my amiga had arrived. It was Vanessa, who was flushed from the walk having accidentally passed the hostel and gone about a half mile out of the way before realizing the mistake. In her defense, there was no real sign on the hostel, just some graffiti that spelled the name "Old Friends." Sarah was supposed to meet us there, according to the plans she had made with Vanessa, but she never showed. Thus, Lauren came by to join us (she had been in some sort of singing practice for school) and we ended up ordering out for Argentine pizza and empandas. I know I have mentioned the fact already, but it bears repeating: empanadas in Argentina are much better than in Chile. However, the pizza was about the same (though, later that week I would finally try Chile's Telepizza, and I found it satisfying and very much on par with delivery in the states. More on that later.)

Yanquis in Latin America: Buenos Aires pt. 1

2010-07-29T20:18:00.008-04:00

I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...

Day Eleven: It was technically a new day by the time our flight from Salta landed at the Aeroparque in Buenos Aires. There was a light, misty rain falling as we exited the plane out onto the tarmac and then into a bus. The bus took us literally a hundred feet to baggage claim. While there, BT began the sad saga of communiques that would characterize the first part of our Buenos Aires experience. His grandmother was dying, and his family wanted him to come seven thousand miles back home.

We found ourselves a taxi outside of the airport and I directed the driver to our destination of the Old Friends hostel in the Palermo district. The ride, much like every cab ride thus far, was a near death experience that Chris and BT thoroughly enjoyed. We had booked the hostel on the recommendation of another volunteer friend of mine, Sarah, who I hadn't seen since orientation as she was placed in Patagonia. When we arrived, I had to pound on the door to get someone to open it for us, and then deal with the owner's friend who was clearly not expecting us. The owner was not present, and apparently there was no record of our reservation. However, three beds were found for us and sometime around two in the morning the three of us found ourselves passing out with the intention of moving hostels in the morning. Long story sort, we stayed at Old Friends all three nights.

Buenos Aires was a prime destination for many of the volunteers in the South of Chile, and as such I had a few friends to try and see while we were there. In the morning, (well, later in the morning) I got in touch with Vanessa and arranged to try and meet her and her friend Lauren in the Plaza de Mayo. As we were preparing to leave, the owner of the hostel arrived and apologized for forgetting our reservation. He then proceeded to make us breakfast (cornflakes and coffee) and assure us that "this is your home." He was a decent fellow, and although the stay itself was underwhelming, he did do his best to be friendly and accommodating. He was excited to find out that I was a rugby fan at least. After our quick breakfast, on the way out the door, Sarah appeared. We greeted each other accordingly and planned to meet up again later that evening.

As cabs are cheap in Buenos Aires, and it was a cold, rainy day, we decided to catch a ride to the Plaza. Traffic was bad, and this turned out to be a lame decision, as by the time we arrived we were quite late and I couldn't find Vanessa anywhere. Shrugging off the meeting, the three of us walked down to the water front known as Puerto Madero where many of the more impressive cityscapes in BA exist. The abundant European influences, many of which are heavily Italian, are visible everywhere from the architecture to the names of restaurants. BA is called the Paris of South America, and deservedly so, though it more resembles a cross between Gay Paris and the Big Apple. The rain and cold wind kept up, eventually driving us into a most spectacular restaurant on one of the docks. I do not recall the name, but the place was a buffet style parrillada where you could eat fresh grilled meat to your heart's content along with seafood, and all sorts of tradition Argentine comestibles. I had some lamb off the parrilla that was by far the greatest I've ever tasted, but to go into too much further detail on the eating experience would be tortuous. Suffice to say, it was amazing and insanely cheap.

Since the weather was atrocious, we decided to pass some time in a movie theatre, with our only English language, non-dubbed option being the new Tom Cruise film. Quick review: meh. After the film, we returned to Palermo via the super cheap, super speedy, super efficient metro system. I was kicking myself for having us take a cab earlier, because the metro cost only a few cents and was ten times faster. When we arrived back at the hostel, Brandon got the sad news that his grandmother had passed. It was a bitter sweet moment, as death is never easy, but the woman was very ill. The family was convinced that she was with Jesus then, so Brandon wasn't too terribly broken up. There was simply some lingering disappointment that he wouldn't make the funeral. A short time later, Sarah reappeared along with my other volunteers friends Jeff, Marie, and Greg. We joined their party and went to dinner at an Indian restaurant (I know, right?) which, of course, didn't even come close to the meal we had eaten for lunch. However, it was a very interesting experience nevertheless, and it was good for me to catch up with my Southern compatriots (in two senses, as Sarah is from North Carolina and Marie is from Alabama.) We went out after eating, to the area known as Palermo Soho (their is also a Palermo Hollywood, though I have no idea what that entails.) We ended up at a club called "Sugar"where Chris, Jeff, and I got to talking with the owner after noticing that his Spanish lacked an accent. He turned out to be an American from Miami, and was a business student who had come to BA to invest in some restaurants. Apparently things had worked out for him. I made sure to point out how stupid it was to name his place Sugar, and he just shrugged and said any English word would have worked to draw people in. He then indicated our group as his case in point. I tipped my invisible hat to him and offered a humbled "touche".

Yanquis in Latin America: Salta pt. 2

2010-07-29T10:35:00.006-04:00

I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...

Day Ten: BT, Chris, and I had to check out of the hostel the morning after the asado to free up our beds, even though we wouldn't be leaving until that night. Such is the usual drill, with us getting up around ten, paying, and then storing our bags for the afternoon. That morning Ryan, having gone out on the town with some of the others from the hostel, came wandering in around seven o'clock. As we were packing up a few hours later, he woke (sort of) and began to babble craziness in mixed Spanish and English, also faking a Southern accent half of the time.
"No te mueves! Don't you move! I'm gonna pay the bills." And so on. We had a good laugh as he kept telling us he was going to sleep, but then continued to rant. Later that day I found him in the kitchen with one of the Fins (a culinary student) who was in our room. The Fin had heard all of his shenanigans and was recounting it to Ryan, who had absolutely no recollection of the event.

We ate the free breakfast at the hostel of bread and jam, coffee and tea, and then headed out to explore some more. We found a small restaurant offering locro, a traditional and hearty corn-based stew that is perfect for cold weather, which we fueled up on before heading towards the giant hill that looms over the city. The main attraction in Salta is the cerro San Bernard and the cable cars that carry you up to the summit. Thus we made it our mission that day to ride up and take many, many photos. Waiting in line we were met by the Swede from the hostel, who joined our sightseeing party for the afternoon. She had the most incredible clear, blue eyes. Eyes that looked like glacier water and that were exactly the same color as the Argentinian flag. Because of this, she was more then once stopped by strangers to have her picture taken with them (ojos claros in South America are a big deal in general.)

We met up with Ryan again after the trip up the hill and the four of us went to eat Argentina's version of empanadas in a cafe off the plaza. Chile apparently got the idea of empanadas from Argentina in the first place, though it isn't hard to figure out how to roll stuff in dough pockets and bake or fry them. I met a Brit one time in San Pedro who claimed that the concept came originally to South America from Wales.

That night, we parted ways with Ryan with plans to meet up again in Mendoza a few days later. Though, in reality, he remained the entire time of the break in Salta. BT, Chris, and I cabbed it to the tiny Salta "international" airport where our flight was delayed almost two hours. When we finally got to leave, the plane itself was half empty and we three each had ample room to stretch out and enjoy the snack boxes provided by the airline. We landed less then two hours later in the light misty drizzle that covered Buenos Aires.

Yanquis in Latin America: Salta pt. 1

2010-07-27T22:51:00.015-04:00

I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...

Day Eight: It is worth noting at this point that Brandon is in possession of the thousands of photos taken during the trip, and as such, I am not able to pretty up these posts in the manner to which I am accustomed. However, rest assured, they will be made evident as soon as possible. Now, moving on...
Our overnight bus from Arica to Calama was the most uncomfortable ride I have yet experienced, partly due to the spoiling we had just received the days before on the excellent Peruvian bus lines. I cannot say much in favor of Pullman Bus in Chile other than it got us where we needed to be. Granted, we left half an hour late and arrived more than an hour late which meant that we three couldn't take a short trip to my house to freshen up. This meant that we were stuck waiting in the Calama terminal, surrounded by dogs (of course) for about forty five minutes in anticipation of our bus, which was again Pullman, to Salta, Argentina.

The bus arrived on time, and we boarded it along with a group of traveling nuns from Mexico. Since I had not slept at all on the previous bus, I promptly passed out. I was awoken an hour and a half later in San Pedro where we debused to pass through a very cursory Chilean immigration checkpoint. They simply stamped our forms and passports, and then put us back on the bus as a dust storm began to kick up around us. Side note: that weekend Calama saw up to 102kmhr winds. The bus continued, and about another hour later we stopped at a Argentinian immigration checkpoint that was literally in the middle of nowhere at the base of the Andes where we were about to attempt the pass. This time, the bus attendant took five people at a time into the little building where it was once again a simple matter of stamp-stamp-go. We never once passed through customs. I then fell back asleep.

I awoke much later once we were already up in the mountains and preparing to head back down on the Argentina side. We had driven right into a snow storm that stayed with us all the way to the first town of Jujuy, and even into Salta itself. The going was slow in the mountains, and as we came down we saw hundreds of people playing, building snow men, having snowball fights, etc. People were even driving around with miniature snowmen on the roofs of their cars. I would come to learn later that it was the first time that the towns of Jujuy and Salta had seen snow in ten years. Everything looked spectacular decked out in white (palm trees covered in snow is an interesting spectacle. As are cati.) I had at times the distinct feeling of having strayed into Christmas.

We made it into Salta shortly after night fall and were able to walk to the hostel from the terminal as snowflakes continued to gently drift in the air. Walking in the front office I immediately spotted Ryan, sitting alone and enjoying a novel. We were shown to the room he was staying in, dropped our gear and, after introductions, Ryan led us back out into the snow to a small sandwich stand serving made to order, delicious, and cheap milanesa (a breaded cut of beef). We got our sandwiches to go and headed back to the hostel to enjoy them and meet our new hostel mates. Later, we ended up going out into the city to experience the Argentine culture which is, among other things, a fantastic mix of European influences and New World sensibility. The highlight of an evening filled with live music was a place called La Casona del Molina, which was a large house in which each room was filled with tables of people eating, drinking, and playing traditional music on guitar and singing. The place had a fantastic atmosphere, but unfortunately for us there was nowhere to sit and we couldn't stay long.

Day Nine: The next morning, BT and Chris were freezing. They lacked the proper attire for the snowy, wet cold. Ryan too wanted some warm socks, gloves, etc. and joking claimed he was going to find an entire suit made out of llama wool, complete with ears. Thankfully, there was a feria nearby selling all sorts of wool garments and such and before long everyone was bundled up properly at the expense of a few pesos (at the time it was approximately four Argentine pesos to one US dollar.) Ryan then led us to the plaza in the city center where we dined at a fine restaurant and BT and I got our first taste of Argentine beef (and pork, and chicken, and blood sausage, and chorizo) in the form of the world famous parrilla style (aka asado, also aka barbeque.) We were to have an asado that night at the hostel, so Ryan and Chris decided to wait on meat. BT and I said bollocks to that, because as we all know, there is no such thing as too much grilled meat.

Salta itself is a beautiful city, retaining much of its colonial architecture, and is populated by incredibly friendly people that speak a beautiful, much easier to understand version of Spanish in comparison to Chile. Everything is, like in Perú, fantastically cheap and the food is delicious and offered up in quantities that would make even the greediest American blush. Even though it was uncharacteristically cold and snowy when we were there, Salta still presented us with its irresistible charms and I was immediately struck by how Calama could be so close, and yet so absolutely opposite.

That night was one of the crowing experiences of our trip. The hostel hosted an asado in which the owner and his friends used their age and parrilla experience to prepare the most fantastic meal of grilled beef that I have ever eaten. We feasted on the finest of meat prepared by hands that had the art of grilling in their blood. Almost every guest in the hostel was there including Fins, Frenchies, Spanairds, a Swede, and plenty of Argentinians from other regions. The drinks of choice were the peculiar liquor fernet combined with coke, and the local beer simply named Salta itself. Fernet must be mentioned as it is a pungent, dark liquor that is part of the massive amount of Italian influence on Argentina. It is extremely popular, and only one brand, Branca, is accepted (though cheaper alternatives can be found, you are socially shunned if caught drinking them. Cheap fernet is also considered bad for your health.) BT, Chris, and I all agreed that it was more or less like drinking diesel fuel spiced with potpourri. The Argentinians must realize this as well, though they don't acknowledge it, because they drown the liquor in at least half a liter of coke per jigger. Once the meal was thoroughly inhaled, and not a morsel left behind to testify to its existence, some Argentinians that Ryan and I had become friendly with broke out a big bag of coca leaves and started in chewing them like cattle on cud (or crackers with fat chews in their cheeks.) They showed us how you are supposed to bite the stem of the leave off, chew it up, and stuff it into your cheek like a hamster. After you have a significant lump of chewed leaves in your mouth, you take a pinch of baking soda and rub it in your cheek. The only discernible effect this has is to turn the inside of your face numb, but supposedly it is supposed to act as a stimulant like nicotine or caffeine, though I slept like a baby that night nevertheless.

Yanquis in Latin America: Chile- A Brief Encounter

2010-07-27T10:39:00.006-04:00

I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...

Day Seven: It was around 7:45 in the morning in Arequipa and we were boarding a Cruz del Sur bus to head south to Tacna. We had the full cama seats like our trip down from Lima, but we couldn't get them all in a row. Thus I volunteered to sit next to a stranger. The passenger next to me was a young woman, who I could tell immediately was not Peruvian. As I climbed over her into my seat, I told her buenos dias, and got a hear of her accent. Convinced, I ventured further,
"I'm supposing you speak English, so, good morning."
She smiled broadly and replied,
"You are absolutely right, and good morning to you!"
This English speaking woman turned out to be Catherine, a Spanish teacher from New York who had been visiting friends in Arequipa and was, like us, on her way to Salta, Argentina. We chatted for most of the ride to Tacna, which included an onboard game of bus bingo (where the prize is a free return ticket) and by the time we arrived at our destination, she had more or less integrated herself into our travel unit.

To cross the border back into Chile, at Arica, we opted to use a colectivo (taxi with set prices). The train had simply taken too much time before on my way up, and further didn't leave until six Peruvian time (seven in Chilean.) The colectivo driver took our passports and handled all of the paperwork, and the crossing was accomplished very smoothly and rather quickly as well. By around two o'clock, the four of us had stashed our bags at the Arica bus terminal and set out on foot to explore the center and score some grub. As I had just been to Arica a week before, I showed the others around and found us a typical Chilean eatery so that BT and Chris could experience the underwhelming Chilean staples of the completo hotdog (topped with avocado, tomatoes, and mayonnaise) and the french fries piled with meat and fried eggs known as chorillana. Needless to say, coming off a week of delicious, flavorful, spicy Peruvian food and returning to hotdogs and bland empanandas was a little depressing. Thankfully we wouldn't be in Chile long.

While we were eating, I gave Mike the surfer a call because I had heard he was in town. He was indeed in Arica, staying at the same hostel I had been in, and he promptly joined us for lunch. Our party now numbering five, I decided that we should climb the Morro to give everyone the full Arica experience. Thus I trekked up the cliff again, with friends in tow, for more spectacular Pacific views and another disappointingly obscured sunset. Afterward, we climbed back down and waltzed through the palm tree-lined center, grabbing Mcflurries along the way (in Spanish, Señor Flurries) topped with the delicious Chilean chocolate treat known as Sahne Nuss--which is just a Nestlé chocolate bar with almonds in it. We eventually made it back to the hostel where Mike was staying to do some interneting and get ready to leave.

That night, we bid Mike farewell, he having decided to leave Arica the next day and go north into Perú, and BT, Chris, Catherine, and I caught a colectivo back to the bus station. Then the three of us men bid fond farewells to Catherine, who was on a direct bus to Salta. We had a bus overnight to Calama, and then a connection that next morning. It was going to be a long haul.

Yanquis in Latin America: Arequipa

2010-07-25T17:42:00.008-04:00

I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...

Day Five: Traveling overnight is ideal for many reasons, not least of which being that it saves on lodging costs and frees up more time to see new places. Thus, I engineered our trip in South America to have as many overnight travels as possible. Such was the case getting into Arequipa, known as the white city, in southern Perú. Arequipa is one of the largest cities in Perú and is, like Lima, surrounded by desert (the same Andean desert I live in, only with a touch more greenery.) It is known as the white city because it has retained a majority of its colonial structures which are built of white lava rock quarried from the nearby volcanoes.

We arrived early in the morning and were greeted by the owner of the hostel we had booked. He was even holding a little cardboard sign with my name on it. He was Italian, and when I asked him why he was in Perú he simply replied in Spanish, "because I am working at a hostel." He escorted us to the hostel in a taxi, free of charge, and then got us settled in. He was extremely accommodating our entire stay, and the hostel itself was very nice as well. We expressed interest in doing a day tour to Colca Canyon (which is one of the earth's deepest canyons) the next day, and he immediately set us up with a tour guide who took us into the town center and got us booked with his agency. The tour was to start at 3:30 the next morning and conclude that night around six and would eventually turn into the "tour that never ends." However, more on that later.

After booking the tour we found a pollo joint and enjoyed some excellent pollo y papas fritas along with salad and some kind of Peruvian soup. Everything in Perú was so much cheaper than in Chile, it boggled my mind. The US dollar really goes a long way down there. On the way back to the hostel, as we were walking down the street, I suddenly heard my name called out. I looked around in confusion until I spotted Alex waving frantically at me from a cab. We showed him to the hostel and our party became four. Later that evening we went back into the town center so that he could book the tour as well, and then we found a killer little kebab joint for supper, along with a Swedish bar that had nothing to do with Sweden and a fast food place called Johnny Coyote. We passed a coffee shop on the way back to the hostel where I spotted three fellow volunteers form Región Cinco: Corie, Alison, and Lauren. I hadn't seen them since orientation so we spent some time chatting and catching up. They told me that they were waiting on Heather to get there so they could all go together to Cuzco. After a while, we said our goodbyes since we all had to be up before the crack of dawn, and bid Arequipa an early buenos noches. We then retired for our four or so hours of quality rest.

Day Six: It seemed like I had barely closed my eyes before my phone began talking to me (my alarm is a woman speaking in Spanish that tells me its time to get up and then what time it is.) I roused the troops and we threw together our day packs, bundled up against the high altitude cold, and went down to meet the tour bus. The ride to the canyon was simply dreadful. The bus was packed and Chris, Alex, and I had no room to move or stretch out. To top things off, the three hour ride was over the windiest, bumpiest roads known to man. I had an extreme case of motion sickness nearly the entire day, and it is a minor miracle that I didn't vomit. We finally made it to the tiny town in the canyon known as Chivay just as the sun was rising. There we were fed a buffet breakfast of typical Peruvian food, to include plenty of coca leaves to make tea or chew to alleviate altitude sickness, as we were over 4000 meters most of the day. BT and Chris had some pills to take as well, but I was unaffected having been living at around 3000 meters the past few months.

JFM approves of this canyon.

Colca Canyon itself is an incredible spectacle, and even though we only saw a few small condors flying about, it was still worth the trip. However, as the day wore on and we had to keep climbing back into that awful bus and drive all over the awful winding roads, going from tiny town to tiny town (they have no electricity there) it began to seem as though the tour would never end. We eventually made it back to Chivay where we had a good lunch and then rested in the plaza while part of the group went to visit some hot springs (we weren't interested, as it was an additional cost.) In the plaza three little girls came up to Brandon and asked if he wanted to take their picture. After he did, one of the girls held out her hand and demanded money. We all laughed, and asked how much she wanted. "Dos soles." Brandon shook his head and gave her a fifty centavo piece (which isn't even worth 15 US cents). Alex offered to give them 2 soles if they would sing, but they declined the offer.

The bus finally arrived to pick us up, and we were off again on the way out of the Colca Valley and back to Arequipa. We stopped a few more times to look at llamas or some such, but I slept through that part. I've seen plenty of camelids in my time down here. I did make it a point to get out when we stopped at the highest altitude in the area, at round 4800 meters, because I needed to pee. I was quite breathless by the time I made it back to the van.

When we returned to the hostel we found Peter, the Slovakian, waiting for us. He had arrived that morning from Lima. The five us headed into town where we ran into a mess of other volunteers (Corie, Alison, and Lauren again, as well as Heather, Stacey, and Lisa.) Four of the girls were off to catch a bus to Cuzco, on their way to hike up to Macchu Pichu. Stacey and Lisa had no plans, and so we all went to eat together, ending up at the same kebab place as the night before (it was that good.) Lisa was on her way to Lima to fly home, having finished her four month stint. We all had early mornings again, so we kept the evening short and said our farewells to Lisa and Stacey. Peter was going to go hike in the canyon the next morning, and BT, Chris, and I had a 7:30 bus to Tacna to catch.

Yanquis in Latin America: Leaving Lima

2010-07-23T19:31:00.010-04:00

I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...
At this point in the story, now that Chris and Brandon have joined me, I am putting the posts under a new subheading entitled Yanquis in Latin America, which is in keeping with the spirit of Chris and I's two past journeys together: A Couple of Yanks in Oz and Yanks Across the Pond.

Day Four: We woke early on Monday, the day after Chris and Brandon had joined me in Lima. We had a fantastic breakfast with eggs, fruit, bread, and real coffee all courtesy of the Inka Frog. Afterward, we checked out and stored our bags before setting forth to explore Miraflores and the nearby pre-Incan ruins known as Huaca Pullaca. The ruins are right smack in the middle of a upscale residential neighborhood, just kind of hanging out. There are many such places in the vast capital city. The Peruvians apparently just ignored them for hundreds of years as Lima grew and only in recent times have they taken to historical preservation. We witnessed this "preservation" process which basically involved little Indian people mucking about with gardening spades and their bare hands. It was all very scientific. Also worth noting is the coke machine that took my fake 5 soles coin and a fake 2 soles coin Chris had picked up as well.

After an informative tour of the old rock pile where they used to sacrifice women to the moon (as you do), I took BT and Chris to the coast and we trekked down a set of treacherous steps to the beach which is made of smooth pebbles. People were surfing, as they had been the day before, but the waves weren't as impressive. The place was covered in sea urchins as well, which you can crack open and eat raw if you feel so inclined (I didn't.) We also visited the Larcomar, which is the giant cliff side, open air mall that overlooks the Pacific. There we had an amazing meal of traditional Peruvian cuisine that was set out in a buffet style, with all sort of delicious, often spicy, things that I cannot remember the names of. They also served us each a Peruvian Pisco Sour (which, if you'll recall, is the national drink of Chile as well). I almost couldn't drink it out of some odd sense of adoptive national pride. I did, though, and didn't taste much of a difference; same ole too sweet, too limey taste.

We eventually made it back to the Inka Frog to retrieve our bags and get a cab to the bus station for our overnight journey south to Arequipa. Side note: there is no central bus terminal in Lima. Instead, each company has their own mini-station. The bus we took to Arequipa was with a company called Oltursa, and the ride was by far the best I've yet experienced. For less then forty USD, we got giant cama seats, hot meals, an HD TV, and a very helpful young attendant that BT fell in love with. Suffice to say, leaving Lima was sublime.

Day Three: Lima

2010-07-23T19:01:00.005-04:00

I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...

After passing the night on a bus as it traversed the dry, desert terrain of southern Perú, I arrived in Lima and took a cab to the hotel Chris and I had booked (the Inka Frog). The winter weather in Lima was cool and damp, with perpetually gray, cloud-filled skies. It was still early, around 10 in the morning, and I was concerned that they wouldn't let me check in yet. However, the young man working the desk was very accommodating saying the room would be ready by noon and I could wait if I liked. He was one of the first Peruvians I dealt directly with, and I found that I could understand him infinitely better in Spanish than anyone in Chile. I would come to learn that nearly everyone was easier to understand in Perú versus in Chile.

While the room was being made ready, I set out into the city to get the lay of the land. We were staying in the district of Miraflores, which is the clean, upscale part of Lima. I was blown away to find spectacular seaside shopping plazas, meticulously manicured parks, and no dogs wandering the streets. I even found Dunkin Donuts, with real DD coffee. I bought a cup and tried to pay with some of the change the cab driver had given me. The girl took my 5 soles coin and immediately shook her head, telling me it was fake. I exclaimed surprise and she went on to educate me as to how to tell the difference between the counterfeit and the genuine soles.

After exploring the majestic cliffs that overlook Lima's pebbly beaches and watching the surfers for a while, I went to grab a quick bite to eat and return to the hostel. The final of the world cup was on at 1:30, and I wanted to get showered up and watch it in the hotel room. On the way back, I passed through a park named in honor of JFK and witnessed crowds of people massed in front of a giant screen set to show the final. Groups of Spaniards were going around hugging everyone and singing. By the time I made it back to the Inka Frog, my room was ready and the game was about to start. I showered the bus stink off of me and hunkered down to watch what was an extremely long, and not very impressive match, which Spain won. I was then obligated to go buy bus tickets for the next night and thus headed back out wearing a Spanish T-shirt (it is red and reads España with the bull logo on it.) People were driving around honking and waving Spanish flags, blowing horns, and celebrating all over the city. I got a few shout outs because of my shirt as well.

That night, I was on the laptop when the door opened and in walked Brandon and Chris, fresh from the Lima airport. The trio was together at last, and I welcomed them to the third world with cans of awful Brazilian beer (the only thing on hand). We toasted to our future journey, drank a swig while cringing. We were all hungry, and I took BT and Chris out into the city but the only thing we could find open was a McDonalds. It was disappointing that the first meal we shared together in South America was from an American fast food joint, but it was at least distinctly Peruvian with many tasty, and very spicy pepper sauces to choose from. I tried to pay with my fake coin, and once again the girl caught it immediately. We then returned to the Inka Frog and passed out.

Day Two: Tacna to Lima

2010-07-18T14:20:00.003-04:00

I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...

Thus, on Day Two: the early morning sun had yet to break through the clouds that hugged the North Chilean coast when I set out to cross into Perú. The Ferrocarril Tacna-Arica was a short walk away from the hostel and after passing through the rather cursory customs/immigration checkpoint in the station, I was packed into the tiny two car train alongside a Chilean family out for a day trip. The ride followed the coast before cutting up and into the desert. We passed corn and cactus farms and rows upon rows of unfinished cement block buildings that I assume were early stages of squatter housing. Then we pulled into the dirty border town of Tacna, Perú.

My bus to Lima didn't leave until 1400, and with the hour time difference between Chile and Peru, I was looking at five or so hours to kill. I was able to store my bag for two Peruvian Nuevo Soles (a few cents) at the terminal and then set out on foot into the city. Tacna resembles the Peruvian version of Calama, but with better food and worse traffic. There I was introduced to the incessant honking and insane vehicular antics that would come to mark my time in Perú. At one point, an armored car pulled up onto the sidewalk in front of me and I stopped as two guards brandishing huge revolvers posted up while money was loaded from some business. I decided to let them finish before walking past as they looked ready to blow my head off at the drop of a hat.

In the center, I found cheap book stores, a gorgeous colonial church in the square, and a market with food stalls where I bellied up and ate my first Peruvian meal. I pointed to some sort of ceviche made of chicken, onions, and potatoes and asked for a potion. The woman working the stall asked if I wanted rice with it. I did. She then asked,
"Blanco or verde?"
I thought to myself, green rice? Why not. Everything was delicious, and spicy unlike anything I'd eaten in the last for months of bland Chilean cuisine. I finished up with a Kola Real to cool my palate and then headed out into the plaza to read for a while. Eventually I made it back to the bus terminal where I had to check my bags onto the bus like in an airport (many things about bus travel are quite silly in Perú.) After we boarded the bus, an attendant went down the isle with a small video camera filming every passenger's face. The ride itself was marked by constant stops for drug searches and the like, including one time when they checked only the IDs of only the men onboard. Over all though, I found the bus to be more comfortable then Chilean buses, partly due to the hot meal they served.

Day I - Arica

2010-07-11T23:19:00.003-04:00

The bus was not particularly comfortable, because even though it has a fold-down rest for legs and a reclining seat, it is designed for Chileans--in other words, small people (these are called semi-cama, or "half bed" seats. There are cama, or full bed seats that recline all the way back but still lack sufficient leg room.) I have contended with buses since arriving and their distinctly non-gringo design, but it had been months since I'd taken a trip over five hours and I'd forgotten the inherent issues therein. I did manage to sleep though, awaking for a few minutes at every stop, which in my half sleep state seemed to be every ten minutes.

The final time I awoke it was because the bus attendant was moving through the cabin pulling back the curtains, which is the Chilean signal for "we're almost there." I peered out of the window a bit confused because it was pre-dawn dark without. I checked my clock and saw that it was not even seven thirty yet, where I had estimated our arrival at nine. I began to get an uneasy feeling because I had told the hostel I would be arriving between nine and ten, and I know seemingly had two hours to kill in a new city with all of my gear on my person. Side note, in preparation for my journey I made a rather off-hand comment about my back pack size and its inadequacy to my host mom. The next day she magically pulled the perfect sized pack out of the black hole that is the shed out back of the house. I travel now with this pack and my Israeli paratrooper satchel that I use as a day bag. Back to the matter at hand...

I considered a few possibilities, including just sitting in the bus station and waiting, but decided in the end that I would kill time by walking to the hostel from the station instead of taking a taxi, and just see what happened from there. The walk proved to be quite short, which saved me money and gave me a good idea of the layout of the city center. Still, it was only about quarter to eight as I caught sight of the hostel and made my way up, in complete uncertainty. Here is the first of many instances where the Lord chose to demonstrate his faithfulness. Just as I walked up on the hostel, an employee was finishing unlocking the gates that guard the front doors (this is South America after all.) I asked him in Spanish if the place was open and he returned with a question of his own: did I have a reservation? Why, yes, I did. Very good, follow me (I'm paraphrasing). To get to the point of it, the doors to the hostel were literally opened at the very moment I needed them to be.

The employee who had opened the doors fetched the girl who was in charge of the front desk. She had obviously just awakened and, in very excellent Spanish (not at all like the typical mumbly and generally incomprehensible Chilean I'm used too), checked me in and gave me a quick tour of everything before showing me my bed. At one point she asked,
"De donde eres, Chile?"
I chuckled and said, no, the United States. I didn't know whether to be flattered or concerned, for at that point being confused for Chilean was likely due to me being half adorned in hand-me-down clothes belonging to my host-brother and speaking mumbly, incomprehensible Spanish. Later that night, I was sitting in the common area when I heard an Australian accent. I turned around and saw it was the girl, named Andrea. Apparently she was not Chilean, but in fact a Colombian who had grown up in Brisbane, Australia. Further surprising me was the fact that she and her fiance would be starting in my program (Inglés Abre Puertas) later the next month.

It was still early that day, and the sun was not yet out. Thus I decided to shower the bus stink off of me and take a few hours nap. Upon waking, I strolled out into the city to take pictures, eat the always satisfying pollo y papas combo that I almost live off of in travel situations (well, along with some yogurt) and sit on the beach for a while reading. I also managed to buy a ticket for the little two car train that would carry me over the border into Tacna, Perú. That evening for the sunset, I climbed the giant cliff that sits on the edge of the city. El Morro, as it is known, is crowned with an enormous Chilean flag and a statue of Jesus that faces the ocean with outspread arms. The view, needless to say, was spectacular. I retired to bed that evening after chatting with Andrea about what teaching in Chile is like, being sure to make everything sound quite worse than it really is so that she ought to be pleasantly surprised when she does begin her tour down in snowy Patagonia.

In Case of Kill or Capture: Vacation Begins

2010-07-11T21:30:00.005-04:00

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door. You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to."
--Bilbo Baggins

The teaching schedule in Chile is such that I get two weeks off in July for winter vacations, and as such I proclaimed to my best friends and travel companions, Chris Craft and Brandon Thompson, that it was high time they traveled south, and south still for a visit. Along the proposed route would be the countries of Peru, Argentina, and of course, Chile. The situation was thus: both Brandon and Chris would fly into Lima, Peru and I would journey up to meet them. Once united, we would head back south through Peru and into Chile, but only for a moment. Once in Chile, we would cross my backyard and into northern Argentina, and from their head south to Buenos Aires, Mendoza, back into Chile at Santiago, and from there disperse to our respective homes. I did not doubt that there would be many other, smaller reunions with fellow volunteers as we traveled along, since a great many would be in Peru and Argentina over the break as well.

Thus, come Thursday night the 8th of July, I set the plan in motion by boarding an overnight bus to the northern border town of Arica. As I packed to leave, and waited the agonizing hours until my 11:00pm departure, I found that I was uncharacteristically nervous. My stomach was in knots in ways that were reminiscent of my last day before flying to Santiago over three months ago. I paused to consider this and realized that as I headed out that night, it would be my first time traveling solo. Since making international travel a habit some years ago, I have always made it a point to be in company; whether a group or simply tandem, as Chris and I have been doing for going on three years now (you can read about those adventures by clicking the links in the sidebar *wink*). It occurred to me that there was no reason why I should be apprehensive. The Lord would certainly take care of me as he always had, and if all else failed I would simply end up dead which is, first of all, inevitable, and second of all the opportunity to finally meet Jesus in person. That last thought became a little unsettling, as I was sure not ready at the moment to be meeting the creator of the universe, and as such I spent a good deal of time in prayer getting things sorted. Soon enough, it was time to leave and I felt at peace, and was able to smile a bit thinking that most people probably don't start their vacations with a spiritual crisis. Then again, most people don't live in Calama, where such instances are nearly a daily occurrence.

The tales that will follow are best told chronologically and in the form of a day to day journal, and as such I will begin with my arrival in Arica in the next post, and proceed hence, day by day accordingly.

Independence Day Abroad

2010-07-05T23:42:00.018-04:00

"A man's country is not a certain area of land, of mountains, rivers, and woods, but it is a principle; and patriotism is loyalty to that principle."
--George William Curtis

It had only been a few days since our epic journey to San Pedro, and I had barely gotten back into the flow of waking up, going to class, and dropping English bombs on my captive Chilean audiences when I learned that on Thursday I would be leaving again. The program office in Antofagasta had ordered all of the Región Dos volunteers to a "workshop"on "classroom management." They were reimbursing bus fare and putting us up for the night, since the meeting was at nine in the morning on Friday. I had known about the meeting, but had not heard about getting there until one of the other Calama volunteers, Mary, sent me a message saying she had my bus ticket and that we were heading out at three o'clock. I shrugged, threw some clothes into my backpack (forgetting a towel, once again), and met her at the station. Ryan was meant to be on the bus with us, but he showed up late and ended up taking the next ride. Somehow we still only arrived within ten minutes of each other, then the three of us took a micro to the hostel.

We stayed Thursday night at the Casa de Coldeco, where we had first slept upon our initial arrival in the Norte Grande. We walked in and first thing were offered supper. As we sat eating, Mike and Vanessa arrived from Taltal. We embraced and went back and forth with the obligatory "long time no see" banter, having of course spent the previous weekend together. After we ate, we gave Matt a call. He answered the phone and I jokingly (doing my best Atlanta)
asked,
"Where da party at?"
"You guys want to go to a party?"
"Hah, I'm kidding. It's just a thing they say where I come from."
"Oh, because there is a party."
"Oh...uh, maybe?"

Matt met us at the hostel and, for some reason I'm not certain of, we spent almost an hour watching some horrible MTV reality program where parents choose dates for their children. It was weird. Then we got a call from Camilu (mentioned mentioned in the Taltal post) who was outside to take us somewhere to meet with Monjuith and her friend. She had a colectivo waiting, and even though they are only allowed to take five passengers, agreed to carry all seven of us crammed inside like a clown car. This was also weird.

It was super awkward because Matt is a lanky giant.

We arrived at some bar/club sort of place where Monjuith wasn't actually located, but she showed up later. There we discussed the finer points of Chilean Spanish, as Monjuith is Mexican and, despite being a native Spanish speaker, has had exactly the same problems understanding Chileans most of us have also had. We were more or less set to leave when a man set up shop with a computer and a guitar and started playing American rock classics mixed in with the occasional Spanish pop hit. This prolonged our stay. When we finally left, Matt suggested we walk back because it "wasn't that far." Three miles later, we were in bed with a wake up time four hours ahead of us.

The workshop wasn't as bad as I would have thought, though it wasn't nearly what one could call a useful expenditure of time. I did get to meet many of the new volunteers who had only been in country three weeks. I did my best not to cut up too much, but every time I get into these classroom situations where I'm the student again, I find the urge to clown about almost irresistible. At one point, after a particularly hilarious joke on my part, the girl running the workshop (who is Chilena) came over and put a hand on my shoulder and commented to the group that I was "a very messy boy."
During the meeting there was a huge tsunami drill where the majority of Antofagasta responded to weak sirens by lolly gagging in the roads for half an hour (I'm sure the event was considered a success.)

Afterward, we returned to Casa de Coldelco where we were fed lunch. We then bid farewell to the new girls from Antofa who had come to lunch with us, promising to meet them again the next day for a planned Gringo barbecue to celebrate the 4th of July. Ryan and I spent the afternoon moving our gear to Matt's house, buying return tickets, and then in turn getting those tickets reimbursed at the program office. Then we met back up with Matt, Mike, Mary and Vanessa to go to Monjuith's apartment. She had prepared us a traditional Mexican dish of rice, chicken, and mole. Mole is, for those of you unacquainted, a delicious spicy chocolate sauce. The meal, including Mexican guacamole, chili sauce, and homemade chips, was possibly the most flavorful meal I have eaten in Chile. As the night progressed, Monjuith played a most amazing host by constantly bringing out more and more food to include sauteed mussels with melted cheese on top. I'm convinced that by the time late that night she brought out the tuna, we had nearly eaten everything in the house.

We all stayed at the apartment that night and a most unfortunate incident transpired (pun intended.) As many of you may know, my feet have the ability to smell worse then the devil's own. Well, I fell asleep with my shoes on, knowing their potential lethality. Monjuith, being the good host, must have noticed and removed them. The results were catostrophic. My own stench managed to awake me, and I replaced my shoes but not before forcing nearly everyone in the room to seek lodging in other parts of the apartment--which was all hardwood. At some point, Camilu (who had joined us after dinner) came in spraying perfume, which only made things worse. Mike, who was asleep in the room awoke coughing and crying out,
"What are you doing? Basta! Basta!"

In the morning, Mike and Vanessa left us for Taltal and Ryan, Mary, and I reconvened at Matt's apartment (where I managed to shower) to go to the 4th of July BBQ. I had Matt double check the directions with the girl (Kyle) who was hosting the party, and then we boarded a bus and headed to the south end of the city, which is considerably nicer. Trusting Matt "It isn't that far" Wilson to navigate meant of course we got off at the wrong place and had to wander another half mile up hill with Kyle's directions like,
"Walk until you can't go right anymore, then there are some steps, pass the store and you'll see flags."

The barbecue was great, with real handmade burgers, broccoli salad, ranch dressing to dip fresh vegetables in, brownies, etc. Kyle had really outdone herself. Someone even managed to bring a pack of Budweiser, which no doubt cost the value of a Chilean child. The house was adorned in American flags, with American music playing. Most of the year long volunteers in Antofagasta were there, along with the new six-monthers we had met the day before. Our regional coordinator, who is a former volunteer herself, even came to join in.
Now, Antofagasta, like Calama, possess a giant, gaudy casino in which is located a pricey dance club and at some point it was decided that the entire Gringo procession should relocate to said club. I loathe dance clubs, or discotechs are they are known here, and my only experiences in one were in Taltal, and those were none too positive. However, I had yet to secure lodging for that night and all my perspective hosts were leaving. Thus, I tagged along.

When we got to the casino I went straight to the toilet. When I came out, I found that almost everyone had gone inside the club and paid the hefty seven mil peso entrance fee (roughly 14 USD). Even if I had been willing to pay, I didn't have the funds. Thankfully, I wasn't the only sane (or simply broke) one. One of the six-monthers and my new friend, Lorna, a Brit from Oxfordshire, said she had a friend from the British Consulate (or something like that) who was having a going away party somewhere else that we could go check out. I agreed, and off we went. Her friend didn't have a phone and we might have already missed the party, but either way I was welcome to stay at her place that night. Mission accomplished.

I once again had a very limited night of sleep, which proved the last straw for my poor body, which had been staving off a cold since San Pedro. I awoke Sunday with an intense pain in my ear that lasted into the early afternoon. The following days would find me suffering from congestion and a head that felt as though someone had stuck a tire pump in my ear and gone to town. Sunday morning, the 4th itself, saw me awaking in the enemies camp. However, I was provided breakfast, during which Lorna and I discussed the peculiarities of American English vs. British ("jumper"as a single piece outfit for young girls as opposed to a "sweater.") Eventually, we parted ways as she left to attend lunch with her host mom's family and I went back to Matt's, where Ryan had spent the night. I learned that Mary had already made her return to Calama, and Ryan and I decided to follow suite that afternoon. Matt offered to get us on the right micro, and we foolishly allowed him.
"Here, take this one!" He called, as the 111 drew near. We shook hands and then hopped aboard. Within minutes I turned to Ryan and mused,
"I feel like we are heading in the wrong direction." Just then, Matt called and confirmed that he had indeed put us on the wrong bus. Thus Ryan and I spent a good hour riding in the back of the mirco as it ran it's entire southbound route, stopped for ten minutes for the driver to get out and have a snack, and then turn around and head back North towards the bus terminal.

*NOTE: Photos courtesy of Mary Scallion and Julia Bardach

Gringo Reunion Dos: San Pedro de Atacama

2010-06-30T21:02:00.015-04:00

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

2010-06-24T14:01:00.002-04:00

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

2010-06-20T23:19:00.012-04:00

"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

2010-06-14T11:53:00.007-04:00

"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

2010-06-05T18:34:00.006-04:00

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?"

Asi es la vida Chilena

2010-05-31T18:59:00.005-04:00

Calama

"Think of what you're trying to accomplish. Just think of what you're dealing with. The majesty and grandeur of the English language is the greatest possession we have. The noblest thoughts that ever flowed through the hearts of men are contained in its extraordinary, imaginative, and musical mixtures of sounds. And that's what you've set yourself out to conquer...and conquer it, you will!"
--Henry Higgins

Returning from Talta, via Antofagasta, I was struck ill. The change of climates from humid to dry, from hot to cold in a single afternoon, from interesting to utterly boring all took their inevitable toll on my immune system and I came down with a sinus infection that laid me out for almost a week. I am still producing an inordinate amount of mucus, but I'm near desert-stasis levels.

I went in the Monday after our Gringo reunion to my Liceo and it was clear fairly quickly that I would not be able to teach effectively, especially not the rather complex lesson on passive voice that I had prepared. Thus I managed to wrangle up some computer speakers which I hooked to my laptop and blasted the audio (the kids unfortunately couldn't see the screen) to the scene in My Fair Lady where Eliza finally makes a breakthrough and her, Henry, and Colonel Pickering all begin singing "the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain." All I wanted the kids to do was pick out first the name of the girl singing (Eliza) and, second, the words of the song. This proved a much more difficult task then I had anticipated, but it was worth it to hear one or two kids leave class singing the chorus in a falsetto like Audrey. When I switched groups, one kid had clearly talked to someone in the first group who had handed him the answers written down. Thus he confidently raised his hand when I asked what the girl's name was and proclaimed "Eleeza!" I mocked him mercilessly.

I was sent home before my next class that day, returned and did my full day Tuesday which nearly killed me, and then had the rest of the week off. I nearly went mad with boredom (the monotony frequently punctuated by some hacking or nose blowing) and by Friday I was well enough and determined enough to leave the house. I spent the afternoon shopping in the centro with my Mom where, in one of the markets, I saw an entire pig's head on display for purchase. I told Ximena that I wanted it for my birthday. I'm not sure she got the joke, we'll see come the 27th. That night, Ryan came over and we left the house to go meet up with one of the other volunteers in town, Mary, and her teacher friends from the Catholic school where she teaches. The dog, Mota, followed us out of the house and we were nearly to the centro when we realized she wasn't going to go home. We tried to shake her by hiding in a store, but the dog is so stupid that she almost seems smart and it became clear that we were going to have to walk her all the way back to the house. Thankfully, Carlos drove up in his truck and spotted us. We told him about the dog and we managed to trick her into climbing into the bed (after all three of us had to climb up in it first) and then he tied her in with a bungee cord and took her home for us.

Walking back home that night I was passing through a little park near my house when I innocently stumbled into a group of three young men fighting. I stopped, as I had no berth to pass them, and as I stood there one of the men pulled a pistol from his waistband and aimed it at the other two. This of course brought the fight to a close (thankfully without bloodshed, mine or otherwise) and the three scattered into the wind. Ximena was not at all surprised when I related this story the next morning.

The next night was my prima's (cousin) birthday and the family, along with Ryan, met up at my Aunt's house to eat tacos and torta (cake). I was of course wildly skeptical when the word tacos was first spoken, but this second round of Chilexican proved superior to the first experience. Still not tasting like the real thing, the tacos were simply grilled tortillas filled with chunks of meat, avocado, corn, and tomatoes. My mom stateside (the real one) had sent a few packets of Taco Bell sauce in a care package and I brought them along, which was a big hit. Ryan and I were also flabbergasted to be handed a jar of Great Value (the Wal-Mart brand) crunchy peanut butter that my Aunt had somehow located. The look of surprised delight on our faces was quite amusing to my family, who all took turns tasting the treat and more or less shrugging it off (except for my Aunt, she loved it). They kept complaining that it had too many calories while all the while slopping gobs of homemade mayonnaise on their "tacos." The following Monday, Ximena surprised me again by showing me that she had found two more jars of peanut butter and bought them for me to eat at home (also Wal-Mart brand, as the department store here, Lider, is of course owned by big blue).
If the appearance of peanut butter in Calama isn't evidence of a loving God, then I don't know what is.

Why

2010-05-27T20:22:00.012-04:00

The first words I committed to this chronicle detailed a very brief, very general description of what I was doing and why. I promised to elaborate on the "why", and since I have had a considerable amount of down-time recently due to illness, I have decided to answer the question I am asked most often and thus to elaborate on exactly why I decided to become a volunteer, travel down to Chile, and teach English to Spanish speaking schoolchildren. Here goes...

When I decided to come to Chile, it was in an attempt to act on faith. For too long I had lived like so many self-titled Christians do in the United States; saying I believed one thing and then living the opposite. No real surprise there as historically hypocrisy has marked what we call the Church, the organized institution that is responsible for so many things that Christ himself would never be capable of. There are hoards of people in this world quick to point out this unfortunate fact: be it the Crusades, the Inquisition, or the Catholic Church's recent harboring and mistreatment of pedophiles and child molesters.

I discovered, or really truly came to understand, the complete disconnect between the Church in the United States (and really the Western World) and the fundamental teachings of Christ, teachings that are so basic that it is mind-blowing that people could screw them up. Love God and love people. There are entire books written about these two simple concepts and how the "American" lifestyle of individuality, security, and self-gratification is completely opposed them--thus I do not feel the need to delve past my own experience.

I was working a job I enjoyed, making decent money, and basically just moving through life without a terrible amount of regard for anybody else. Sure, I loved my friends and family and cared about them and their well being, but the Good Book states very clearly that everybody does that (Matthew 5:47). It became very clear to me very quickly that I, first, was relying only on myself and giving nominal gratitude to the Big Guy for it. "Thanks God that I'm making good money, have a savings and some insurance, and if anything happens to me I can take care of it myself." Jesus and his disciples walked around with nothing, and yet never wanted for anything. They relied solely on God to get them housing, food, everything. When Christ said not to worry about tomorrow, he didn't say "but go ahead and be sure you've got a five year plan too, just in case." That was my first realization, and one that led me to believe it was time to quit my job and actually trust God to make things happen. I had taken the job solely for security, and that no longer seemed to me a God-centered motive. I didn't know at first what I would be doing instead of working IT for a University, only that I needed to change things up.

The actual decision to come teach in Chile grew out of a desire to use whatever skills I'd been blessed with (which aren't many) to better people's lives, and to try and reach people in love and in service. At first that meant hanging around Atlanta for a while helping to feed the homeless and disenfranchised, because I had the money to give. Before long though, it became clear that God had a grander scheme in mind.
To be entirely truthful, and so that it doesn't seem like I'm trying to make a saint out of myself (I mean, come on, most of you know me) and to make things clear, this journey to a decision was not a purely spiritual one, and as pure as I'd like to think my motives were, one huge element other than my faith played a part.

Basically, I fell in love with a girl. There is an entire, rather sad (in every sense of the word) saga that surrounds that statement, but I will refer only to the pertinent elements. She was the first to mention Chile, in a more or less off-hand fashion, and that is how the idea first entered my head. I had considered teaching English abroad previously, as a possible lifestyle change that would lend itself more to service then to security, but never had I even thought about South America. It made sense though, since I had a strong desire to improve my Spanish to at least a medium level of fluency.

Through a series of events that involved a minor betrayal by someone who had been a close friend, and the realization that my love for ella was turning into a rather unrequited-esque scenario, it became clear that the time to leave had arrived. In a moment of heartbroken delirium, I applied to Ingles Abre Puertas on the very last day the application was due for the longest time period available: eight months. As for her, I figured if it was meant to be, then eight months wouldn't change that. When I got to Chile I was told of a poem that states,
"La distancia sabes, es como el viento. Apaga el fuego pequeño, pero enciende aquellos grandes."
I then got down on my knees and asked God to make things clear for me. If he wanted me in Chile, then he would make a way, because at the time it seemed a stretch.

He did made a way. The manner in which everything came together to get me down to Santiago in April was nothing short of divine. The major earthquake happened and threatened to make the whole endeavor a moot point. At the time, my boss even said to me, "Maybe that quake is God's way of saying not to go there." My answer was, "Or maybe it's God's way of checking to see if I'm serious." That next week I got the email saying the program was happening and if I still wanted to come down, I was welcome, but they would understand if I had changed my mind. I told them I was coming, quake or no. Many other smaller things came together, and still continue to. I have hypothyroidism and as such have to take levothyroxin, a prescription drug, every morning. I only had about a two month supply when I left the States and I was simply trusting on God to get me more, along with everything else. The day I took my last pill, the very day, a package came in the mail from my mom with enough meds to last me the rest of my time here. She had apparently managed to convince my doctor to load me up, and God got them to me the very day I needed them.

I've learned an incredible amount about my heart while I've been down here, and what it truly means to trust God for everything, and to have to minimize yourself and focus on others on a daily basis. So much about teaching kids is about sacrificing yourself, and as a volunteer, that's a huge task. Yet, it is a worthy one, and one I think Christ smiles on. So much about living in a culture where you don't speak the language is about humility. It's hard to makes things all about you when you can't even speak half the time, which is exactly the experience I needed. I needed to be shut up (as is probably clear from my writings, I have a propensity for talking about myself.) So much about living with strangers is about learning to love and to be loved on a very basic, very human level where sharing and giving are everyday requirements.

Then, of course, there is the desert. The vast empty wilderness that has forced my thoughts constantly back onto the Almighty and where I stand in His kingdom. I needed to feel insignificant and completely without control, because that is the truth.

Gringo-in' to Taltal

2010-05-24T12:23:00.014-04:00

"Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, 'What! You too? I thought I was the only one."
--C.S. Lewis

There is plenty of reason to assume a person who leaves a good job, good friends, and a happy life at home to go thousands of miles away into a foreign country to live with strangers and teach (especially if, like me, you aren't a teacher) might be a bit on the crazy side. There were certainly times prior to arriving to Chile that I stopped in my tracks and said aloud "what have I gone and done?" Thankfully though, the very day I arrived in Santiago, I was greeted by a host of other people who, if I was crazy, were just as mad, or even more so. Then we split and went our separate ways all over the country and there was a new sadness (though Facebook, Skype, and email have gone a long way to alleviating that feeling).

The 21st of May in Chile is a national holiday (for the battle of Iquique I mentioned in the last post) and as such we volunteers had a blessed long weekend and a group of us decided it was time for a mini-reunion. Through a series of circumstances that I cannot fully explain, and if I could I'm sure they wouldn't prove of interest, it was decided that a mass of us in the North and Central areas of the country would converge on the tiny seaside hamlet of Taltal, where Mike the surfer along with Vanessa (who is a very talented singer) are stationed. Ryan and I agreed to travel south from Calama, via Antofagasta, to be a part of Gringo Fest 2010. Heather Tang, whose blog I mentioned, would be traveling a ridiculous 15 hours north by bus to join as well. The other characters in this seeming farce were Peter, who is the native of Slovakia I would have mentioned a while back, along with Alex, who pretty much lives with Peter in Coquimbo where they teach, and finally Matt, our lone (and quite tall) volunteer in Antofagasta City. Most everyone was in Taltal by Friday afternoon, but Ryan and I were not able to arrive until around seven o'clock due to the bus situation from Calama and a minor planning snafu. Thus he and I spent a very interesting evening with some of my family at my aunt's house (my aunt is a big fan of rum, or ron as they say here.)

On the bus ride to Taltal, Ryan and I had to change buses in Antofagasta. We de-bused to grub (overpriced bus station cafeteria food) and resupply on snacks. When we got on our next bus, Ryan sat down next to me with a Coke Zero and a bag of Pizza Doritos in hand. He looked up at the TV which was about to play a dubbed version of Hitch and mused,
"I've got a coke, doritos, and a movie. I feel like I'm at a middle school birthday party."

Thus, by Friday evening, eight gringo volunteers had assembled at Mike's house where Ryan and I partook of the copious amounts of meat left over from that afternoon's asado, which we had sadly missed. Mike's host dad, Alejandro, had cooked enough for a small army and drank enough for a small navy so by the time Ryan and I met him he was the jolliest, most welcoming, most meat-giving Chilean you could imagine. He immediately pointed out that Ryan and I didn't look like gringos. When asked what he thought we looked like he pointed at me and said, "Pakistani!" He himself is very dark and in the family portrait that hangs on the living room wall he is sporting a beard and long hair which he pointed to and said, "Osama bin Laden!" He also thought Matt looked like Clark Kent and that Alex was Peter Parker.

Taltal is a wonderful seaside hamlet that looks as though the ocean vomited it forth at the foot of the mountains to give the desert a little color. The nearby beaches have good waves, and that weekend, in honor of the holiday, there was a body board competition. Saturday afternoon, Alejandro drove a few of us up there to take a look. A few people on a grand stand, a few in the water. When a break was coming someone on shore would honk a car horn. The entire scene was a tranquil reminder that the smallest excuse to seek diversion can become a milestone event in a town of 10, 000 people. Later that afternoon, Vanessa led us on a hike up into the hills southwest of town where we got great views of the sunset. Along the way we spotted sea lions prowling in the surf (so far I've seen lobos in coastal place I've been.) We hiked back in the dark, and on the way we passed a small pet shop that a few of us entered. They had a small selection of fish and rodents which caused Ryan to reminisce, saying "I had a hamster once. His name was Marley and he looked like a cow." Peter, upon hearing this forcefully inquired,
"How can hamster look like cow!?"

The people of the town were extremely friendly, and none more so then the host families of Mike and Venessa. We were fed, housed, and constantly entertained with the utmost hospitality. Everyone we met was happy to see us (except for a few local roustabouts wandering around the plaza.) At one point, we were walking to meet Vanessa and Peter for the hike, and as we went we tossed around a tennis ball Mike had brought. We stopped at the house I, Ryan, and Alex were staying at to change shoes and while there a man from next store who had seen us throwing the ball came out holding an iron pipe. He hoisted it above his head like a baseball bat and pantomimed a swing. Before long, an impromptu game of stick ball had developed. The man kept walking away and returning with bigger objects to use as a bat and we all took turns pitching and hitting.

Friday night we had been introduced to some local friends of Mike and Vanessa who invited us to a birthday party for another Taltalian on Saturday night. The friends, Pato and Camilu, were as friendly as you can imagine and seemed genuinely excited that a mob of Gringos had invaded their home town. Ryan, Matt, and I had yet to purchase return fare to Antofagasta for Sunday, and prior to leaving for the party we discovered that there were only two buses out the next morning; one at 5:30 and one at 9:00. Knowing that Chilean parties start late and go on until the break of dawn (literally) we decided to take a nap, go to the party, and just leave on the first bus.

The party proved itself to be a truly Chilean experience with all eight of us Gringos, six of whom were strangers in town, being invited into what was essentially and intimate birthday gathering. The party went as parties go, with lots of food, drink, and eventually dancing. Sometime around the ungodly hour of five o'clock in the morning the Gringo portion of the party, along with Pato and Camilu (and some other Taltalians whose names I cannot recall) decided to go to the disco. I opted out, but was drug along anyway because of Vanessa pleading a very convincing case that I would be leaving in a few hours and this was the last time all of us had together.

We had visited the disco on Friday and there had been maybe five people inside, but on Saturday it was packed to the walls. I immediately lost everybody and ended up chatting with someone I think was one of Mike's students. He spoke halfway decent English and he more-or-less would not leave me alone. At one point, shortly before they closed the place down, I tried to get out the front door to breath some fresh air (by this time the level of cigarette smoke in the place was at LA smog proportions). As I approached the exit I found myself caught up in a seething mass of humanity. It was like being in a vortex of Chilean youths, sucking me towards the center of the maelstrom where there was apparently a fight occurring. I was utterly confused and about to be trampled when suddenly someone grabbed my hand and pulled me backwards and into freedom. I turned to see Camilu, who had somehow divined my predicament with her Chilean extrasensory perception (CESP) and come to my rescue. The fight was soon broken up and we were able to esca--I mean, leave.

Everyone returned to the party house, but as I was not in any mood for dancing or drinking or eating tuna sandwiches (I hear this happened, I didn't witness the sandwiches myself) I, along with Alex, made our way back to Mike's house. On the road back, we were waylaid by a contingent of teenage girls who had, I'm sure, been laying in ambush for the first Gringo males that would come by. I was already familiar with this sort of compromising attention due to my experiences teaching high school, but never the less we were convinced to come hang out on the beach and talk about inane subjects in English as the girls tried in vain to convince us that they were actually in college in Antofagasta and just home for the weekend. The clock was ticking, and I had a bus to catch, so I pretty much, quite literally, ran away. Alex tarried, no doubt to noblely hold the line while I retreated.

Suffice to say, we did not make the 5:30 bus. We all ended up reconvening at Mike's house to eat some bread, drink some water, and then bid our farewells. By nine, Ryan, Matt and I were passed out on a northbound bus. That night, after having enjoyed the day with Matt, lunching with his family, visiting the mall, etc., we were sitting in the bus station waiting to go home when Ryan summed everything up with,

"Well, it's back to Calama, where I'm a nobody."

Comes in Waves

2010-05-17T17:38:00.006-04:00

"Grant me freedom to enjoy this night
And I'll return to you at break of light
For the wanting comes in waves."
--The Decemberists

There is a strange feeling of dispossession that washes over me from time to time, and often leaves me perched as though on a rock surrounded by the coming tide. It is not what could be called home sickness, because I have no physical home that I miss, only people. I have only ever been away from my country before on travel, always with the intention of returning to Georgia, to Atlanta.
However, this time is very different, because I don't know if I ever will be "home" in Atlanta again. I'm starting to doubt it. Yet, there is a disconnect that my brain has yet to fully process between how my life was, and what it is now. How there is no other home but where I am now; no other room, no other possessions. Calama is my home now, and my soul does not seem content to accept that reality (can you blame it?) If I leave, when I leave, it is always to her dusty calles that I shall return, for months more yet. And then, what comes after? Ah, to even think of after Chile leaves me feeling so strange that I try never to entertain such thoughts. I might not even live that long. "Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?" I believe, as it is written, that the Lord God has a plan for me, one that I seek and attempt to be obedient too, and what's more, to desire. Hence my presence in this sprawling desert hamlet. However, when I am honest, I realize my heart seems to want something else and I'm having trouble with reconciliation.

It helps to get out of town.

Friday May 14th I finally did leave Calama for the first time in two weeks to visit the coastal city up north of Iquique. Once a part of Peru, Iquique was essentially stolen by Chile during their war with Bolivia and her ally Peru in a conflict known as La Guerra del Pacifico. In fact, the entire north of Chile was once Peruvian or Bolivian territory, including my new hometown. On the 21st of May the nation of Chile will celebrate this fact on the anniversary of the Combate Naval de Iquique where a wooden Chilean corvette was crushed by a Peruvian ironclad. The battle was a complete loss for Chile at the time (they lost a ship along with 135 men. Peru lost one man. One.) However, the admiral of the Chilean ship, Arturo Prat, died so "gallantly"that his story rallied the youth of Chile to the fight, ultimately leading to Chilean victory. A movie was recently made about the event and it is the most expensive Chilean film production to date. It opens next week. Here is the trailer:

Iquique is full of history, but more importantly it is filled with beautiful beaches where surfers flock year round to enjoy the consistent swells. The beaches were what Ryan and I were most interested in as we headed five hours by bus to spend the weekend in a beach-side hostel with Mike, the surfer from New York. He was already in town when we arrived, having come up from his post in Taltal to buy a surf board and break it in. Thus the three of us had a small reunion in the lovely humidity (I was soaked in seconds, so unused to the moisture in the air as I have become.) We ate seafood and enjoyed the beach. Mike surfed. We all made new friends as the hostel was full of other surfers and, for some reason, at least six unassociated Dutchmen. One girl, Puck, spent the weekend hanging out with us as she was traveling alone and would be leaving on the same bus for Calama as Ryan and I on Sunday, bound as she was for San Pedro (por supuesto.)

It was cloudy most of the day on Saturday, which was a disappointment that kept me from entering the beautiful, crystal blue water. However, the sunset was so spectacular, and the weather so balmy that I really couldn't complain at the end of the day. Also, in a bit of divine providence, we missed a pair of days in Calama that saw freezing rain and power outages due to 100km winds. It ended up being a most fortuitous decision to go to the beach.

Sunday saw Mike gone early in the morning as he had a ten hour ride back south to Taltal. Thus, Ryan, Puck and I walked to the celebrated Mall to poke around and have some chow. Like every major store in Chile modeled after a North American counterpart, the mall was utterly redundant; its two floors populated by no less then ten different shoe stores.

By Sunday I was happy to be back in Calama, with my new family. They make this endeavor worthwhile, and actually have me looking forward to coming "home" whenever I am away. It has almost been two months now, and the States is feeling farther and farther away. So many people worried that when I left I wouldn't be coming back. I now have a sense why.

Food Chain

2010-05-14T09:48:00.008-04:00

"People generally quarrel because they cannot argue."
--G.K. Chesterton

One of the requirements, nay, duties of every volunteer in the Inglés Abre Puertas program is to help coach an English language debate team. The program, when founded, did a wonderful job of creating and organizing a country-wide competition that sees the best teams from schools in every region battling it out for the top honor in Santiago each year. Coaching the debate team at Liceo Lucho is by far one of my favorite aspects of my job. If anyone reading this has met me and spent more then two hours in a confined space with me, you are probably well aware of my predisposition to argument. For better or worse (usually worse) I have the ability to engage in debate with the utmost of ease, and no small part enjoyment. To my chagrin, my high school did not offer me an outlet for such talents, and as such I am more then delighted to live vicariously through my fumbling pupils here in Chile.

Part of each meeting (or sometimes the entire meeting) is of course devoted to helping the kids on the team enunciate, pronounce words correctly, and just generally get a better grasp on the language they are being called on in which to argue. These kids are on the team voluntarily, which means they already speak decent English and wish to improve, which is worlds apart from the classroom setting of obligation and, inevitably, apathy.
However, the really interesting part of the endeavor is the actual debating; working on their reasoning and ability to improvise and adapt. To this end, we often give the kids a topic to think over for the week, such as "this house believes that television is damaging to child development", and then when we meet we split the group into pros and cons and let them duke it out as best they can according to the established protocol. The last meeting was particularly awesome because I gave them the topic of "should animals be afforded the same rights as humans?" This topic was brilliant for two reasons: one, Chile is covered in stray dogs and thus violence against animals is a relevant topic, and two, because if this weren't already a real issue in the States it would immediately be dismissed as absurd. Thus I was eagerly looking forward to what these 2nd world children would come up with (excuse me, "developing world").

On Tuesday, when we met at lunch, we split the kids into pro and con, five against five, and then let them form a thesis and supporting points. We then sat them across from each other and let them fire away. Of course the pro side argued first that animals have feelings and can think, and thus are deserving of humane treatment and thus crimes against them should be punishable as the similar crimes against humans; standard bleeding-heart modernist basura. I couldn't help but smile in anticipation of the counter-argument, and the niños didn't disappoint.

The opening thesis of the opposing team was thus: animals can't really think, they only act on instincts. I put a hand over my mouth to cover my creeping smile. They followed this up with,
"What about the animals we eat? Should butchers be arrested for murder?"
I was now stifling giggles.
The teams went back and forth over categorizing animals, whether instinct and thought co-exist, ect. Then came the hammer; the closing arguments.
The pro side offered a very eloquent, very logical closer that involved a nice anecdote about how a mother elephant can pick out her child in a crowed simply by it's pleading.
Ok, good.
Then the closer for the con team stood up. He glanced at his notes, cleared his throat, and then said,

"We have to kill them before they kill us!"

I exploded into uncontrollable laughter. I was seriously in tears.
I had to give the victory to the pro side simply because of the strength of their English and delivery, but in my heart the con team had won by a mile.

Madres and Manchurians

2010-05-10T20:56:00.006-04:00

Monday morning, the 10th of May, I walked onto the campus of my school to find all of the teachers clustered in a mob outside of the main office building desperately waiting to get to the time clock. An alarm was blaring somewhere in the rear of the complex, and the students were roaming around fomenting an air of chaos. I was experiencing my first strike.

There are three things that Chile is full of: Bread, dogs, and strikes. At my school, the auxiliary support staff (asistentes de educación) such as cleaning people, secretaries, etc. decided not to show up to work to protest not having received benefits they were promised two years ago (so said the fliers they taped up everywhere at least.) This meant that no one was present to unlock the doors, ring the bell, coral the teachers, and just generally help to manufacture a (albeit false) sense of order. Needless to say, the day did not go very well, but by Tuesday morning everyone was back. I am not sure if they got what they wanted, or simply realized that no work means no pay which means no mas pan--a fate worse then death in Chile.

The weekend was much better, as I was able to spend some quality time with the new family to include a very interesting Día de Mama celebration. We woke up relatively early on Sunday morning and after our pan and té we all got dressed for misa (mass) at the main cathedral located in the plaza in el centro. I put on my suit and a tie to mark the occasion (and because I'd just more or less been looking for an excuse to do some stylin' and profilin'--as the Nature Boy Rick Flair used to say. Is he still alive? Shouldn't be. Anyway, I digress...)

In the plaza, on the way to the church, we passed at least twenty different vendors selling roses and another half dozen selling "gifts" (read junk) for Día de Mama. Thankfully my host-mom is a no-nonsense kind of woman who would have happily accepted a rose had I paid with six pints of blood to buy one, but is of the disposition that would rather see them on bushes as opposed to rotting in a vase in the kitchen. Inside the cathedral was quaintly beautiful. Though ornate, as is the want of Catholicism, it was not overwrought--aside for the copper gilding all over the exterior to include a solid copper cross atop the steeple. Misa was appropriately long and filled with sadly misguided prayers to the "mother of mothers", Maria. I want to believe that that at least a handful of the people involved in the catholic church here (and elsewhere) actually believe the teaching of Christ and are committed to something more then blinding following traditions so old nobody knows how or why they came about (because there certainly isn't anything in the Bible about dressing up in robes, chanting, and swinging incense around), but that is between their hearts and God.

We left the church, which was packed, and hot-footed it a few blocks further into town where we were to rendezvous with my host-aunt, cousin, brothers, etc at a Chinese restaurant. I had thought that when, earlier in the week, my family had said my host-mom didn't cook on Mother's Day, and instead we would eat Chinese that they were joking. They weren't.

Eating Chinese can, in and of itself, be a precarious endeavor--but in South America it's dang near foolishness. However, I was put at ease to actually see Chinese immigrants working the front and back, and I was soon fully entertained by their heavily accented and limited Spanish. The food was not the worst Chinese I've ever had (anywhere) but it certainly finds itself on my ever growing list of Disappointing Chilean Attempts at Foreign Cuisine right under Gringo breakfast and tacos. I haven't ventured to try the pizza yet.

After our Chinese feast most of the family went to my host aunt's house where we continued to chat, nap, and then have onces (tecito) for nearly three hours and well into the night. I ended up having a ridiculous discussion with my host mom and her sister about everything from women's rights (still a very fresh concept in machista Chile) to discussing your problems so that they don't build up inside drive you to an early grave. They asked me, point blank at one point, why I didn't discuss my issues (such as missing home, relationships, etc.) with the family every night at onces. I explained that in my world, and in my Anglo-Irish family, men didn't talk about their feelings. They simply bottled them up, choked them down, and went on living as though nothing was wrong. I was duly chastised for following such a path of behavior and I was eventually pried wide-open. The only that saved me from complete vivisection was the language barrier that allowed me to play dumb.

Gringo Perspective

2010-05-07T23:25:00.002-04:00

There are, as I write, nearly forty eight volunteers spread throughout Chile from my "class"of eight month volunteers (one month down, woo!) which is in addition to a number of year long volunteers who were already in action when we all arrived. The program (Programa Ingles Abre Puertas) took those fifty some-odd folks and sprinkled them all over the length and breadth of the country, and more are on their way in June.

I am in the Grande Norte, the region of Antofagasta, which is not quite at the top of the country; that would Arica. Please refer to the following helpful graphic (click to enlarge, as always):

As it stands currently, I am highest up (so to speak) in the country, the voice crying out in the wilderness of the Atacama desert. However, things are completely different in the bottom of the country where it is below freezing and snowing, or int the rainy middle section for that matter. Thankfully, some other intrepid volunteers are keeping blogs themselves and I figured I would clue you in on the tapestry of perspective that is being woven on the internet concerning Chile and it's education system.

Starting at the top there is of course myself, your humble narrator. Moving south we have fellow Antofagasta region volunteer, New York Surfer Mike Conway. He is in the coastal desert hamlet of Taltal.
Mike's Blog.

In the middle, the Valparaiso region, we find Heather Tang who prior to coming to Chile had experience teaching in Japan for over a year. She updates regularly and has plenty of good stuff in her archive.
Heather's Blog.

In El Sur, in the rainy forest lands of Los Rios, we have what will be the husband and wife team of Jason and Kori. Right now it is just Jason, but he keeps a fabulous blog filled with photos and videos he records himself.
Jason's Blog.

Unfortunately I don't know of anyone blogging in the Patagonia Norte region, even though there are volunteers there. However, to compensate, there are two blogs covering the Patagonia Sur: Marie's and Greg's. Greg is in Puento Arenas, which is the southernmost city in Chile, and one of the farthest south in the world. Almost the bottom you might say.
Marie's Blog
Greg's Blog

I'm sure there are probably a few others keeping an online record of their experiences, but these at least give you an opportunity to begin to expand you understanding of Chile via the perspective of a bunch of Gringos trying to be teachers in the schools from the North to the very far South.

For future reference, I have added links to these blogs in the sidebar to the right of the page.

Picture Post: La Feria

2010-05-06T18:53:00.004-04:00

Every Sunday, the main road near my house magically becomes a farmer's market.

Not pictured: the overwhelming stench.

Dog food. Por que no?

Mena is really excited about the juevos.

One Month Down

2010-05-03T18:32:00.004-04:00

Ah yes, seems like so long ago...look at the beard.

Today, the 3rd of May in the Year of Our Lord 2010 marks the one month anniversary of my arrival in Chile.

Since touching down in Santiago that cool April morning, nearly everything in my life became new:
I made forty-some-odd new friends over a week of teacher orientation.
I have become an English as a Foreign Language teacher.
I am now the member of a new, Chilean family complete with brothers, sisters, cousins, two nephews (one born, one yet unborn.)
I now speak in Spanish as my primary daily language.
I attend, out of necessity, a Catholic church.
I eat raw onions.
I am no longer surprised by milk you don't refrigerate.
I now habitually throw away my toilet paper in bins.
I write almost a third of the time I am awake (the rest is spent studying Spanish and talking around the dinner table.)
I have ridden over twenty miles in a day on a bike through the world's driest desert.
I have ceased to be woken up at night by dogs barking.
I trimmed my ridiculous beard.

A month is a long time, and I have seven more to go before I return home. A month is a long time and I already miss so much about home:
Family
Friends
My stupid gatito O'Malley
Peanut Butter
Movies in English
Chick Fil A
*Taco Bell
Not having to wear shoes at all times
Daily workouts

Seven months from now, who knows what else will be different? God has played some very interesting hands since I left, throwing me into the desert for starters. I have already learned a lot, and I expect to learn even more about this world, my heart, and what God truly means when he asks us to be obedient and really on him for our every need. So far, so good. I have yet to go without in any serious aspect, and I fully trust that such will continue to be the case.

Now, let's see if I make it through May.

*One Friday night, Mena had her friends over to chat and hang out. She made "tacos" for them to eat. I became irrationally excited when I heard what was going on. You'd think I would have learned from the "gringo breakfast" incident in Santiago not to do that. You see, these "tacos" had familiar components: chicken, "Mexican" tortillas, and "taco" sauce. Of course, neither the tortillas nor the taco sauce were made in Mexico. Oh no, they were made in Santiago and tasted exactly like a bunch of Chileans who have only seen tacos in American movies might make if you gave them similar ingredients and a lot of leeway. Mena took the chicken and cooked it together with bags of mixed frozen veggies like you find in your grocers freezer section (corn, green beans, green peas, and carrots). No cheese. No sour cream. No taco seasoning. No lettuce.
I ate them, sure, but I cried with every bite wishing to all Heaven that what was in my mouth would magically assume the flavor of an 89 cent taco supreme from the Bell.

Moving and Meat

2010-05-03T13:36:00.008-04:00

"I want to know, have you ever seen the rain coming down on a sunny day?"
--CCR

Friends and family were gathered around the table Saturday to celebrate the Día del Trabajador with a traditional barbecue, known in Chile as an asado. The chatter was lively as food and drink were consumed, and laughter marked the scene. Suddenly, Carlos stood and put a finger to his lips. The table fell into a bemused silence. Carlos then lifted one hand to his ear and with the other pointed at the ceiling.
"Escucha." He whispered.
Then, in the quiet, we could here it. Rain. Rain drumming softly on the corrugated tin roof.
Immediately everyone sprung from their seats, chairs screeching backwards across the tile floor as a mass rush to the front porch took place.
There we stood in awe in the soft, nearly imperceptible, but utterly unmistakable miracle of desert rain.

May 1st is Labor Day in Chile, and is an official holiday where employers cannot require their employees to work. This year, 2010, the holiday fell on a Saturday. I awoke that morning to use the bathroom and was asked, on my way back to bed, if I was ready to go help Carlos (the oldest son) cambio a casa, or move. It was in that hazy moment I realized that when I had offered the previous night to help Carlos move, he had accepted (he speaks very quickly). I had thought he wasn't moving until the end of the month. Thus I scrambled to dress just as the doorbell rang and Carlos came in wearing jeans, a ball cap, and a T-Shirt with the sleeves cut off. He proudly pointed to the shirt which was for the 1992 World Series. "Toronto Bluejays!" he said, smiling. If I haven't mentioned it before, Carlos is the definitive sports nut, and he especially loves North American sports--even more specifically Baseball (or Baisbol).

He and his family were only moving two streets over but the cambio a casa became an all day affair with a three hour break in the middle for the asado. I was actually quite relieved to finally have some physical labour to attend to; man work, so to speak. Carlos works out of his home for a company that sells replacement parts for the heavy machinery used at the mine, thus the first part of my "Day of the Worker" was spent helping lift and move insanely heavy iron/steel parts used on tractors, excavators, and the like. We had finished moving the parts around three o'clock with an obligatory hot dog break in the middle (it was me, Carlos, and a fellow around my age named Sebastian.) It turns out Sebastian is the boyfriend of my host mom's niece, who along with her mother and few other extended family were waiting for us at the house. Ryan was there too, my family having fallen in love with him (no doubt because he is a gringo who can actually speak their tongue with confidence.)

Now some words on the asado. There is nothing more endearing to me then a culture who prizes coming together to cook meat over an open flame in massive quantities. That is the asado. A grill upon which chicken, meat, and chorizo sausage are barbecued, then brought to the table to join a smorgasbord of other Chilean delights (corn, salads, rice, potatoes, etc.) We ate and ate, and I discovered the delightful joy of the choripan, which is simply a french baguette type of bread stuffed with a chorizo sausage and covered with mayonnaise and (for the adventurous) hot pepper sauce known as ají. Then, halfway through the meal, we were treated to a very brief, but very entertaining desert shower. It was still sunny, and within an hour all traces of rain clouds had dissipated, but for almost five minutes there was water falling from the sky. I know my fellow volunteers down in El Sur will not be impressed, since it apparently is constantly raining there. However, in the Atacama, the driest place on earth, the rain was a spectacular event.

The following Sunday I spent recuperating both from all the refreshing labour as well as all of the eating. I once again visited the street market that appears out of nowhere in my neighborhood known as the Fería and this time took pictures, which will follow hard on this post. Carlos and his family have been over at the house often the past few days as they don't yet have internet or TV. I made the mistake of lifting Emilo (Carlos' five year old son) and hefting him into the air. Now every time I see him he is trying to goad me into launching him skyward by pretending to be a charging torro. At lunch Monday, he apparently ate too much and summarily vomited onto the kitchen floor. Carlos shook his head as he worked on his laptop and muttered,
"Chancho"
Which is of course Spanish for hog.

A Country of Poets

2010-04-29T22:38:00.003-04:00

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...

2010-04-27T23:38:00.002-04:00

...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?

2010-04-26T17:53:00.009-04:00

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

2010-04-23T09:52:00.005-04:00

"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

2010-04-21T10:50:00.004-04:00

"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

2010-04-19T13:50:00.004-04:00

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

2010-04-17T11:50:00.003-04:00

"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

2010-04-15T18:05:00.010-04:00

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

2010-04-14T19:53:00.007-04:00

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

2010-04-11T17:15:00.007-04:00

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

2010-04-11T12:03:00.003-04:00