Eso es Todo

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

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

"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

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

"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

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

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.