Quaker or Kwacker

"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.