Thursday, November 27, 2008
Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving...
Yes. Well. Today is Thanksgiving. I hope you all have a great one. I totally forgot about it, since we had ours last week... and there were other things on the mind today. Crazy...
Last Day of Classes (último día de clases)
Speech
I was chosen, by a chorus of gringo voices, to write a speech for the ceremonia de despedida (dismissal ceremony) at the university. I was then convinced by my host parents that if I had someone else read it, it wouldn't be the same. So yesterday, I gave a speech in Spanish. A real one, in front of people: the powers that be in the university, our professors, some of our compañeros, and the rest of the gringos. It went pretty well, and here it is (including english translation).
Fui elegido por los gringos a escribir un discurso para la ceremonia de despedida en la universidad. Luego, mis padres me dijeron que, si un otro lo diera, no sería lo mismo. Entonces, ayer di un discurso en español. Un discurso real, delante de gente: los que mandan en la universidad, nuestros profesores, algunos de nuestros compañeros, y los demás de los gringos. Fue más o menos bien, y la letra sigue (incluyendo la traducción de español).
Gracias a todos--
Es un gusto estar acá esta tarde con ustedes, y ha sido un gusto estar en Chile estos tres meses.
No sabíamos qué esperar antes de venir a Chile. Solo sabíamos lo que aprendimos en nuestro clase de orientación en los Estados Unidos: que Chile es muy hermoso con muchas vistas y paisajes distintos, que habría muchos modismos, que estudiaríamos español y la cultura de Chile mientras viajáramos por el país, y que tendríamos el tiempo de nuestras vidas. También conocimos sobre las empanadas y el deciocho de septiembre, pero nada podía describir la experiencia que hemos tenido.
Cuando nosotros llegamos en septiembre, después de que nos bajamos del avión, la mayoría de nosotros no pudimos entender lo que la gente en el aeropuerto nos decía, ni hablar más que las frases más simples con ellos en español, como "lo siento, no entiendo," o "¿qué?"
Pero, durante estos meses, hemos aprendido mucho: mucho del idioma, del país y la cultura, y de nosotros mismos. Ahora, podemos funcionar más o menos independientes en una ciudad nueva, en un país nuevo, y con un idioma distinto. Podemos tomar las micros y colectivos, comprar cosas que necesitamos en un supermercado, en el mall, o en el mercado al aire libre, disfrutar la vida nocturna, y tomar autobuses para otras partes del país o para otros países. De hecho, muchos de nosotros vamos a viajar solos o en grupos pequeños a muchos lugares después de que termine el programa. Vamos a la Isla del Pascua, a Machu Picchu en Perú, al sur de Chile a lugares como Chiloé, Torres del Paine, y Tierra del Fuego, y a Atacama en el norte, entre otros. En todo caso, no importa adonde vayamos, podemos ir con más confianza en nosotros mismos que antes del programa.
Ya hemos viajado a las Termas de Chillán, Valparaíso, Viña del Mar, Isla Negra, Valdivia, Puerto Varas, y Puerto Montt. Algunos han ido a Argentina y otras ciudades en Chile. Hace unos meses atrás, habría resultado imposible de pensar que haríamos todo ésto.
También, más que aprender y viajar, hemos hecho amigos mientras hemos estado acá, entre nosotros, entre nuestros compañeros y tutores de la universidad, entre nuestras familias, quienes nos han aceptado como hijos y hermanos, y con otra gente a quien hemos conocido.
Es claro que ha sido una experiencia muy buena e inolvidable. Nos gustaría darles muchas gracias por la oportunidad de estudiar y vivir un tiempo con ustedes.
Muchas gracias.
Thank you to all of you--
It is a pleasure to be here this afternoon with you, and it has been a pleasure to be in Chile these three months.
We didn't know what to expect before coming to Chile. We only knew what we learned in our orientation class in the United States: that Chile is very beautiful with many different views and landscapes, that there would be a lot of idioms, that we would study Spanish and Chilean culture while traveling through the country, and that we would have the time of our lives. We also learned about empanadas (a typical and delicious Chilean dish) and the 18th of September (celebration of Chilean independence), but nothing could describe the experience we have had.
When we arrived in September, after getting off the plane, the majority of us couldn't understand what the people in the airport were saying, or speak more than the most simple phrases with them in Spanish, like "I'm sorry, I don't understand" or "What?"
But during these months, we have learned a lot: a lot about the language, the country and culture of Chile, and about ourselves. Now we can function more or less independently in a new city, in a new country, and with a different language. We can take the micros and colectivos (public transportation), buy things we need in a supermarket, the mall, or the open air market, enjoy the night life, and take buses to other parts of the country, or to other countries. In fact, many of us are going to travel alone or in small groups to many different places after the program ends. We are going to Easter Island, Machu Picchu in Peru, to the south of Chile to places like Chiloé, Torres del Paine, and Tierra del Fuego, and to the Atacama desert in the north, among others. In any case, no matter where we go, we can go with more confidence in ourselves than before the program.
We have already gone to the Termas de Chillán, Valparaíso, Viña del Mar, Isla Negra, Valdivia, Puerto Varas, and Puerto Montt. Some of us have gone to Argentina and other cities in Chile. A few months ago, it would have been imposible to think that we would do all this.
Also, more than learn and travel, we have made friends while we have been here, between each other, with our fellow students and tutors in the university, with our families, who have accepted us as sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, and with other people we have met.
It is clear that it has been an amazing and unforgettable experience. We would like to thank you all for the opportunity to study and live with you for a while.
Thank you very much.
And now, classes are done, the last tests have been taken, and many people are already on their way to the various places mentioned in the speech. And I only have a little over a week before I head back. I'm excited... and a little sad.
Y ahora, clases han terminado, las últimas pruebas han estado dado, y muchos de los gringos ya están viajando para los lugares mencionados en el discurso. Y tengo un poco más que una semana hasta volver a los Estados Unidos. Estoy emocionado... y un poco triste.
I was chosen, by a chorus of gringo voices, to write a speech for the ceremonia de despedida (dismissal ceremony) at the university. I was then convinced by my host parents that if I had someone else read it, it wouldn't be the same. So yesterday, I gave a speech in Spanish. A real one, in front of people: the powers that be in the university, our professors, some of our compañeros, and the rest of the gringos. It went pretty well, and here it is (including english translation).
Fui elegido por los gringos a escribir un discurso para la ceremonia de despedida en la universidad. Luego, mis padres me dijeron que, si un otro lo diera, no sería lo mismo. Entonces, ayer di un discurso en español. Un discurso real, delante de gente: los que mandan en la universidad, nuestros profesores, algunos de nuestros compañeros, y los demás de los gringos. Fue más o menos bien, y la letra sigue (incluyendo la traducción de español).
Gracias a todos--
Es un gusto estar acá esta tarde con ustedes, y ha sido un gusto estar en Chile estos tres meses.
No sabíamos qué esperar antes de venir a Chile. Solo sabíamos lo que aprendimos en nuestro clase de orientación en los Estados Unidos: que Chile es muy hermoso con muchas vistas y paisajes distintos, que habría muchos modismos, que estudiaríamos español y la cultura de Chile mientras viajáramos por el país, y que tendríamos el tiempo de nuestras vidas. También conocimos sobre las empanadas y el deciocho de septiembre, pero nada podía describir la experiencia que hemos tenido.
Cuando nosotros llegamos en septiembre, después de que nos bajamos del avión, la mayoría de nosotros no pudimos entender lo que la gente en el aeropuerto nos decía, ni hablar más que las frases más simples con ellos en español, como "lo siento, no entiendo," o "¿qué?"
Pero, durante estos meses, hemos aprendido mucho: mucho del idioma, del país y la cultura, y de nosotros mismos. Ahora, podemos funcionar más o menos independientes en una ciudad nueva, en un país nuevo, y con un idioma distinto. Podemos tomar las micros y colectivos, comprar cosas que necesitamos en un supermercado, en el mall, o en el mercado al aire libre, disfrutar la vida nocturna, y tomar autobuses para otras partes del país o para otros países. De hecho, muchos de nosotros vamos a viajar solos o en grupos pequeños a muchos lugares después de que termine el programa. Vamos a la Isla del Pascua, a Machu Picchu en Perú, al sur de Chile a lugares como Chiloé, Torres del Paine, y Tierra del Fuego, y a Atacama en el norte, entre otros. En todo caso, no importa adonde vayamos, podemos ir con más confianza en nosotros mismos que antes del programa.
Ya hemos viajado a las Termas de Chillán, Valparaíso, Viña del Mar, Isla Negra, Valdivia, Puerto Varas, y Puerto Montt. Algunos han ido a Argentina y otras ciudades en Chile. Hace unos meses atrás, habría resultado imposible de pensar que haríamos todo ésto.
También, más que aprender y viajar, hemos hecho amigos mientras hemos estado acá, entre nosotros, entre nuestros compañeros y tutores de la universidad, entre nuestras familias, quienes nos han aceptado como hijos y hermanos, y con otra gente a quien hemos conocido.
Es claro que ha sido una experiencia muy buena e inolvidable. Nos gustaría darles muchas gracias por la oportunidad de estudiar y vivir un tiempo con ustedes.
Muchas gracias.
Thank you to all of you--
It is a pleasure to be here this afternoon with you, and it has been a pleasure to be in Chile these three months.
We didn't know what to expect before coming to Chile. We only knew what we learned in our orientation class in the United States: that Chile is very beautiful with many different views and landscapes, that there would be a lot of idioms, that we would study Spanish and Chilean culture while traveling through the country, and that we would have the time of our lives. We also learned about empanadas (a typical and delicious Chilean dish) and the 18th of September (celebration of Chilean independence), but nothing could describe the experience we have had.
When we arrived in September, after getting off the plane, the majority of us couldn't understand what the people in the airport were saying, or speak more than the most simple phrases with them in Spanish, like "I'm sorry, I don't understand" or "What?"
But during these months, we have learned a lot: a lot about the language, the country and culture of Chile, and about ourselves. Now we can function more or less independently in a new city, in a new country, and with a different language. We can take the micros and colectivos (public transportation), buy things we need in a supermarket, the mall, or the open air market, enjoy the night life, and take buses to other parts of the country, or to other countries. In fact, many of us are going to travel alone or in small groups to many different places after the program ends. We are going to Easter Island, Machu Picchu in Peru, to the south of Chile to places like Chiloé, Torres del Paine, and Tierra del Fuego, and to the Atacama desert in the north, among others. In any case, no matter where we go, we can go with more confidence in ourselves than before the program.
We have already gone to the Termas de Chillán, Valparaíso, Viña del Mar, Isla Negra, Valdivia, Puerto Varas, and Puerto Montt. Some of us have gone to Argentina and other cities in Chile. A few months ago, it would have been imposible to think that we would do all this.
Also, more than learn and travel, we have made friends while we have been here, between each other, with our fellow students and tutors in the university, with our families, who have accepted us as sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, and with other people we have met.
It is clear that it has been an amazing and unforgettable experience. We would like to thank you all for the opportunity to study and live with you for a while.
Thank you very much.
And now, classes are done, the last tests have been taken, and many people are already on their way to the various places mentioned in the speech. And I only have a little over a week before I head back. I'm excited... and a little sad.
Y ahora, clases han terminado, las últimas pruebas han estado dado, y muchos de los gringos ya están viajando para los lugares mencionados en el discurso. Y tengo un poco más que una semana hasta volver a los Estados Unidos. Estoy emocionado... y un poco triste.
A day at the Rodeo... (Un día en el rodeo...)
Dust flew into the shimmering summer air at the passing of the caballeros, riding abreast with a steer herded between them, spraying dirt clods into the stand. The crowd watched with gathering interest as the beast continued to make the circuit, completely controlled by the two riders, now one behind the other riding almost sideways, his horses breast keeping the steer at the wall, and not allowing it to run free through the middle of the ring. Round and round, they went in the football shaped part of the corral. Three times, they passed before the puerteros opened the gates on either side of the starting pen, and the medialuna was open. The steer, sensing an opportunity to flee his tormentors, burst forward when he saw the opening before him. The caballeros too picked up speed, continuing to keep the animal close to the wall. The announcer shouted, "Un punto bueno!" Around the halfmoon they went, shouting, urging the bull on. The crowd added their own shouts and encouragements, "Ay, yai, yai, yah, yah... bueno caballero!" The steer neared the padded portion of the wall, the crowd tensed, the riders set their jaws and focused all their attention on the animal. Even the live musicians paused mid-song, the harp falling silent and the guitar resting quietly in the woman's lap. Then, the bull reached the scoring area, the rider behind pulled in the reigns, showering the crowd with flying dirt. The rider to the side, the horse who had been galloping sideways next to the steer the whole way, surged forward, and the beasts bellowed as the steer crashed against the wall. The horse had pinned the animal, bringing it to a halt against the padded wall, by hitting the steer just in front of the hind legs, and then in dizzying footwork, while the steer remained still, easing in front of it to keep it from continuing forward. Now the riders had switched positions, the one who had trailed the steer now came in on the side, and the rider who had just pinned the animal, now turned it around to flee the other direction around the halfmoon to the padded wall on the other side. "Cuatro puntos buenos!" shouted the announcer, and the crowd whistled, shouted, clapped their hands and stomped their feet, as the caballeros and steer continued with the Chilean rodeo.
This is the national sport of Chile, and a term abroad here would be incomplete with out experiencing it at least once. This last weekend I went with my sister and gringo friend, Corey. Chilean rodeo is different than that of the US. It consists of only one event, which takes place in a large oval corral. The object is to get the steer running around the halfmoon part and run it into the wall at a certain point, stopping its progress and turning it around to race the other way around the edge to the same fate on the other side, and finally a return and yet another encounter with the wall. Then the steer is herded back around the halfmoon at a slower pace and out of the ring. The huasos (cowboys, country-folk) earn points (puntos) for how they stop the steer. The farther back on the body, the more points, because it is more difficult. They can earn 1-4 points for a clean hit and stop. If they do something wrong (I didn't understand what exactly), they get zero points. If the steer is able to continue forward after the hit on the wall or they loose control of it, they are deducted points.
It was interesting to see and anyone with eyes can tell it is ridiculously hard to make a horse run sideways next to a bull and then push the bull into the wall with all its strength. Still, it didn't set entirely well with me, just as the rodeo in the United States doesn't quite sit well with me. After watching numerous bulls fall to their knees and not move until prodded into action after being run into the wall, after seeing a crazed steer jump over the wall of the corral, breaking the top boards and falling to the other side, after watching a steer with rolling white eyes and foam dripping from its mouth jump into the door to the first football shaped part of the corral and break the locking piece... it just seems a bit cruel. It's not my place to pass judgment though, and it is clear that the steers are treated with some manner of respect and are looked after, well-fed, etc.
Anyway, that is the rodeo. See the pictures. Buy the ticket. Take the ride.
This is the national sport of Chile, and a term abroad here would be incomplete with out experiencing it at least once. This last weekend I went with my sister and gringo friend, Corey. Chilean rodeo is different than that of the US. It consists of only one event, which takes place in a large oval corral. The object is to get the steer running around the halfmoon part and run it into the wall at a certain point, stopping its progress and turning it around to race the other way around the edge to the same fate on the other side, and finally a return and yet another encounter with the wall. Then the steer is herded back around the halfmoon at a slower pace and out of the ring. The huasos (cowboys, country-folk) earn points (puntos) for how they stop the steer. The farther back on the body, the more points, because it is more difficult. They can earn 1-4 points for a clean hit and stop. If they do something wrong (I didn't understand what exactly), they get zero points. If the steer is able to continue forward after the hit on the wall or they loose control of it, they are deducted points.
It was interesting to see and anyone with eyes can tell it is ridiculously hard to make a horse run sideways next to a bull and then push the bull into the wall with all its strength. Still, it didn't set entirely well with me, just as the rodeo in the United States doesn't quite sit well with me. After watching numerous bulls fall to their knees and not move until prodded into action after being run into the wall, after seeing a crazed steer jump over the wall of the corral, breaking the top boards and falling to the other side, after watching a steer with rolling white eyes and foam dripping from its mouth jump into the door to the first football shaped part of the corral and break the locking piece... it just seems a bit cruel. It's not my place to pass judgment though, and it is clear that the steers are treated with some manner of respect and are looked after, well-fed, etc.
Anyway, that is the rodeo. See the pictures. Buy the ticket. Take the ride.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Reflexion, un poco atrasada (Reflection, a bit late)
Note: This was written on Friday the 21st of November. Also, because I can write much improved spanish and am writing with plenty free time, I will include the translation.
Cold gray morning. Thick fog hangs over the rooftops outside the window and swirls around the legs of a neighbor walking out to the road to catch the micro. It is a morning that reminds me of the Oregon that I am quite far from at the moment. A perfect Oregon fall day dawning, and it's on the verge of summer a full continent away here in Chillan. After weeks of 80 degree and above weather, the respite is welcome. A little reminder of what will be reality in little over two weeks (now less). Rain, cold, and ice. I will be glad to see it, feel it, experience it again. Almost two summers in a row is, believe it or not, a bit too much. Seasonal affective disorder or no, people are used to the tilt and turn of the earth.
Only one four-day week of classes remaining. Then a week to relax, spend time with my host family, celebrate year number 22, say good-byes. Then I will be on a plane, leaving summer and running headlong into winter and Christmas and New Year and glorious, dreary, rain-spewing, cold Oregon. I miss the rain. I will be getting all I can handle soon enough.
These last two weeks will pass quickly. Too quickly. Without time to savor it. I came, I saw, Chile conquered. I will miss the micro in the morning, being thrown into the seat as the driver pulls away at top speed, climbing over hordes of middle-schoolers to reach the exit in time for my stop, the stares and silent chuckles as we gringos attempt spanish conversation amidst crowds of chileans. I will miss the cramped campus and the smile of the chilean tutores when they see gringos approaching. I will miss the mercado, bursting with color and sound and sweet smells mixed with a crush of people. I will miss walking down the street, watching birds flutter from branch to branch in front of a grand Andean backdrop. I will miss snow capped mountains, always visible in the distance. I will miss the faces of the friends I have made and will hopefully see again. I will miss the green Hyundai racing down the street and pulling into the driveway. I will miss my host family and the conversations and the food and the dog and the parties and the red tea.
It has been an amazing three months. Skiing in the Andes, waterfalls, cities, beaches, Argentina (pictures coming as soon as this computer decides to function properly), Santiago, lakes, volcano, brewery, classes, spanish, whole days spent on grassy river bank disclosing secret poetry for the first time, fiestas, holidays, asados, becoming familiar with streets and houses and neighborhoods and a whole new culture and way of life, watching the moon grow, fill, empty, and fill again. Everything.
Yesterday was our celebration of el dia de accion de gracias (aka Thanksgiving), a week early, in a country that doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving. Turkeys were cooked, a ham was glazed, potatoes stuffed, green beans casaroled (english majors have the luxury of creating new and necessary words), fruit chopped and combined, salad tossed, and pie baked--all served with wine, poolside at our professors house, accompanied by music and with squawking birds, setting sun, and finally bright, strange stars overhead. A picturesque evening.
Next: the weekend, three tests, a final ceremony from the university, another weekend, a week of goodbyes, celebrations, and packing, and then the plane.
Conflicting feelings, memories, and desires on this nervous night hammering keyboard keys in front of a computer screen. I want to stay, I can't wait to go home, I need more time for spanish, I've learned so much, money is tight, I miss home, I will miss Chile...
The only answer is a constant pendulum swing back and forth, Oregon to Chile, Chile to Oregon. Repeat. And of course, money is required. I better get to work becoming famous. Or alchemy. Or maybe someday the Pan American highway will bridge the Colombian gap and hitchhiking, shedding weird poetry and short-stories and the odd article in local papers for money, will become a possibility...
Somehow. It will be necessary to return. Of this I am sure. The rest is but detail. And that is all for now. I will see many of you very soon.
~~~~~~~~~
Anotación: Éste fue escrito viernes, el 21 de noviembre. También, porque puedo escribir mejor en español ahora, y estoy escribiendo con bastante tiempo, incluiré la traducción.
Una mañana fría y gris. Densa niebla flota arriba de los techos afuera de la ventana y se arremolina alrededor de las piernas del vecino, caminando para la calle para tomar el micro. Es una mañana que me recuerda de Oregon, el de que estoy muy lejos en este momento. Un día perfecto de Oregon en otoño amanece, pero es casi verano en un otro continente distinto, acá en Chillán. Después de unas semanas con tiempo de más o menos 80 grados Fahrenheit (27 grados centígrados), un respiro es agradecido. Un recuerdo de lo que será real en un poco más que dos semanas (ahora menos). Lluvia, frío, y hielo. Me alegrará verlos, sentirlos, experimentarlos de nuevo. Casi dos veranos seguidos son, aunque no te lo creas, un poco demasiados. Trastorno afectivo estacional o no, la gente suele sentir la inclinación y la vuelta de la Tierra.
Solo una semana de cuatro días de clases queda. Después, una semana para relajarme, pasar tiempo con la familia, celebrar el año número veintidós, decir adiós. Luego, estaré en el avión, saliendo verano para invierno, Navidad (también se puede decir Pascua en Chile), Año Nuevo, y maravilloso, deprimente, frío Oregon, lleno de lluvia. Echo de menos la lluvia. Voy a tener bastante pronto.
Estas últimas semanas pasarán rápidamente. Demasiado rápidamente. Sin tiempo para disfrutarlas. Vine, vi, y Chile me conquistó. Echaré de menos el micro en la mañana, cuando me tira en asiento mientras el conductor se aleja a toda velocidad, cuando me trepo a la horda de los estudiantes para bajarme en el parada, las miradas y risitas silenciosas cuando nosotros gringos tratamos de conversar en español en medio de la multitud de chilenos. Me hará falta el pequeño campus de la universidad y las sonrisas de los tutores chilenos cuando ven a gringos acercándose. Extrañaré el mercado, lleno de color y sonidos y olores ricos combinado con mucha gente. Extrañaré caminar por la calle, mirando aves dan saltitos entre las ramas delante de la vista andina. Extrañaré las cumbres nevadas de las montañas siempre evidente a lo lejos. Echaré de menos las caras de mis amigos, las que espero ver en el futuro. Voy a echar de menos el Hyundai verde corriendo por la calle y entrando el camino de entrada. Voy a echar de menos mi familia, las conversaciones, la comida, el perro, las fiestas (carretes), y el té rojo.
Han sido increíbles, estos tres meses. Esquiando en la Cordillera de los Andes, saltos de agua, ciudades, playas, Argentina (fotos vienen pronto), Santiago, lagos, volcanes, cervezería, clases, español, días completos pasados en la orilla cubierto de hierba compartiendo por primera vez poesía escondida, fiestas, feriados, asados, conociendo las calles, casas, barrios, y una nueva cultura y estilo de vida, mirando la luna llenar, vaciar, y llenar de nuevo. Todo.
Ayer fue nuestro celebración del Día de Acción de Gracias, una semana antes de que celebren en Oregon, en un país que no lo celebra. Pavos fueron cocinado, un jamón fue glaseado, papas rellenadas, porotos verdes cazuelados (estudiantes de literatura pueden hacer palabras nuevas y necesarias), fruta picada y mezclada, ensalada mezclada, y pastel horneado--todo servido con vino, al lado de la piscina en la casa de nuestra profesora, acompañado por música y con pájaros graznando, sol menguando, y por fin, brillantes estrellas extraños encima de la cabeza. Una noche pintoresca.
Ahora: el fin de semana, tres pruebas, una ceremonia final de la universidad, un fin de semana más, una semana de adioses, celebraciones, y haciendo las maletas, y luego el avión.
Sentimientos, recuerdos, y deseos contradictorios en esta noche nerviosa, tipeando frente a la pantalla de la computadora. Quiero quedarme, me muero de ganas de volver, necesito más tiempo para aprender español, ya he aprendido mucho, dinero está escaso, echo de menos hogar, voy a echar de menos Chile...
La única respuesta es una oscilación constante del péndulo, de ida y vuleta, Chile a Oregon, Oregon a Chile. Y por supuesto dinero es necesario. Tengo que empezar a conseguir fama. O alquimia. O tal vez, algún día, la Carretera Panamericana será completado y no será el tramo entre Pánama y Colombia, y podré hacer dedo, escribiendo poesía extraña, cuentos, algún que otro artículo en diarios locales por dinero...
De alguna manera. Será necesario que yo vuelva. Estoy segura de ésto. El resto es detalle. Esto es todo. Voy a ver muchos de ustedes muy pronto.
Cold gray morning. Thick fog hangs over the rooftops outside the window and swirls around the legs of a neighbor walking out to the road to catch the micro. It is a morning that reminds me of the Oregon that I am quite far from at the moment. A perfect Oregon fall day dawning, and it's on the verge of summer a full continent away here in Chillan. After weeks of 80 degree and above weather, the respite is welcome. A little reminder of what will be reality in little over two weeks (now less). Rain, cold, and ice. I will be glad to see it, feel it, experience it again. Almost two summers in a row is, believe it or not, a bit too much. Seasonal affective disorder or no, people are used to the tilt and turn of the earth.
Only one four-day week of classes remaining. Then a week to relax, spend time with my host family, celebrate year number 22, say good-byes. Then I will be on a plane, leaving summer and running headlong into winter and Christmas and New Year and glorious, dreary, rain-spewing, cold Oregon. I miss the rain. I will be getting all I can handle soon enough.
These last two weeks will pass quickly. Too quickly. Without time to savor it. I came, I saw, Chile conquered. I will miss the micro in the morning, being thrown into the seat as the driver pulls away at top speed, climbing over hordes of middle-schoolers to reach the exit in time for my stop, the stares and silent chuckles as we gringos attempt spanish conversation amidst crowds of chileans. I will miss the cramped campus and the smile of the chilean tutores when they see gringos approaching. I will miss the mercado, bursting with color and sound and sweet smells mixed with a crush of people. I will miss walking down the street, watching birds flutter from branch to branch in front of a grand Andean backdrop. I will miss snow capped mountains, always visible in the distance. I will miss the faces of the friends I have made and will hopefully see again. I will miss the green Hyundai racing down the street and pulling into the driveway. I will miss my host family and the conversations and the food and the dog and the parties and the red tea.
It has been an amazing three months. Skiing in the Andes, waterfalls, cities, beaches, Argentina (pictures coming as soon as this computer decides to function properly), Santiago, lakes, volcano, brewery, classes, spanish, whole days spent on grassy river bank disclosing secret poetry for the first time, fiestas, holidays, asados, becoming familiar with streets and houses and neighborhoods and a whole new culture and way of life, watching the moon grow, fill, empty, and fill again. Everything.
Yesterday was our celebration of el dia de accion de gracias (aka Thanksgiving), a week early, in a country that doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving. Turkeys were cooked, a ham was glazed, potatoes stuffed, green beans casaroled (english majors have the luxury of creating new and necessary words), fruit chopped and combined, salad tossed, and pie baked--all served with wine, poolside at our professors house, accompanied by music and with squawking birds, setting sun, and finally bright, strange stars overhead. A picturesque evening.
Next: the weekend, three tests, a final ceremony from the university, another weekend, a week of goodbyes, celebrations, and packing, and then the plane.
Conflicting feelings, memories, and desires on this nervous night hammering keyboard keys in front of a computer screen. I want to stay, I can't wait to go home, I need more time for spanish, I've learned so much, money is tight, I miss home, I will miss Chile...
The only answer is a constant pendulum swing back and forth, Oregon to Chile, Chile to Oregon. Repeat. And of course, money is required. I better get to work becoming famous. Or alchemy. Or maybe someday the Pan American highway will bridge the Colombian gap and hitchhiking, shedding weird poetry and short-stories and the odd article in local papers for money, will become a possibility...
Somehow. It will be necessary to return. Of this I am sure. The rest is but detail. And that is all for now. I will see many of you very soon.
~~~~~~~~~
Anotación: Éste fue escrito viernes, el 21 de noviembre. También, porque puedo escribir mejor en español ahora, y estoy escribiendo con bastante tiempo, incluiré la traducción.
Una mañana fría y gris. Densa niebla flota arriba de los techos afuera de la ventana y se arremolina alrededor de las piernas del vecino, caminando para la calle para tomar el micro. Es una mañana que me recuerda de Oregon, el de que estoy muy lejos en este momento. Un día perfecto de Oregon en otoño amanece, pero es casi verano en un otro continente distinto, acá en Chillán. Después de unas semanas con tiempo de más o menos 80 grados Fahrenheit (27 grados centígrados), un respiro es agradecido. Un recuerdo de lo que será real en un poco más que dos semanas (ahora menos). Lluvia, frío, y hielo. Me alegrará verlos, sentirlos, experimentarlos de nuevo. Casi dos veranos seguidos son, aunque no te lo creas, un poco demasiados. Trastorno afectivo estacional o no, la gente suele sentir la inclinación y la vuelta de la Tierra.
Solo una semana de cuatro días de clases queda. Después, una semana para relajarme, pasar tiempo con la familia, celebrar el año número veintidós, decir adiós. Luego, estaré en el avión, saliendo verano para invierno, Navidad (también se puede decir Pascua en Chile), Año Nuevo, y maravilloso, deprimente, frío Oregon, lleno de lluvia. Echo de menos la lluvia. Voy a tener bastante pronto.
Estas últimas semanas pasarán rápidamente. Demasiado rápidamente. Sin tiempo para disfrutarlas. Vine, vi, y Chile me conquistó. Echaré de menos el micro en la mañana, cuando me tira en asiento mientras el conductor se aleja a toda velocidad, cuando me trepo a la horda de los estudiantes para bajarme en el parada, las miradas y risitas silenciosas cuando nosotros gringos tratamos de conversar en español en medio de la multitud de chilenos. Me hará falta el pequeño campus de la universidad y las sonrisas de los tutores chilenos cuando ven a gringos acercándose. Extrañaré el mercado, lleno de color y sonidos y olores ricos combinado con mucha gente. Extrañaré caminar por la calle, mirando aves dan saltitos entre las ramas delante de la vista andina. Extrañaré las cumbres nevadas de las montañas siempre evidente a lo lejos. Echaré de menos las caras de mis amigos, las que espero ver en el futuro. Voy a echar de menos el Hyundai verde corriendo por la calle y entrando el camino de entrada. Voy a echar de menos mi familia, las conversaciones, la comida, el perro, las fiestas (carretes), y el té rojo.
Han sido increíbles, estos tres meses. Esquiando en la Cordillera de los Andes, saltos de agua, ciudades, playas, Argentina (fotos vienen pronto), Santiago, lagos, volcanes, cervezería, clases, español, días completos pasados en la orilla cubierto de hierba compartiendo por primera vez poesía escondida, fiestas, feriados, asados, conociendo las calles, casas, barrios, y una nueva cultura y estilo de vida, mirando la luna llenar, vaciar, y llenar de nuevo. Todo.
Ayer fue nuestro celebración del Día de Acción de Gracias, una semana antes de que celebren en Oregon, en un país que no lo celebra. Pavos fueron cocinado, un jamón fue glaseado, papas rellenadas, porotos verdes cazuelados (estudiantes de literatura pueden hacer palabras nuevas y necesarias), fruta picada y mezclada, ensalada mezclada, y pastel horneado--todo servido con vino, al lado de la piscina en la casa de nuestra profesora, acompañado por música y con pájaros graznando, sol menguando, y por fin, brillantes estrellas extraños encima de la cabeza. Una noche pintoresca.
Ahora: el fin de semana, tres pruebas, una ceremonia final de la universidad, un fin de semana más, una semana de adioses, celebraciones, y haciendo las maletas, y luego el avión.
Sentimientos, recuerdos, y deseos contradictorios en esta noche nerviosa, tipeando frente a la pantalla de la computadora. Quiero quedarme, me muero de ganas de volver, necesito más tiempo para aprender español, ya he aprendido mucho, dinero está escaso, echo de menos hogar, voy a echar de menos Chile...
La única respuesta es una oscilación constante del péndulo, de ida y vuleta, Chile a Oregon, Oregon a Chile. Y por supuesto dinero es necesario. Tengo que empezar a conseguir fama. O alquimia. O tal vez, algún día, la Carretera Panamericana será completado y no será el tramo entre Pánama y Colombia, y podré hacer dedo, escribiendo poesía extraña, cuentos, algún que otro artículo en diarios locales por dinero...
De alguna manera. Será necesario que yo vuelva. Estoy segura de ésto. El resto es detalle. Esto es todo. Voy a ver muchos de ustedes muy pronto.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Valparaiso/Vina del Mar/Isla Negra
The weekend after Saltos, the group traveled north along the coast. We stopped first at Isla Negra where chilean poet and Nobel Prize winner, Pablo Neruda, owned, well I guess it's more appropriate to say had built, a house. It was quite impressive. No pictures allowed inside as it a museum filled with rarities and collectibles collected throughout the poet's life. The house is constructed loosely around the structure of a ship. Low doorways and narrow steep stairs. There were numerous figureheads from the bows of ships, mostly wood-carved women. There were bottles of all different intricate shapes and lively colorations. Ash trays, masks of indigenous peoples of south america, various islands, and africa, ships in bottles, an impressive and somewhat terrifying array of large dead insects, many beetles, scorpions, and some butterflies and moths. The last room contained truly amazing quantities of insane sea shells, most of which I had never even imagined possible. In the same room was the full unicorn of a narwhal. I touched it. It was cool.
Neruda's study and bedroom were the most impressive for me. The study: an old ship's desk Neruda found one day in the surf of the beach a mere hundred meters or so from the house, carefully stained and polished to a bright new sheen, with carefully arranged utensils facing a wall of floor to ceiling windows looking out on that surf rolling in with constant, silent roars. It would be quite a place to work. I imagine It was very conducive to the poet's creative impulses. The bedroom: A large bed, arranged diagonally on a wood floor, more floor to ceiling windows wrapping around the corner at the foot of the bed. Flowers, jagged rocks, a tree off to the side, and the immensity of the ocean. Imagine waking up to that every morning.
From there we continued on to Vina del Mar to our hotel, Hotel O'Higgins (named after liberator Bernardo O'Higgins, of course). Vina del Mar and Valparaiso are neighboring cities forming a large metropolitan area. The cities are basically an incredible array of colorful houses cascading down a number of hills. Valparaiso is a port town, Chile's most important port, funneling most of its exports out to sea. It is very similar to how I imagine San Fransisco, or how I've seen it in pictures and movies, etc. It has some amazing old buildings and a vibrant bohemian feel. Vina del Mar is a more modern spot, resort town class. The beach is... sandy. Oh, and beautiful, and it was warm and sunny, and I saw a crab.
We were there only two nights. Four people to a hotel room. Five guys and 18 girls. We had dinner in a nice restaurant, were serenaded, and some of us prayed that the appetizer we just ordered was salmon with eggs, and not in fact salmon eggs (salmon stuffed deviled egg like things as it turned out... whew). The first night, we went to a bar, a little mexican joint with live-ish music. (a guy, a computer, and a microphone he sometimes used). The second day we ascended a hill (cerro) in an ascensor (a cross between a ski lift and a train car) and wandered around Cerro Concepcion, losing money quickly amongst the craft booths, snapping photos of graffiti and buildings, eating lunch in a cafe. That night I was forced to go to a dance club by persistent roomies. I do not dance well. The final day, we beached ourselves and watched the sun set. Pretty amazing. The people present exhibit A: photos of beach, buildings, sun, crab, and the like. It was an awesome trip.
Neruda's study and bedroom were the most impressive for me. The study: an old ship's desk Neruda found one day in the surf of the beach a mere hundred meters or so from the house, carefully stained and polished to a bright new sheen, with carefully arranged utensils facing a wall of floor to ceiling windows looking out on that surf rolling in with constant, silent roars. It would be quite a place to work. I imagine It was very conducive to the poet's creative impulses. The bedroom: A large bed, arranged diagonally on a wood floor, more floor to ceiling windows wrapping around the corner at the foot of the bed. Flowers, jagged rocks, a tree off to the side, and the immensity of the ocean. Imagine waking up to that every morning.
From there we continued on to Vina del Mar to our hotel, Hotel O'Higgins (named after liberator Bernardo O'Higgins, of course). Vina del Mar and Valparaiso are neighboring cities forming a large metropolitan area. The cities are basically an incredible array of colorful houses cascading down a number of hills. Valparaiso is a port town, Chile's most important port, funneling most of its exports out to sea. It is very similar to how I imagine San Fransisco, or how I've seen it in pictures and movies, etc. It has some amazing old buildings and a vibrant bohemian feel. Vina del Mar is a more modern spot, resort town class. The beach is... sandy. Oh, and beautiful, and it was warm and sunny, and I saw a crab.
We were there only two nights. Four people to a hotel room. Five guys and 18 girls. We had dinner in a nice restaurant, were serenaded, and some of us prayed that the appetizer we just ordered was salmon with eggs, and not in fact salmon eggs (salmon stuffed deviled egg like things as it turned out... whew). The first night, we went to a bar, a little mexican joint with live-ish music. (a guy, a computer, and a microphone he sometimes used). The second day we ascended a hill (cerro) in an ascensor (a cross between a ski lift and a train car) and wandered around Cerro Concepcion, losing money quickly amongst the craft booths, snapping photos of graffiti and buildings, eating lunch in a cafe. That night I was forced to go to a dance club by persistent roomies. I do not dance well. The final day, we beached ourselves and watched the sun set. Pretty amazing. The people present exhibit A: photos of beach, buildings, sun, crab, and the like. It was an awesome trip.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Saltos Del Laja: Un Cuento (Saltos Del Laja: A Story)
Those pictures, the one's filled with a picturesque waterfall and various themes on the same sunset, also come with a story, and here, for your enjoyment, it is.
Kenzie, Corey and I decided to take the hour and a half long bus ride to a waterfall near Chillan, called Saltos del Laja (the verb saltar means to jump, hence the water is jumping from the top of a cliff, the river's abortive suicide attempt which ultimately fails, but I digress...). We all live close to each other, and so we met up and walked to the bus terminal, bought our tickets, and passed the hour until the bus left browsing the neighboring Jumbo. The bus left at 4pm.
The plan: board said bus, disembark at Saltos, trek up the falls, snap photos, maybe get lunch and browse the little shops, flag down a returning bus, return to Chillan after a couple hours of fun.
Reality: 4pm. The bus left on schedule, the trip went smoothly, and the driver dropped us off on the side of the road.
Saltos is not a town. It is a hostel sitting up on a hill, a little restaurant, a row of touristy craft-vending kiosks, a public restroom down a little hill shaded by trees (which is completely un-alarming under a blaze of friendly sun), and a little bus information booth (closed by 7). So. According to Corey (our guide and resident expert, having been to Saltos once already) we have but to hop the next bus to Chillan passing through this little stretch of tourism. Facil (easy).
We crossed the bridge over the river (the same that attempted suicide and lived to float on beneath us), pausing in the middle, waiting for the large log truck to pass so we could feel the earth shudder in an unsettling and thrilling way as the bridge shakes. And we walked down, and then walked up, on little earthen stairs, little wooden stairs, paths with steep grades, and paved stretches, snapping pictures of the falls.
It is quite amazing. Fairly small, but wide and tall enough to pretend, with a bit of a squint and a hint of imagination, that Niagara Falls is roaring in front of you. The wideness is what strikes me. In Oregon I have been to waterfalls--tall impressive waterfalls--but they are not like this. Pictures speak louder than the words my brain can't produce at the moment.
Amazing as it is, after a half hour (it is now 6), we were ready to leave. We browsed the kiosks, including an artist dabbing paint on panes of glass, little portraits of the falls for sale. There were many souvenirs that could also be found in Chillan in the mercado, the only difference being the words "Saltos del Laja" scribbled in pen in the corners. There have been no buses yet. Worry is still far from our minds.
We finished gazing at the livelihoods of various Chileans, and caught a seat on the wooden fence by the "bus stop" (a wide swath of dirt surrounding the two-lane blacktop). The first bus to stop was headed for a small town (the name escapes me at present), and we smiled away the few people who boarded, and waited patiently, taking photos of the sinking sun and chattering nothings to pass the time. The second bus continued on to Concepcion, with the three of us kicking around dirt, discussing various places in Chile. Seven has come and gone. The lady manning the small bus booth has hopped the bus to Concepcion.
By eight, little flutters began to form in the stomach region. The sun sank lower. The vendors packed up their wares and left. We waited. Bus after bus continued passing, none bound for Chillan. Eventually, we started flagging down each one, asking when the next bus to Chillan would show up. "diez minutos atrás (Ten minutes more)," assured each driver. Ten minutes slid by and no bus. At 9pm, a bus driver told us to hop on and he would take us to the autopista (highway) so we could have a better chance of finding a bus. By this time, I can read a clear scream of anxiety in the eyes of Kenzie. Corey, having traveled to China by himself, without knowing the language, seemed calm. I was also surprisingly unaffected by the passing buses. I was preparing to spend a night in a little plywood bus stop, shaking with the passing of each truck. It was cold and in between buses, we walked around in tight circles or little patrols back and forth in front of the shelter. The bus stop was situated in such a way that the main road lay in front of us, and a smaller one behind. We were assured multiple times that the bus we wanted would appear on the autopista. Nevertheless I ran to the second bus stop behind us every time a possible bus appeared on that road. Just in case.
We finally decided to make a choice. We could return to the hostel and hope they were still open and had rooms, and that we had enough money between us to stay the night. Or we could cross the autopista and take a bus to Los Angeles, and hope to find a bus to Chillan at the bus terminal there. Kenzie decided to try for Los Angeles (we saw at least 10 buses headed for Los Angeles in the past hour). As we were crossing the highway, Corey called our professor Florencia to ask her advice. She suggested waiting where we were for a bus to Chillan. We turned around and went back.
Finally at 10:30 or so, we saw a bus coming up the smaller road behind us. Once again, I ran over to the other bus stop and flagged it down. The sign, flashing in holy-grail light under a street light, read "Chillan," and full choral arrangements burst from the clouds and trees and stars. Salvation was upon us. We got on-board, being sure to ask if the bus was in fact going to Chillan (in case hallucinogens somehow seeped into our consciousnesses by some unknown means). The driver gave us a funny look and nodded. We collapsed into open seats in the rear. We caught the bus at the right time, because before we reached the terminal in Chillan, the bus had filled, including standing room. And an hour and a half later, midnight, we arrived in Chillan and walked home.
The end.
Kenzie, Corey and I decided to take the hour and a half long bus ride to a waterfall near Chillan, called Saltos del Laja (the verb saltar means to jump, hence the water is jumping from the top of a cliff, the river's abortive suicide attempt which ultimately fails, but I digress...). We all live close to each other, and so we met up and walked to the bus terminal, bought our tickets, and passed the hour until the bus left browsing the neighboring Jumbo. The bus left at 4pm.
The plan: board said bus, disembark at Saltos, trek up the falls, snap photos, maybe get lunch and browse the little shops, flag down a returning bus, return to Chillan after a couple hours of fun.
Reality: 4pm. The bus left on schedule, the trip went smoothly, and the driver dropped us off on the side of the road.
Saltos is not a town. It is a hostel sitting up on a hill, a little restaurant, a row of touristy craft-vending kiosks, a public restroom down a little hill shaded by trees (which is completely un-alarming under a blaze of friendly sun), and a little bus information booth (closed by 7). So. According to Corey (our guide and resident expert, having been to Saltos once already) we have but to hop the next bus to Chillan passing through this little stretch of tourism. Facil (easy).
We crossed the bridge over the river (the same that attempted suicide and lived to float on beneath us), pausing in the middle, waiting for the large log truck to pass so we could feel the earth shudder in an unsettling and thrilling way as the bridge shakes. And we walked down, and then walked up, on little earthen stairs, little wooden stairs, paths with steep grades, and paved stretches, snapping pictures of the falls.
It is quite amazing. Fairly small, but wide and tall enough to pretend, with a bit of a squint and a hint of imagination, that Niagara Falls is roaring in front of you. The wideness is what strikes me. In Oregon I have been to waterfalls--tall impressive waterfalls--but they are not like this. Pictures speak louder than the words my brain can't produce at the moment.
Amazing as it is, after a half hour (it is now 6), we were ready to leave. We browsed the kiosks, including an artist dabbing paint on panes of glass, little portraits of the falls for sale. There were many souvenirs that could also be found in Chillan in the mercado, the only difference being the words "Saltos del Laja" scribbled in pen in the corners. There have been no buses yet. Worry is still far from our minds.
We finished gazing at the livelihoods of various Chileans, and caught a seat on the wooden fence by the "bus stop" (a wide swath of dirt surrounding the two-lane blacktop). The first bus to stop was headed for a small town (the name escapes me at present), and we smiled away the few people who boarded, and waited patiently, taking photos of the sinking sun and chattering nothings to pass the time. The second bus continued on to Concepcion, with the three of us kicking around dirt, discussing various places in Chile. Seven has come and gone. The lady manning the small bus booth has hopped the bus to Concepcion.
By eight, little flutters began to form in the stomach region. The sun sank lower. The vendors packed up their wares and left. We waited. Bus after bus continued passing, none bound for Chillan. Eventually, we started flagging down each one, asking when the next bus to Chillan would show up. "diez minutos atrás (Ten minutes more)," assured each driver. Ten minutes slid by and no bus. At 9pm, a bus driver told us to hop on and he would take us to the autopista (highway) so we could have a better chance of finding a bus. By this time, I can read a clear scream of anxiety in the eyes of Kenzie. Corey, having traveled to China by himself, without knowing the language, seemed calm. I was also surprisingly unaffected by the passing buses. I was preparing to spend a night in a little plywood bus stop, shaking with the passing of each truck. It was cold and in between buses, we walked around in tight circles or little patrols back and forth in front of the shelter. The bus stop was situated in such a way that the main road lay in front of us, and a smaller one behind. We were assured multiple times that the bus we wanted would appear on the autopista. Nevertheless I ran to the second bus stop behind us every time a possible bus appeared on that road. Just in case.
We finally decided to make a choice. We could return to the hostel and hope they were still open and had rooms, and that we had enough money between us to stay the night. Or we could cross the autopista and take a bus to Los Angeles, and hope to find a bus to Chillan at the bus terminal there. Kenzie decided to try for Los Angeles (we saw at least 10 buses headed for Los Angeles in the past hour). As we were crossing the highway, Corey called our professor Florencia to ask her advice. She suggested waiting where we were for a bus to Chillan. We turned around and went back.
Finally at 10:30 or so, we saw a bus coming up the smaller road behind us. Once again, I ran over to the other bus stop and flagged it down. The sign, flashing in holy-grail light under a street light, read "Chillan," and full choral arrangements burst from the clouds and trees and stars. Salvation was upon us. We got on-board, being sure to ask if the bus was in fact going to Chillan (in case hallucinogens somehow seeped into our consciousnesses by some unknown means). The driver gave us a funny look and nodded. We collapsed into open seats in the rear. We caught the bus at the right time, because before we reached the terminal in Chillan, the bus had filled, including standing room. And an hour and a half later, midnight, we arrived in Chillan and walked home.
The end.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
On Achieving One Month In Chillan... (with photos)
7 de octubre
Chillan is a sweet city; I'm getting to like it more and more. It's about the size of Eugene more or less (160.000 people). Mi padre took me on a tour the first week and I've since walked home from the centro and around the barrio a few times, not to mention taking the micro to class and colectivos around town, etc. Mi familia lives in a middle class neighborhood (called jardines de ñuble). It's really nice. I like it way better than a lot of the sterile rich-folk neighborhoods. Mi padre showed me the various other parts of town too. the rich part is insane. huge houses, manicured lawns, ADT security systems (no joke, i saw the sign), fenced driveways with gates that open mechanically (like with a garage door opener)... we visited mi tia (aunt), and she lives in this new neighborhood, every house looks the same with tall white cement walls completely surrounding the yards and driveways of each one. They were nice, but everything looked and felt fake. Kind of like a Stepford wives type thing. I think. I don't really remember what that was about, except they were fake, and too perfect or something. That's a little what it was like. Sterile and fake and way too white... like a hospital.
Anyway (sidetracked) ... it seems like every house has a gate in Chillan, our gate doesn't have a garage door opener type thing though. We have to get out of the car and use brute force. We live in a duplex. Or at least that is what I choose to call it. Half the building is the neighbor's house, and sometimes I can hear them going down the stairs or hammering nails into the wall. Other than that, I hardly know we have neighbors. It's kinda funny, because each half of each duplex is painted a different color. The one across the street is white and orange. Ours is red and the neighbor's is brick. Our other neighbor has a purple half. We have wireless internet and cable/satellite (not sure which), but mis padres worry about money sometimes and are very good about conserving energy. Electricity is expensive. Gas is expensive. We only turn on the calefon (gas water heater) in the morning before showers, and to do dishes. The gas heaters don't get used except when mi madre can't take the cold any more... she really doesn't like being cold. But there's a nice little front lawn and a groovy patio area. More than adequate, way nicer than the apartment I used to call home in Corvallis.
The streets are lined with trees; some of the sidewalks are paved, some are just dirt. Some of the roads are paved, some are dirt/gravel, some are half-paved (its funny because cars/buses/trucks going both ways use the paved side, then play a pseudo game of chicken, before one or the other pulls onto the dirt part until the other car passes.)
I also saw some of the poor sector. It's pretty much the same everywhere in the world. The houses get smaller and the neighborhoods more dangerous. More drugs, delinquency, crime, etc. I don't really know much about the poorer parts of town, just what i saw through the window of a tiny green speeding Hyundai (or however you spell it). Tiny ramshackle huts in some places, rampant (and utterly fantastic) graffiti, fewer amenities.
The driving here is different. The micros (buses) are a daily adventure. They stop anywhere, for any raised hand indicating a passenger. It is 300 pesos to ride (about $0.60). To exit the vehicle, you walk up and tell the driver you want off, and he (I have yet to encounter a she) pulls over, many times to a symphony of impatient honks. I think I like the driving. It wakes you up in the morning. It seems to be the rule that if you are in a car, you might as well be moving as fast as possible. And lanes are just suggestions. And if you need to hop a curb to get around someone, well you gotta do what you gotta do. And passing people on little side streets is the norm...
My favorite thing here is el mercado (the market). It's seriously awesome. It's the saturday market amped up to a whole new level, and it's every day. Piles of amazing fruit, vegetables, flowers, nuts, second hand clothing, a tiny stand with a few books, and tons of hand made chilean stuff: many leather crafts, alpaca fur knit hats and gloves and sweaters, scarves, wooden trinkets, incredible arrays of colors and materials. It is a square block, and a fantastic one I might add. It is downtown next to the mall.
The mall, a mall which all the chileans say is small and not very good, is much larger than the Heritage Mall in Albany. It's like five or six floors with sundry labyrinthine escalators... yeah I got lost in the mall... maybe twice. It's hard to get out. I find it the opposite of small. I shudder to think how long it would take to make my way out of a "big" mall. There are all the sort of regular stores you'd expect. A few department stores, a food court, a McDonald's where a bunch of the gringos went for lunch at least once. Shame. And a supermercado, or two, and a bunch of little places: a Kodak store, office supply place, shoe store, sporting goods, a little kiosk where you can buy bus tickets, etc.
Outside the mall, in much of the downtown, are many street artists, creating their wares before your eyes. I watched a guy do spray painted landscapes for almost a half hour. It's amazing stuff.
Mi familia shops at the Jumbo, a supermercado (super market) close to our house... it's eerily similar to a Wal-Mart... everything you could possibly need. Another one is the Hyper Lider (not to be confused with the Express Lider, which is a small Hyper Lider), but mi familia doesn't like to shop there, because the people who shop there are "tonto" (I think that's how its spelled) or "fome" which are kind of all encompassing negative words meaning boring or stupid that get bandied about pretty heavily. It cracks me up.
I've also been to the bus terminal, well two of them, one downtown, one next to Jumbo, and to the post office, to mail in my absentee ballot.
Oh and I've been to the university... surprise. It's very small, but nice and relaxed. We have classes in one room (reduces the number of time we get lost). There's a cafeteria. I ate spaghetti there once. Yeah that's about it for the Universidad del Bio Bio. There are two campuses of this university in Chillan, and the main campus is in Concepcion (a little over an hour away, on the coast). I only ended up at the wrong Chillan campus once. Classes are going smoothly. Florencia, the professor in charge of the program, is perhaps one of my favorite people on the planet. She is exceptionally nice and fun and smart. The other professors are getting used to dealing with our poor Spanish skills. The classes so far are fun. This is the beginning of the third week of classes. Two tests down.
I've also been to my companera's (my Spanish tutor's) house twice now. Her dad is a mechanic who works out of their house. He's a member of the Gideons I think, assuming I understood him correctly. In any case, I now have a bilingual New Testament. He's rather hilarious, and he plays the guitar and sings very well.
Anyway, that's a bit about Chillan. I'm catching up on writing... well no. I've been writing, but not well or in any organized fashion. So I've been catching up on weeding through the excessive notebook entries and randomly typed thoughts, often late at night, and fogged with sleep-haze. One such random typed thought: there are too many names among the gringos with "k" sounds: Kelsie, Caylin, Kaitlin, Kyle, Kelly, Corey, Kasie, Kenzie... I think that's all of them. I feel bad for the Chilean professors attempting to learn these names and decipher them from one another. That's all for now. More pictures and whatnot to come shortly.
Fotos:
http://www.kodakgallery.com/BrowsePhotos.jsp?UV=146926005779_23873423714&collid=72157078614.82251813714.1223411734626&page=1
Chillan is a sweet city; I'm getting to like it more and more. It's about the size of Eugene more or less (160.000 people). Mi padre took me on a tour the first week and I've since walked home from the centro and around the barrio a few times, not to mention taking the micro to class and colectivos around town, etc. Mi familia lives in a middle class neighborhood (called jardines de ñuble). It's really nice. I like it way better than a lot of the sterile rich-folk neighborhoods. Mi padre showed me the various other parts of town too. the rich part is insane. huge houses, manicured lawns, ADT security systems (no joke, i saw the sign), fenced driveways with gates that open mechanically (like with a garage door opener)... we visited mi tia (aunt), and she lives in this new neighborhood, every house looks the same with tall white cement walls completely surrounding the yards and driveways of each one. They were nice, but everything looked and felt fake. Kind of like a Stepford wives type thing. I think. I don't really remember what that was about, except they were fake, and too perfect or something. That's a little what it was like. Sterile and fake and way too white... like a hospital.
Anyway (sidetracked) ... it seems like every house has a gate in Chillan, our gate doesn't have a garage door opener type thing though. We have to get out of the car and use brute force. We live in a duplex. Or at least that is what I choose to call it. Half the building is the neighbor's house, and sometimes I can hear them going down the stairs or hammering nails into the wall. Other than that, I hardly know we have neighbors. It's kinda funny, because each half of each duplex is painted a different color. The one across the street is white and orange. Ours is red and the neighbor's is brick. Our other neighbor has a purple half. We have wireless internet and cable/satellite (not sure which), but mis padres worry about money sometimes and are very good about conserving energy. Electricity is expensive. Gas is expensive. We only turn on the calefon (gas water heater) in the morning before showers, and to do dishes. The gas heaters don't get used except when mi madre can't take the cold any more... she really doesn't like being cold. But there's a nice little front lawn and a groovy patio area. More than adequate, way nicer than the apartment I used to call home in Corvallis.
The streets are lined with trees; some of the sidewalks are paved, some are just dirt. Some of the roads are paved, some are dirt/gravel, some are half-paved (its funny because cars/buses/trucks going both ways use the paved side, then play a pseudo game of chicken, before one or the other pulls onto the dirt part until the other car passes.)
I also saw some of the poor sector. It's pretty much the same everywhere in the world. The houses get smaller and the neighborhoods more dangerous. More drugs, delinquency, crime, etc. I don't really know much about the poorer parts of town, just what i saw through the window of a tiny green speeding Hyundai (or however you spell it). Tiny ramshackle huts in some places, rampant (and utterly fantastic) graffiti, fewer amenities.
The driving here is different. The micros (buses) are a daily adventure. They stop anywhere, for any raised hand indicating a passenger. It is 300 pesos to ride (about $0.60). To exit the vehicle, you walk up and tell the driver you want off, and he (I have yet to encounter a she) pulls over, many times to a symphony of impatient honks. I think I like the driving. It wakes you up in the morning. It seems to be the rule that if you are in a car, you might as well be moving as fast as possible. And lanes are just suggestions. And if you need to hop a curb to get around someone, well you gotta do what you gotta do. And passing people on little side streets is the norm...
My favorite thing here is el mercado (the market). It's seriously awesome. It's the saturday market amped up to a whole new level, and it's every day. Piles of amazing fruit, vegetables, flowers, nuts, second hand clothing, a tiny stand with a few books, and tons of hand made chilean stuff: many leather crafts, alpaca fur knit hats and gloves and sweaters, scarves, wooden trinkets, incredible arrays of colors and materials. It is a square block, and a fantastic one I might add. It is downtown next to the mall.
The mall, a mall which all the chileans say is small and not very good, is much larger than the Heritage Mall in Albany. It's like five or six floors with sundry labyrinthine escalators... yeah I got lost in the mall... maybe twice. It's hard to get out. I find it the opposite of small. I shudder to think how long it would take to make my way out of a "big" mall. There are all the sort of regular stores you'd expect. A few department stores, a food court, a McDonald's where a bunch of the gringos went for lunch at least once. Shame. And a supermercado, or two, and a bunch of little places: a Kodak store, office supply place, shoe store, sporting goods, a little kiosk where you can buy bus tickets, etc.
Outside the mall, in much of the downtown, are many street artists, creating their wares before your eyes. I watched a guy do spray painted landscapes for almost a half hour. It's amazing stuff.
Mi familia shops at the Jumbo, a supermercado (super market) close to our house... it's eerily similar to a Wal-Mart... everything you could possibly need. Another one is the Hyper Lider (not to be confused with the Express Lider, which is a small Hyper Lider), but mi familia doesn't like to shop there, because the people who shop there are "tonto" (I think that's how its spelled) or "fome" which are kind of all encompassing negative words meaning boring or stupid that get bandied about pretty heavily. It cracks me up.
I've also been to the bus terminal, well two of them, one downtown, one next to Jumbo, and to the post office, to mail in my absentee ballot.
Oh and I've been to the university... surprise. It's very small, but nice and relaxed. We have classes in one room (reduces the number of time we get lost). There's a cafeteria. I ate spaghetti there once. Yeah that's about it for the Universidad del Bio Bio. There are two campuses of this university in Chillan, and the main campus is in Concepcion (a little over an hour away, on the coast). I only ended up at the wrong Chillan campus once. Classes are going smoothly. Florencia, the professor in charge of the program, is perhaps one of my favorite people on the planet. She is exceptionally nice and fun and smart. The other professors are getting used to dealing with our poor Spanish skills. The classes so far are fun. This is the beginning of the third week of classes. Two tests down.
I've also been to my companera's (my Spanish tutor's) house twice now. Her dad is a mechanic who works out of their house. He's a member of the Gideons I think, assuming I understood him correctly. In any case, I now have a bilingual New Testament. He's rather hilarious, and he plays the guitar and sings very well.
Anyway, that's a bit about Chillan. I'm catching up on writing... well no. I've been writing, but not well or in any organized fashion. So I've been catching up on weeding through the excessive notebook entries and randomly typed thoughts, often late at night, and fogged with sleep-haze. One such random typed thought: there are too many names among the gringos with "k" sounds: Kelsie, Caylin, Kaitlin, Kyle, Kelly, Corey, Kasie, Kenzie... I think that's all of them. I feel bad for the Chilean professors attempting to learn these names and decipher them from one another. That's all for now. More pictures and whatnot to come shortly.
Fotos:
http://www.kodakgallery.com/BrowsePhotos.jsp?UV=146926005779_23873423714&collid=72157078614.82251813714.1223411734626&page=1
Termas de Chillan (3 weeks late)
15 de septiembre
Today, we journey from Chillan, resting peacefully in the valley, to the jagged eastern horizon. We will be staying at the Hotel Nevados de Chillan, a ski resort complete with hot springs. We piled into the bus after stowing skis and snowboards and bags packed for the two-day trip in early dawn light. These are the last days of winter and it is cold, and the eyes around me in the bus are red and half closed, but glinting with anticipation.
The drive to the mountains will be around an hour and a half. After the intensity of the travel the week before, a mere hour and a half on a bus is a welcome luxury. The buses, again: amazing. Bathroom, TV (turned off as it was), reclining seats with ample cushioning, a window complete with curtain and the capacity to admit the chilled air if you so choose--what more could one ask for?
The bus winds through the small communities along the heavily forested highway, and if I close my eyes for a minute and empty my mind, when I open them again I am moving through highway 20 to the Oregon coast. Then the bus rounds a bend and the snow-capped Andes appear, and I am again thousands of miles away.
As we enter the "foothills" which look more like the coast range back home, the bus drops off the pavement and onto the switch-back gravel road leading up to the resort. Suddenly, my ears pop, and there is snow on the ground, and a little waterfall of melted run-off. Then the Hotel peeks around the curve and we inch into the parking lot... where a Saint Bernard lies peacefully, sleeping. The driver sounds the horn in a long blast and revs the engine. The large head lifts off the gravel and the eyes look on curiously at the rumbling beast in front of it. The bus moves forward, and she (Clara, we found out later) gets up and ambles up to the front steps.
Check in moves quickly, and all too soon I am standing outside the hotel, dressed in full ski apparel, trundling in awkward ski boots to the edge of the deck. After a few quick pointers from one of the others with some experience, I stomp my way into the skis and head off toward the lift. The first lift drops us off at a little halfway point, and I have yet to fall. I remember thinking, "Hey, I have yet to fall." And then of course, "Oh, great..." because, of course, you can't think a thing like that and not expect to fall within the next two minutes. As fate would have it, at the next lift, sliding into position, the snowboarding gringa next to me plants her free foot firmly on my ski, and tips... teeters... falls, and I can't move my foot... I tip... teeter... down into the snow. The lift chair passes over our heads as we attempt to stop the laughter.
Finally, minutes later, we are on top of the easy slope, gazing down. Another first time skier in the group gives the thumbs up and pushes off, flying down the hill hunched over her skis with the poles tucked under her arms like a professional. Then I push off, poles flailing, remembering to "snowplow" or "pizza" my way to the bottom. And hey, I didn't fall. To tell the truth, my head may have swollen beyond any advisable measure. Another time or two down and I feel invincible, ready to take on the larger hill the more experienced folks are heading for. Yeah, why not?
Of course, on the lift looking down and the course rolling below me, my stomach begins to tighten. The slope is steep. The lift disgorges me at the top.
Staring down the slope of glistening white, I realize this is not going to be a short trip.
(switching tenses) I pushed off, picked up speed, lost control, and slid on my belly 20, 30, 40 feet, before coming to a stop. By the end of the first half hour, I had mastered falling. I am proud to say I can fall with grace and impeccable style. I had also mastered the art of regaining one's feet, of putting on wayward skis lost in a tumble, and shouting "Ski! Ski!" (ski in spanish thankfully remains "ski") when a ski remained upslope to those skiers trailing my bumbling attempts. Only once did I ski into another skier, and she was gracious. By the time I reached the bottom, I was able to stay upright for nearly 50 feet or so before attaining the much easier prone position.
On my return to the hotel (after climbing the hill with awkward ski-booted steps, getting lost, decending the hill, asking directions, ascending the hill, dropping my ski down the hill, returning to the bottom of the hill to retrieve it, ascending the hill, getting lost, asking directions and finally stumbling into the lobby exhausted) I felt it necessary to enjoy the bounty of the hot springs and donned my swim trunks.
That night, the group met for dinner, and drinks in the hotel lounge. There was karaoke of which I did not partake. Others did and recieved free drinks as reward. There was discussion, by political science major and english major and archeology major, of how the public stock system will be the downfall of quality journalism. This came of course before the ghastly dip in fortunes that tipped the world on its axis, and sent it tumbling down a hill. As yet we are unsure of the exact depth of the valley into which we have wandered, but effects have been felt (front page news in the Santiago paper for a full week). I blame the political science major for broaching the subject of the stock market.
In the night, we walked the snow-gleaming paths under an almost full moon. It was a fantastic landscape, pale glowing. The stars (different stars, but still stars) wavered and the mountain smiled. Pictures were attempted by others, but it was a night uninterpretable on photographic paper or ever (gasp) the almighty word scrawled in a notebook. Nature has an affable way of laughing at our silly attempts to capture her.
The next day, after sloshing through snow, visiting sled dogs, and packing, we left, the sun sinking behind the trees.
Today, we journey from Chillan, resting peacefully in the valley, to the jagged eastern horizon. We will be staying at the Hotel Nevados de Chillan, a ski resort complete with hot springs. We piled into the bus after stowing skis and snowboards and bags packed for the two-day trip in early dawn light. These are the last days of winter and it is cold, and the eyes around me in the bus are red and half closed, but glinting with anticipation.
The drive to the mountains will be around an hour and a half. After the intensity of the travel the week before, a mere hour and a half on a bus is a welcome luxury. The buses, again: amazing. Bathroom, TV (turned off as it was), reclining seats with ample cushioning, a window complete with curtain and the capacity to admit the chilled air if you so choose--what more could one ask for?
The bus winds through the small communities along the heavily forested highway, and if I close my eyes for a minute and empty my mind, when I open them again I am moving through highway 20 to the Oregon coast. Then the bus rounds a bend and the snow-capped Andes appear, and I am again thousands of miles away.
As we enter the "foothills" which look more like the coast range back home, the bus drops off the pavement and onto the switch-back gravel road leading up to the resort. Suddenly, my ears pop, and there is snow on the ground, and a little waterfall of melted run-off. Then the Hotel peeks around the curve and we inch into the parking lot... where a Saint Bernard lies peacefully, sleeping. The driver sounds the horn in a long blast and revs the engine. The large head lifts off the gravel and the eyes look on curiously at the rumbling beast in front of it. The bus moves forward, and she (Clara, we found out later) gets up and ambles up to the front steps.
Check in moves quickly, and all too soon I am standing outside the hotel, dressed in full ski apparel, trundling in awkward ski boots to the edge of the deck. After a few quick pointers from one of the others with some experience, I stomp my way into the skis and head off toward the lift. The first lift drops us off at a little halfway point, and I have yet to fall. I remember thinking, "Hey, I have yet to fall." And then of course, "Oh, great..." because, of course, you can't think a thing like that and not expect to fall within the next two minutes. As fate would have it, at the next lift, sliding into position, the snowboarding gringa next to me plants her free foot firmly on my ski, and tips... teeters... falls, and I can't move my foot... I tip... teeter... down into the snow. The lift chair passes over our heads as we attempt to stop the laughter.
Finally, minutes later, we are on top of the easy slope, gazing down. Another first time skier in the group gives the thumbs up and pushes off, flying down the hill hunched over her skis with the poles tucked under her arms like a professional. Then I push off, poles flailing, remembering to "snowplow" or "pizza" my way to the bottom. And hey, I didn't fall. To tell the truth, my head may have swollen beyond any advisable measure. Another time or two down and I feel invincible, ready to take on the larger hill the more experienced folks are heading for. Yeah, why not?
Of course, on the lift looking down and the course rolling below me, my stomach begins to tighten. The slope is steep. The lift disgorges me at the top.
Staring down the slope of glistening white, I realize this is not going to be a short trip.
(switching tenses) I pushed off, picked up speed, lost control, and slid on my belly 20, 30, 40 feet, before coming to a stop. By the end of the first half hour, I had mastered falling. I am proud to say I can fall with grace and impeccable style. I had also mastered the art of regaining one's feet, of putting on wayward skis lost in a tumble, and shouting "Ski! Ski!" (ski in spanish thankfully remains "ski") when a ski remained upslope to those skiers trailing my bumbling attempts. Only once did I ski into another skier, and she was gracious. By the time I reached the bottom, I was able to stay upright for nearly 50 feet or so before attaining the much easier prone position.
On my return to the hotel (after climbing the hill with awkward ski-booted steps, getting lost, decending the hill, asking directions, ascending the hill, dropping my ski down the hill, returning to the bottom of the hill to retrieve it, ascending the hill, getting lost, asking directions and finally stumbling into the lobby exhausted) I felt it necessary to enjoy the bounty of the hot springs and donned my swim trunks.
That night, the group met for dinner, and drinks in the hotel lounge. There was karaoke of which I did not partake. Others did and recieved free drinks as reward. There was discussion, by political science major and english major and archeology major, of how the public stock system will be the downfall of quality journalism. This came of course before the ghastly dip in fortunes that tipped the world on its axis, and sent it tumbling down a hill. As yet we are unsure of the exact depth of the valley into which we have wandered, but effects have been felt (front page news in the Santiago paper for a full week). I blame the political science major for broaching the subject of the stock market.
In the night, we walked the snow-gleaming paths under an almost full moon. It was a fantastic landscape, pale glowing. The stars (different stars, but still stars) wavered and the mountain smiled. Pictures were attempted by others, but it was a night uninterpretable on photographic paper or ever (gasp) the almighty word scrawled in a notebook. Nature has an affable way of laughing at our silly attempts to capture her.
The next day, after sloshing through snow, visiting sled dogs, and packing, we left, the sun sinking behind the trees.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Fotos de Las Termas...
Here are the photos from the amazing ski adventure in the Andes.
Aqui estan las fotos de la aventura de esquiar en la Cordillera de los Andes.
http://www.kodakgallery.com/BrowsePhotos.jsp?UV=127654803167_11378823714&collid=72157078614.13561001714.1223432806734&page=1
Aqui estan las fotos de la aventura de esquiar en la Cordillera de los Andes.
http://www.kodakgallery.com/BrowsePhotos.jsp?UV=127654803167_11378823714&collid=72157078614.13561001714.1223432806734&page=1
From the Air, Landfall.
Touchdown in Santiago, Chile... well just outside Santiago, Chile. I found the ground safely and am here in Chile, and am an ignorant, arrogant American who doesn't even know the language. I can now come close to feeling what immigrants to the US must feel. The first thing: pay the reciprocity tax. One hundred and thirty-one dollars to enter the country, because all Chilean citizens must pay to enter the US. Next: immigration. And as I stand in line, watching each student take their turn, my supreme lack of knowledge of the Spanish language becomes brutally apparent. Grades in classes no longer matter, because I cannot think of a single Spanish word. Then the front of the line confronts me; then I am called forward. The man behind the glass looks at me, my brown-blond hair, my hazel eyes, my foreign shirt in a foreign language, my hesitant, pleading smile... and he does not smile. Machine gun fire flies from his lips and I can't understand a single word. "I'm sorry... I mean, lo siento, um... que?" He shakes his head, rubs his eyes, mutters a string of what surely must be curses, and interspersed i can catch the occasional "americanos." "Pasaporte," he says, finally. Passport, right. I fumble, and search, and pull it from my pocket with shaking, sweating hands. Passport. Of course. Then he asks for the form they ran out of on the plane, the form that you must fill out and give to Immigration--the form I didn't realize existed, because they ran out while handing them to the passengers in first class, in business class, and on the other side of economy class. Right, that form. The man puts his head in his hands. More muttering, and he gives me a sheet of paper to fill out. I fill it out. "Vuelo?" Vuelo? "Um... que?" He rubs his temples. "Flight number," in heavily accented english. Right, flight number. I have no idea. I search my pocket; my boarding pass isn't there. I see the others passing through immigration and disappearing around the corner, and I can't find my boarding pass. Deep breath. It's in my backpack. Yes, there it is. "Nueve, Cuatro, Cinco." He fills out my passport number, gives me a copy of the sheet and my passport. I'm alone. The others have all gone. Okay. I'm okay. I'm okay. Every step takes me farther away from any place I know, and I'm okay. I turn the corner. I'm okay. I walk down a crowded hall. I'm okay. Rapid, ping-pong banter all around me. I'm okay. Fewer stares than I'd imagined, or maybe I just am missing them. I'm okay.
There, they are, at baggage claim, picking up their suitcases. There are my suitcases. I'm okay.
Familiar English conversation. And laughter is universal. I am safe, with faces I recognize and people I know and words that my barely functioning brain can understand. Deep breath. Calm. I'm okay.
And we're walking, and I am comfortably following, but not trailing, not falling behind, and Baggage claim looms. And there is a sign that says no fruits or vegetables, or turtles. Turtles? I'm glad I'm not carrying any turtles. I am carrying hazelnuts... oh no, I'm carrying hazelnuts. My bags go through the x-ray, and the woman at the screen points to my suitcase. And a man comes over, and speaks Spanish. (Spanish is the official language of Chile, I've heard.) But he smiles. When I stammer, "Uh, lo siento, pero... que?" he points to my suitcase and to the table in front of him. And I put my suitcase on the table in front of him. He asks for another form I didn't know existed, and familiar panic is rising, because when I hand him my receipt from immigration, he shakes his head. But I'm not last this time, and Kelly and Lauren help me fill out the paper, and the man is smiling and helping too, and I don't have anything illegal or dangerous in my suitcase, and everything passes, and we are all okay.
Then we are through, and I see the group laughing, talking, smiling. Guillermo, one of our new professors, shakes my hand, smiling a sincere and infectious smile.
I have now survived three major airports, and only a bus ride remains until I reach my new city. Buses, I can handle. Four and a half hours of bus... sure, why not? I slept a little on the plane. I'm feeling I may need to sleep a little on the bus.
The buses are incredible. Much better than economy class. First class all the way. I can sleep on a bus.
But, other things are more pressing. This is Chile, and I must observe. It is very cold. I think they said about forty-five degrees (F not C). It is winter still. Barren trees, and short black twisting vineyard stumps dormant until the spring... and palm trees, too, and many fields, and cold, gray sky. And the Andes out of the left window, and more mountains out of the right window along the coast. Amazing. It's not that different from the Willamette Valley in the winter. The mountains are bigger, though.
I look out the window enraptured in something completely new and un-witnessed by my inexperienced eyes in the past. The country rolls by, and despite the similarities it is different. I am so concerned with staying objective, with not falling into the ignorant, arrogant, judgmental American stereotype I abhor, that my brain doesn't know what to do with the trash-strewn riverbank we pass over, or the small ramshackle tin building, leaning dangerously and with the man sitting asleep outside the door, or the stray dogs looking beaten and hungry roaming the parking lot of the pit stop. But all these things are true.
Chile is different, but the same. There is no such thing as a poor politician. This is the world in which we all live. (I've been told there are good politicians, somewhere, few though they may be... I hope so.) There is still the horrifying gulf between the rich and the poor. This is the same worldwide. The majority of the country's riches rest in the hands of a few families; the difference is a much smaller middle class than the United States. We gringos are incredibly fortunate with the opportunities we have.
Maybe the only difference between our countries is that in Chile they don't hide these things as well as we've learned to in America. As I see more of the country, I am less surprised by the differences, and instead see more similarities. The people working in the field, the cars roaring down highways... there are malls and four-, five-, six-story buildings. Skyscrapers. Blockbuster. McDonald's.
We arrive in Chillan around one or two. My eyes can't read the hands on my watch, which is three hours slow anyway. The bus pulls over at the Plaza de Armas, and the host families are already there, moving toward the door. The bus's inhabitants are all eagerly peering through the glass, trying to figure out whom belongs to who.
Guillermo stands and begins calling the names of the students, one by one, to move forward, step down onto the surface of their new hometown and meet their new mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers. The anticipation hides behind the more apparent nerves on their faces. My name is called, and I stand on shaking legs and move forward with wide eyes, and step down with my stomach sloshing around, bumping my heart, nudging my lungs, and brushing aside my kidneys with its crazy somersaults. Down the steps, and a man steps forward, with a big smile and a wave. It takes a moment, but as my foot hits the pavement, I realize this is my father. And closely following is my brother. Alfredo and Matias.
A handshake quickly becomes a hug, and I am ushered away from the group. I am being talked to and smiled at and everyone around me is talking and laughing, the parents with their new children. I understand little, but mi hermano (brother) speaks a little english, as does my father. They speak slowly and clearly, and I understand when they ask me if I'm tired. I nod my head emphatically. "Si, muy cansado." They grab my bags and put them in the back of the small green "auto" and open the door for me... and I don't look back to the fading bus and my fading countrymen.
At the house the door opens, and there stands a Chilean woman. My mother, Chivi. And coming down the stairs is Coni, mi hermana (sister). Handshakes become kisses, for in Chile, women are greeted with a kiss on the cheek. When in Chile...
They push me to the table, and I realize I'm not that hungry, but I don't care. I sit down with them and eat... I can hardly remember what. But it is delicious. Then they send me upstairs and show me my room. I put my bags down, and they show me the bed. And I fall asleep.
There, they are, at baggage claim, picking up their suitcases. There are my suitcases. I'm okay.
Familiar English conversation. And laughter is universal. I am safe, with faces I recognize and people I know and words that my barely functioning brain can understand. Deep breath. Calm. I'm okay.
And we're walking, and I am comfortably following, but not trailing, not falling behind, and Baggage claim looms. And there is a sign that says no fruits or vegetables, or turtles. Turtles? I'm glad I'm not carrying any turtles. I am carrying hazelnuts... oh no, I'm carrying hazelnuts. My bags go through the x-ray, and the woman at the screen points to my suitcase. And a man comes over, and speaks Spanish. (Spanish is the official language of Chile, I've heard.) But he smiles. When I stammer, "Uh, lo siento, pero... que?" he points to my suitcase and to the table in front of him. And I put my suitcase on the table in front of him. He asks for another form I didn't know existed, and familiar panic is rising, because when I hand him my receipt from immigration, he shakes his head. But I'm not last this time, and Kelly and Lauren help me fill out the paper, and the man is smiling and helping too, and I don't have anything illegal or dangerous in my suitcase, and everything passes, and we are all okay.
Then we are through, and I see the group laughing, talking, smiling. Guillermo, one of our new professors, shakes my hand, smiling a sincere and infectious smile.
I have now survived three major airports, and only a bus ride remains until I reach my new city. Buses, I can handle. Four and a half hours of bus... sure, why not? I slept a little on the plane. I'm feeling I may need to sleep a little on the bus.
The buses are incredible. Much better than economy class. First class all the way. I can sleep on a bus.
But, other things are more pressing. This is Chile, and I must observe. It is very cold. I think they said about forty-five degrees (F not C). It is winter still. Barren trees, and short black twisting vineyard stumps dormant until the spring... and palm trees, too, and many fields, and cold, gray sky. And the Andes out of the left window, and more mountains out of the right window along the coast. Amazing. It's not that different from the Willamette Valley in the winter. The mountains are bigger, though.
I look out the window enraptured in something completely new and un-witnessed by my inexperienced eyes in the past. The country rolls by, and despite the similarities it is different. I am so concerned with staying objective, with not falling into the ignorant, arrogant, judgmental American stereotype I abhor, that my brain doesn't know what to do with the trash-strewn riverbank we pass over, or the small ramshackle tin building, leaning dangerously and with the man sitting asleep outside the door, or the stray dogs looking beaten and hungry roaming the parking lot of the pit stop. But all these things are true.
Chile is different, but the same. There is no such thing as a poor politician. This is the world in which we all live. (I've been told there are good politicians, somewhere, few though they may be... I hope so.) There is still the horrifying gulf between the rich and the poor. This is the same worldwide. The majority of the country's riches rest in the hands of a few families; the difference is a much smaller middle class than the United States. We gringos are incredibly fortunate with the opportunities we have.
Maybe the only difference between our countries is that in Chile they don't hide these things as well as we've learned to in America. As I see more of the country, I am less surprised by the differences, and instead see more similarities. The people working in the field, the cars roaring down highways... there are malls and four-, five-, six-story buildings. Skyscrapers. Blockbuster. McDonald's.
We arrive in Chillan around one or two. My eyes can't read the hands on my watch, which is three hours slow anyway. The bus pulls over at the Plaza de Armas, and the host families are already there, moving toward the door. The bus's inhabitants are all eagerly peering through the glass, trying to figure out whom belongs to who.
Guillermo stands and begins calling the names of the students, one by one, to move forward, step down onto the surface of their new hometown and meet their new mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers. The anticipation hides behind the more apparent nerves on their faces. My name is called, and I stand on shaking legs and move forward with wide eyes, and step down with my stomach sloshing around, bumping my heart, nudging my lungs, and brushing aside my kidneys with its crazy somersaults. Down the steps, and a man steps forward, with a big smile and a wave. It takes a moment, but as my foot hits the pavement, I realize this is my father. And closely following is my brother. Alfredo and Matias.
A handshake quickly becomes a hug, and I am ushered away from the group. I am being talked to and smiled at and everyone around me is talking and laughing, the parents with their new children. I understand little, but mi hermano (brother) speaks a little english, as does my father. They speak slowly and clearly, and I understand when they ask me if I'm tired. I nod my head emphatically. "Si, muy cansado." They grab my bags and put them in the back of the small green "auto" and open the door for me... and I don't look back to the fading bus and my fading countrymen.
At the house the door opens, and there stands a Chilean woman. My mother, Chivi. And coming down the stairs is Coni, mi hermana (sister). Handshakes become kisses, for in Chile, women are greeted with a kiss on the cheek. When in Chile...
They push me to the table, and I realize I'm not that hungry, but I don't care. I sit down with them and eat... I can hardly remember what. But it is delicious. Then they send me upstairs and show me my room. I put my bags down, and they show me the bed. And I fall asleep.
Friday, September 12, 2008
More Photos (Mas Fotos)
I added more fotos y the link is different now so i changed it in the post below.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Photos! (¡Fotos!)
Here are the photos I have so far.
Son las fotos que tengo hasta el momento.
http://www.kodakgallery.com/BrowsePhotos.jsp?UAUTOLOGIN_ID=72157078614&UV=575377367565_92378823714&collid=72157078614.34585350714.1223433015443&page=1
Hopefully this link works.
Espero que va a funcionar
Son las fotos que tengo hasta el momento.
http://www.kodakgallery.com/BrowsePhotos.jsp?UAUTOLOGIN_ID=72157078614&UV=575377367565_92378823714&collid=72157078614.34585350714.1223433015443&page=1
Hopefully this link works.
Espero que va a funcionar
Traducción: Pensamientos Diseminados, Incoherentes, y Privados de Sueño de 11.278 Metros y Menos
Note: This is hard to translate and it may be mostly wrong.
(Anotación: Es difícil para traducirlo y es posible que, en la mayoría, es incorrecto.)
El vuelo no me da miedo, sé ahora. Cuando el avión despagó, mi boca colgué abierta, pero era bueno.
y más y más y más...
(Anotación: Es difícil para traducirlo y es posible que, en la mayoría, es incorrecto.)
El vuelo no me da miedo, sé ahora. Cuando el avión despagó, mi boca colgué abierta, pero era bueno.
El principio del día era tranquilo. Las maletas fueron hechos, cosas fueron transladas, gente fue regado, maletero fue cargada, puerta de coche fue abierta, cinturón de seguridad fue abrochado.... No dormí en el auto, naturalmente, a pesar de que no dormí mucho el noche anterior. Demasiados pensamientos, preocupaciones, arrepentimientos, y las caras de mis amigos pasaban zumbando en mi cabeza pequeña. El entusiasmo también, pero no aparente, parcialmente por incertitumbre y parcialmente por pensaminetos de mis amigos y parientes que voy a echar de menos.
y más y más y más...
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Scattered, Incoherent, Sleep-Deprived Musings from 37,000 Feet and Below
I'm not afraid of flying, so I've found. The moment of takeoff left my mouth hanging limp, in a good way.
The day started in a calm: bags were packed, things shuffled around, shower taken, trunk loaded, car door opened, seatbelt buckled.... No sleep in the car, of course, despite only three-ish hours of sleep the night before. Too many thoughts, worries, regrets, and friends' faces whirring in too small a space. Excitement, too, but hidden--partly by thoughts of uncertainty, partly by thoughts of those I'd miss.
Exterior calm and interior panic took over. It's almost worrying that I wasn't more worried. Goodbyes were said at the security check, and then I stepped from earth to sky, comfort to disquiet, here to there.
Looking down on clouds is always cool. I think I may have just seen a crop circle. In my opinion, wings should not wobble or waver. At all. They do.
I am unfocused and rambling, and choose to see this as a good thing.
I am in the window seat atop the right wing. If it flies off, I'll be the first to know. I'll keep you posted.
We just passed over the Great Salt Lake. It doesn't look pleasant. Water shouldn't be reddish yellowish opacity. Isn't that in Utah? Wow, are we already over Utah?
If I stare straight ahead, it feels like the plane is drifting down and to the right. It's a bit upsetting. Planes should be equipped with "oh jesus" bars.
Tucked in behind everything I see are the faces of those I will miss tremendously. Sometimes, for minutes on end, they are all I see.
The wing is still attatched. Out the window, I can see the plane's right side "boost pumps" (so says the label). A boost pump sounds important. So far they are still there. I'll keep you posted.
Black mountains rippling around a muddy-brown river is a cool effect.
I am able to sleep on planes, I found as I woke up about a half hour out of Dallas/Fort Worth (D/FW). D/FW is enormous. And they have iPod vending machines. And giant metal crystaline statues with a tunnel through it that you can walk through. And CNN playing on TVs you can't really hear. And shopping, shopping, shopping galore! And an amazing sunset backlighting hulking metal flying machines.
Takeoff at night is dazzling. The lights have been described in books, related by people, and shown in movies, but it's different when you take off on the second flight of your life, leaving the only country you've ever known. The lights mean more than the eyes can interpret then, though I can't say what.
The Gulf of Mexico stretches below us, or at least that's what the pilot said. Nothing but a lonely light at the end of the wing, a vague reflection in the window and blackness as far as I can tell. Just after takeoff I was tired and thought I'd fall asleep immediately. Little sleep and already 14 and a half hours of travel will do that. Now I am wide awake. The world outside fading to black as a heavy, unwieldy tin can switches hemispheres will do that. A bit of an adrenaline rush mixed with a wild imagination makes for an uncommon cocktail. Writing is coming easy.
The food is served. One cannot resist the in flight lasagna, salad, roll, cup o' water, and "oatmeal chewie." Not after hearing everything one inevitably hears about airline food...
-I'm not sure whether the roll had any natural ingredients.
-The salad was... salad. It's hard to mess up salad.
-The water had a lid like yogurt. Weird.
-The lasagna tasted... about like you'd expect airline lasagna to taste: nothing like anything.
-The oatmeal chewie is for later.
In flight movie: Leatherheads. I want to see it, but not now.
Being out over a body of water, it's comforting to know that the seat cushion floats. As does the life vest stowed away somewhere nearby. I suppose I missed that part of the safety lecture. At least I have a seat cushion.
9 pm in Corvallis. Midnight in Chile. We're scheduled to drop from the sky by 7:30 am in Santiago. Then a 4 and a half hour bus ride to Chillán.
There is no one in the seat next to me this time. I will be able to get up, stretch, move around, maybe even find the bathroom. I am grateful.
The lights went out and I refrained from lighting the one above my head. Lights appeared below; the world still exists--or at least the Yucatan peninsula. It's really amazing. Huge swaths or night broken by small glittering imperfections, and misty wisps of cloud. It's like an alien landscape, completely strange and unrecognizable.
Lightning visible in the east. Huge impossible cloudscapes illuminated in short, electric busts. Dizzying branches of light, curving and carving and dancing through the halls of Olympus. The gods must surely be at war.
Twilit rainbow dawn over the Pacific Ocean, and I can see the mountainous western coast of South America, Chile in fact, the Andes, back-lit by deep red, fading to pale yellow and green, to blue, and back to the familiar black of the night sky.
The sun is fully awake, and we are striding over and through great billowing clouds. Chile is a pale outline barely seen through the clouds. One hour until we reach Santiago, more or less.
The coastline is visible, emerging from the haze. It is now roughly 4am in Corvallis; 7am in Santiago. And now the pen must rest.
Hasta Luego Mi Vida Anterior. Bon Voyage. Todo Está Nuevo.
The day started in a calm: bags were packed, things shuffled around, shower taken, trunk loaded, car door opened, seatbelt buckled.... No sleep in the car, of course, despite only three-ish hours of sleep the night before. Too many thoughts, worries, regrets, and friends' faces whirring in too small a space. Excitement, too, but hidden--partly by thoughts of uncertainty, partly by thoughts of those I'd miss.
Exterior calm and interior panic took over. It's almost worrying that I wasn't more worried. Goodbyes were said at the security check, and then I stepped from earth to sky, comfort to disquiet, here to there.
Looking down on clouds is always cool. I think I may have just seen a crop circle. In my opinion, wings should not wobble or waver. At all. They do.
I am unfocused and rambling, and choose to see this as a good thing.
I am in the window seat atop the right wing. If it flies off, I'll be the first to know. I'll keep you posted.
We just passed over the Great Salt Lake. It doesn't look pleasant. Water shouldn't be reddish yellowish opacity. Isn't that in Utah? Wow, are we already over Utah?
If I stare straight ahead, it feels like the plane is drifting down and to the right. It's a bit upsetting. Planes should be equipped with "oh jesus" bars.
Tucked in behind everything I see are the faces of those I will miss tremendously. Sometimes, for minutes on end, they are all I see.
The wing is still attatched. Out the window, I can see the plane's right side "boost pumps" (so says the label). A boost pump sounds important. So far they are still there. I'll keep you posted.
Black mountains rippling around a muddy-brown river is a cool effect.
I am able to sleep on planes, I found as I woke up about a half hour out of Dallas/Fort Worth (D/FW). D/FW is enormous. And they have iPod vending machines. And giant metal crystaline statues with a tunnel through it that you can walk through. And CNN playing on TVs you can't really hear. And shopping, shopping, shopping galore! And an amazing sunset backlighting hulking metal flying machines.
Takeoff at night is dazzling. The lights have been described in books, related by people, and shown in movies, but it's different when you take off on the second flight of your life, leaving the only country you've ever known. The lights mean more than the eyes can interpret then, though I can't say what.
The Gulf of Mexico stretches below us, or at least that's what the pilot said. Nothing but a lonely light at the end of the wing, a vague reflection in the window and blackness as far as I can tell. Just after takeoff I was tired and thought I'd fall asleep immediately. Little sleep and already 14 and a half hours of travel will do that. Now I am wide awake. The world outside fading to black as a heavy, unwieldy tin can switches hemispheres will do that. A bit of an adrenaline rush mixed with a wild imagination makes for an uncommon cocktail. Writing is coming easy.
The food is served. One cannot resist the in flight lasagna, salad, roll, cup o' water, and "oatmeal chewie." Not after hearing everything one inevitably hears about airline food...
-I'm not sure whether the roll had any natural ingredients.
-The salad was... salad. It's hard to mess up salad.
-The water had a lid like yogurt. Weird.
-The lasagna tasted... about like you'd expect airline lasagna to taste: nothing like anything.
-The oatmeal chewie is for later.
In flight movie: Leatherheads. I want to see it, but not now.
Being out over a body of water, it's comforting to know that the seat cushion floats. As does the life vest stowed away somewhere nearby. I suppose I missed that part of the safety lecture. At least I have a seat cushion.
9 pm in Corvallis. Midnight in Chile. We're scheduled to drop from the sky by 7:30 am in Santiago. Then a 4 and a half hour bus ride to Chillán.
There is no one in the seat next to me this time. I will be able to get up, stretch, move around, maybe even find the bathroom. I am grateful.
The lights went out and I refrained from lighting the one above my head. Lights appeared below; the world still exists--or at least the Yucatan peninsula. It's really amazing. Huge swaths or night broken by small glittering imperfections, and misty wisps of cloud. It's like an alien landscape, completely strange and unrecognizable.
Lightning visible in the east. Huge impossible cloudscapes illuminated in short, electric busts. Dizzying branches of light, curving and carving and dancing through the halls of Olympus. The gods must surely be at war.
Twilit rainbow dawn over the Pacific Ocean, and I can see the mountainous western coast of South America, Chile in fact, the Andes, back-lit by deep red, fading to pale yellow and green, to blue, and back to the familiar black of the night sky.
The sun is fully awake, and we are striding over and through great billowing clouds. Chile is a pale outline barely seen through the clouds. One hour until we reach Santiago, more or less.
The coastline is visible, emerging from the haze. It is now roughly 4am in Corvallis; 7am in Santiago. And now the pen must rest.
Hasta Luego Mi Vida Anterior. Bon Voyage. Todo Está Nuevo.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Explanatory Note (Nota Explicativa)
I will attempt to provide a Spanish translation to every post (mostly for my own benefit as practice), but due to my finite knowledge of the Spanish language, I will probably fail at times. Just fyi.
P.S. The image is of Pablo Neruda, a famous Chilean poet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Voy a tratar dar una traducción en español de todos anotaciones (en la mayoría, para beneficiarme y practicar), pero, porque no sé español muy bien, voy a fracasar a veces. Es simplemente para su información.
P.D. (postdata) La fotografía es Pablo Neruda, un poeta muy famoso de Chile.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
