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
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
