Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Oh Me God.
After the weekend in the city, I had to return to Coelemu on Monday (my birthday!!) for work. I decided to take the earliest bus (6:30am) which conveniently passed directly in front of our hotel. The day before, I had prepurchased my ticket (ensuring that I would have a seat) at the bus terminal so all I had to do the following morning was simply...get on the bus.
I woke up the next day at 5:45, was out front of the hotel at 6:29 and exactly one minute later, a bus pulled around the corner and stopped when I flagged it down (how very punctual...especially for Chile). I found my seat, sat down, and popped in my headphones. Despite my swelling ego (mastering a foreign public transport system is always a daunting undertaking), I couldn't ignore a faint sense of wariness. I was feeling unsettled for some reason I couldn't quite put my finger on...perhaps because I have come to find that simple tasks like this in my life are never that EASY. My nerves calmed a bit when we got on the bypass going in the right direction. Also, because I had a window seat, almost no one had noticed the Gringa (that's me referring to myself in the third person) trying to pass as a Chilean.
About five minutes later, the bus attendant moved down the aisle to collect bus fares and tickets. I confidently handed over my ticket. I may be a white girl, but your bus system does not fool me! The ensuing conversation has been translated (the original exchange was his very native Chilean Spanish versus my very blatantly not-native Chilean Spanish):
Ticket collector: "Where are you going?"
A very flushed Gringa: "Coelemu."
Ticket collector: "No you're not. You're going to Tomé. This is the wrong bus. You need to get off."
I had tried to whisper to conceal my blunder, but literally every passenger was staring. Once again, cover blown. With that, the ticket collector obnoxiously whistled as the driver, who pulled over on the side of the bypass. I squeezed passed lots of foreboding Chilean commuters, and got off. I suppressed the urge to throw a rock at the bus at it pulled away with a hundred sets of eyes still shamelessly staring at me. I also noticed 500 Chilean pesos and a great deal of embarrassment too late, that "Tomé" was advertised in all-caps on all sides of the bus with numerous neon flashing signs. Oops.
Sidenote: Chileans commonly use the word "flaite" (pronounced Fly-tay) to describe sectors that are trashy, poor, and drug-infested. Every time we drive pass a rundown neighborhood of projects, Gloria points and says "Flaite!"
It wasn't until the bus pulled away that I realized that I was standing in front of a neighborhood on the outskirts of the city that Gloria had labeled as "Flaite" on more than one occasion. And across the street? A jail. Happy birthday...to me. For what seemed like the longest eleven minutes (and this is no estimate, as I was checking the time every few seconds) of my life, I waited. Four or five buses passed before I saw the rickety bus with the cardboard sign on the dashboard that read "Coelemu." Every seat was taken. I had an assigned seat on my ticket but I wasn't about to make a scene asking someone to get up for me. Instead, the bus attendant took my ticket, saw that I had reserved a seat, and took it upon himself to shout down the aisle at the person in seat 9 to get up for the Gringa. I quickly assured him that I would stand and that I didn't want to disturb anyone. Now everyone was staring (story of my Chilean life).
That dumb man would just not let the situation go. He eagerly insisted for a few minutes that the very annoyed female passenger in seat 9 move. I fought back. He finally shrugged in resignation...and then produced a cushion from the overhead storage. He placed the cushion on the huge hump at the front of the aisle next to the bus driver and dragged me over to it. Reluctantly, I obliged. I began to instantly regret my decision to resist the assigned seat, as I was now elevated, riding in reverse, and facing an entire bus full of unblinking Chileans, all fixated on the new American spectacle before them. With an hour to go, I tried to act a little tired and a little bored and stare at nothing in particular. Still, it was as if I were the conductor of an orchestra sans the instruments and musical instruction.
After a few minutes, one man broke the silence with the question that was most likely on everyone's minds, "Gringa, where are you from?"
"Coelemu?" I offered, knowing full well that this answer never suffices.
"No," says the man, "Where are you from?"
I give in, "The United States." I tried to mutter. Not that it mattered...I had the rapt attention of the entire bus...including, to my horror, that of the bus driver.
"Ah, yes. So you speak English. I know how to speak in English."
In a disinterested tone, I said, "Oh, yeah?"
He then clears his throat and says proudly, "Ho me gowd."
Umm...pardon? He repeats himself a few times, clearly getting frustrated with me.
I finally realize what he was trying to say, "Ah. Yes. OH. MY. GOD."
He grins and says, "Yes! Ho me gowd!"
Teacher mode kicked in immediately. "OOOOH. MYYYY. GODDD." I fed it back to him, slowly, modulating so he could see how I was forming the correct sounds. He repeated after me and I noticed many of the other passenger silently trying to form the words themselves. I tried and again and again, and by the time he finally got the correct pronunciation down, the entire bus was echoing with a chorus of "Oh me gods!" Every single commuter (and the easily distracted bus driver) had joined in on my informal English lesson. Perhaps I hadn't been so far off base with that orchestra analogy, after all...
I woke up the next day at 5:45, was out front of the hotel at 6:29 and exactly one minute later, a bus pulled around the corner and stopped when I flagged it down (how very punctual...especially for Chile). I found my seat, sat down, and popped in my headphones. Despite my swelling ego (mastering a foreign public transport system is always a daunting undertaking), I couldn't ignore a faint sense of wariness. I was feeling unsettled for some reason I couldn't quite put my finger on...perhaps because I have come to find that simple tasks like this in my life are never that EASY. My nerves calmed a bit when we got on the bypass going in the right direction. Also, because I had a window seat, almost no one had noticed the Gringa (that's me referring to myself in the third person) trying to pass as a Chilean.
About five minutes later, the bus attendant moved down the aisle to collect bus fares and tickets. I confidently handed over my ticket. I may be a white girl, but your bus system does not fool me! The ensuing conversation has been translated (the original exchange was his very native Chilean Spanish versus my very blatantly not-native Chilean Spanish):
Ticket collector: "Where are you going?"
A very flushed Gringa: "Coelemu."
Ticket collector: "No you're not. You're going to Tomé. This is the wrong bus. You need to get off."
I had tried to whisper to conceal my blunder, but literally every passenger was staring. Once again, cover blown. With that, the ticket collector obnoxiously whistled as the driver, who pulled over on the side of the bypass. I squeezed passed lots of foreboding Chilean commuters, and got off. I suppressed the urge to throw a rock at the bus at it pulled away with a hundred sets of eyes still shamelessly staring at me. I also noticed 500 Chilean pesos and a great deal of embarrassment too late, that "Tomé" was advertised in all-caps on all sides of the bus with numerous neon flashing signs. Oops.
Sidenote: Chileans commonly use the word "flaite" (pronounced Fly-tay) to describe sectors that are trashy, poor, and drug-infested. Every time we drive pass a rundown neighborhood of projects, Gloria points and says "Flaite!"
It wasn't until the bus pulled away that I realized that I was standing in front of a neighborhood on the outskirts of the city that Gloria had labeled as "Flaite" on more than one occasion. And across the street? A jail. Happy birthday...to me. For what seemed like the longest eleven minutes (and this is no estimate, as I was checking the time every few seconds) of my life, I waited. Four or five buses passed before I saw the rickety bus with the cardboard sign on the dashboard that read "Coelemu." Every seat was taken. I had an assigned seat on my ticket but I wasn't about to make a scene asking someone to get up for me. Instead, the bus attendant took my ticket, saw that I had reserved a seat, and took it upon himself to shout down the aisle at the person in seat 9 to get up for the Gringa. I quickly assured him that I would stand and that I didn't want to disturb anyone. Now everyone was staring (story of my Chilean life).
That dumb man would just not let the situation go. He eagerly insisted for a few minutes that the very annoyed female passenger in seat 9 move. I fought back. He finally shrugged in resignation...and then produced a cushion from the overhead storage. He placed the cushion on the huge hump at the front of the aisle next to the bus driver and dragged me over to it. Reluctantly, I obliged. I began to instantly regret my decision to resist the assigned seat, as I was now elevated, riding in reverse, and facing an entire bus full of unblinking Chileans, all fixated on the new American spectacle before them. With an hour to go, I tried to act a little tired and a little bored and stare at nothing in particular. Still, it was as if I were the conductor of an orchestra sans the instruments and musical instruction.
After a few minutes, one man broke the silence with the question that was most likely on everyone's minds, "Gringa, where are you from?"
"Coelemu?" I offered, knowing full well that this answer never suffices.
"No," says the man, "Where are you from?"
I give in, "The United States." I tried to mutter. Not that it mattered...I had the rapt attention of the entire bus...including, to my horror, that of the bus driver.
"Ah, yes. So you speak English. I know how to speak in English."
In a disinterested tone, I said, "Oh, yeah?"
He then clears his throat and says proudly, "Ho me gowd."
Umm...pardon? He repeats himself a few times, clearly getting frustrated with me.
I finally realize what he was trying to say, "Ah. Yes. OH. MY. GOD."
He grins and says, "Yes! Ho me gowd!"
Teacher mode kicked in immediately. "OOOOH. MYYYY. GODDD." I fed it back to him, slowly, modulating so he could see how I was forming the correct sounds. He repeated after me and I noticed many of the other passenger silently trying to form the words themselves. I tried and again and again, and by the time he finally got the correct pronunciation down, the entire bus was echoing with a chorus of "Oh me gods!" Every single commuter (and the easily distracted bus driver) had joined in on my informal English lesson. Perhaps I hadn't been so far off base with that orchestra analogy, after all...
The Visitors Arrive!
A few months ago, after I purchased my round trip flight to Santiago (my bank account had not yet recovered from the Nepal trip...but that's neither here nor there), my dad decided to plan a trip to come visit me. He called me one day to tell me that he had nailed down the dates of the visit. I commended him on his date selection, remarking that he had factored my birthday into the equation. I could tell by his reaction that it had been a complete coincidence that my birthday happened to fall within the dates of their visit (May 10th-20th).
Fast forward to May 10th.
The original plan was for Gloria and I to collect my jet-lagged dad and sister from the airport in Concepción and take them to their hotel. Generally speaking, nothing in Chile is ever that simple. Everything is a production. I should have known that this was no exception. In Chile, it seems that the only thing better than a hosting one American is hosting three Americans. To make a very long story short, two car loads of people escorted me to the airport caravan-style to greet my family. From a translator's perspective, this complicates matters tremendously. Not one person here speaks English. So, when my dad and sister arrived, I was immediately responsible for translating five different conversations at once. The whole situation was rather stressful but I somehow managed to make the necessary introductions and communicate to my Chilean family that no, my sleep-deprived dad and sister were not up for midnight coffee and conversation.
That night, I slept in the hotel with my dad and sister. What luxury!! A hot shower (no need to tango with a water heater), a warm bed, and even a sleeping buddy (yay Shannon)!! I was lulled to sleep by the familiar sound of their rather raucous snoring (sorry for divulging family secrets) and awoke the next day with a new vitality- ready to assume my duties as tour guide and translator-extraordinaire.
I walked them to Gloria's apartment. From there, we all went to the local outdoor market (one of my favorite things to do). There, they got their first taste (pun!) of Chilean culture. My dad committed his first Chilean faux-pas by trying to buy cheese and empanadas from one of the vendors. Gloria was appalled...God forbid anyone buy cheese or empanadas from the outdoor market vendors. Luke warm fish handled by women with dirty hands, half-dead-but-still-alive chickens ready for slaughter, and skinned rabbit carcasses...yes, of course! But alas, cheese...no. Cheese must be purchased from the supermarket, and empanadas from the bakery (Do you want to get sick!?).
Outside of the soccer stadium in Concepción by the outdoor market:
We returned to Gloria's apartment for lunch, where their housekeeper had been preparing my favorite Chilean dish called Porotos Granados (it's chili from Chile, if you will...a bean stew). The housekeeper is a properly plump, charming woman by the name of Alejandra...although Gloria refers to the woman (when she's not within earshot) as "La Gordita" (or, The Fatty). My Dad got a kick out of this and immediately integrated the word into his limited Spanish vocabulary. For the duration of the visit, he took it upon himself to point out every Gordita/Gordito we encountered...always good for a few laughs.
Anyhow, after we all ate very filling portions of Porotos Granados, our plates were cleared and new ones were laid out. My dad gave me a quizzical look, "Are we not done eating?" I was equally confused...as were Gloria and the rest of the family. Then Alejandra paraded out of the kitchen with a mammoth platter of meat and potatoes. "When visitors come, you serve them meat!" she said. Although she respected my wishes and prepared my favorite dish, she obstinately prepared a "real meal" to serve to our guests. Reluctantly, we all served ourselves modest portions of the surprise second course and far surpassed our state of comfortable satisfaction, traversing into a post-feast stupor that causes one to discreetly loosen his or her belt under the table. Although we were uncomfortably full, La Gordita was pleased with our appetites. A job well done.
All of us at dinner (back row: Nelson Jr., Dad, Seba- Dani´s boyfriend, Nelson Sr.; front row: Gloria, me, Shannon, Dani; his on row: Benito the family pup)
The next day, we took a field trip to a port town that is nationally known for its mining villages. There, we visited the museum (more translating of exhibits) and walked around a beautiful park overlooking the port. Next, we took a tour of an old mining village (also the film site of a famous documentary about the life of a miner). Our tour guide would speak for about ten minutes before pausing to allow me to translate for my dad. It was then that I realized that Chileans say a whole lot of nothing, talk in circles, and repeat themselves. I was able to sum up his ten minute spiels in about twenty seconds. He kept eyeing me suspiciously as if to say, "I know that you're not translating all of my word fluff." Eh, he'll live. I was hungry and trying to speed things along anyway.
A view of the harbor from the park in Lota:
At the end of the tour, there was an opportunity to take a tour of the underground mines (which extended beyond the coast and under the sea). Forgive me, but for some odd reason (ahem...recall the trapped Chilean miners of 2010), the prospect of descending into a Chilean mine didn't appeal. Needless to say, I was the party-pooper and opted out of this for everyone. I did however, agree to a quick photo at the formidable entrance to the mines. Who says I'm not adventurous?!
The mine shaft of doom:
The original plan was for Gloria and I to collect my jet-lagged dad and sister from the airport in Concepción and take them to their hotel. Generally speaking, nothing in Chile is ever that simple. Everything is a production. I should have known that this was no exception. In Chile, it seems that the only thing better than a hosting one American is hosting three Americans. To make a very long story short, two car loads of people escorted me to the airport caravan-style to greet my family. From a translator's perspective, this complicates matters tremendously. Not one person here speaks English. So, when my dad and sister arrived, I was immediately responsible for translating five different conversations at once. The whole situation was rather stressful but I somehow managed to make the necessary introductions and communicate to my Chilean family that no, my sleep-deprived dad and sister were not up for midnight coffee and conversation.
That night, I slept in the hotel with my dad and sister. What luxury!! A hot shower (no need to tango with a water heater), a warm bed, and even a sleeping buddy (yay Shannon)!! I was lulled to sleep by the familiar sound of their rather raucous snoring (sorry for divulging family secrets) and awoke the next day with a new vitality- ready to assume my duties as tour guide and translator-extraordinaire.
I walked them to Gloria's apartment. From there, we all went to the local outdoor market (one of my favorite things to do). There, they got their first taste (pun!) of Chilean culture. My dad committed his first Chilean faux-pas by trying to buy cheese and empanadas from one of the vendors. Gloria was appalled...God forbid anyone buy cheese or empanadas from the outdoor market vendors. Luke warm fish handled by women with dirty hands, half-dead-but-still-alive chickens ready for slaughter, and skinned rabbit carcasses...yes, of course! But alas, cheese...no. Cheese must be purchased from the supermarket, and empanadas from the bakery (Do you want to get sick!?).
Outside of the soccer stadium in Concepción by the outdoor market:
We returned to Gloria's apartment for lunch, where their housekeeper had been preparing my favorite Chilean dish called Porotos Granados (it's chili from Chile, if you will...a bean stew). The housekeeper is a properly plump, charming woman by the name of Alejandra...although Gloria refers to the woman (when she's not within earshot) as "La Gordita" (or, The Fatty). My Dad got a kick out of this and immediately integrated the word into his limited Spanish vocabulary. For the duration of the visit, he took it upon himself to point out every Gordita/Gordito we encountered...always good for a few laughs.
Anyhow, after we all ate very filling portions of Porotos Granados, our plates were cleared and new ones were laid out. My dad gave me a quizzical look, "Are we not done eating?" I was equally confused...as were Gloria and the rest of the family. Then Alejandra paraded out of the kitchen with a mammoth platter of meat and potatoes. "When visitors come, you serve them meat!" she said. Although she respected my wishes and prepared my favorite dish, she obstinately prepared a "real meal" to serve to our guests. Reluctantly, we all served ourselves modest portions of the surprise second course and far surpassed our state of comfortable satisfaction, traversing into a post-feast stupor that causes one to discreetly loosen his or her belt under the table. Although we were uncomfortably full, La Gordita was pleased with our appetites. A job well done.
All of us at dinner (back row: Nelson Jr., Dad, Seba- Dani´s boyfriend, Nelson Sr.; front row: Gloria, me, Shannon, Dani; his on row: Benito the family pup)
The next day, we took a field trip to a port town that is nationally known for its mining villages. There, we visited the museum (more translating of exhibits) and walked around a beautiful park overlooking the port. Next, we took a tour of an old mining village (also the film site of a famous documentary about the life of a miner). Our tour guide would speak for about ten minutes before pausing to allow me to translate for my dad. It was then that I realized that Chileans say a whole lot of nothing, talk in circles, and repeat themselves. I was able to sum up his ten minute spiels in about twenty seconds. He kept eyeing me suspiciously as if to say, "I know that you're not translating all of my word fluff." Eh, he'll live. I was hungry and trying to speed things along anyway.
A view of the harbor from the park in Lota:
At the end of the tour, there was an opportunity to take a tour of the underground mines (which extended beyond the coast and under the sea). Forgive me, but for some odd reason (ahem...recall the trapped Chilean miners of 2010), the prospect of descending into a Chilean mine didn't appeal. Needless to say, I was the party-pooper and opted out of this for everyone. I did however, agree to a quick photo at the formidable entrance to the mines. Who says I'm not adventurous?!
The mine shaft of doom:
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Shake it like Shakira
Ok, so I took another leave of absence. In all fairness, I had a very busy week (or two). My dad and sister came to visit, I became a full-time translator, I aged a year, did some traveling, and (as you're about to find out) made my dancing debut in Coelemu. Funny thing about Chileans, they don't seem to have a very firm grasp on my knowledge of their culture. They try to teach me words like "horse" (elementary Spanish...even my Dad knows it), and explain to me the concept of the exotic fruit known as pineapple. Yet, they assume that I know the lyrics of the national hymn and that I have memorized the names of the entire Chilean Fútbol team's roster. Among these fallacious assumptions is that the American also knows that "El día de los estudiantes" involves teachers (all of them) performing for the students. How naive I was to think that they would just get an extra long recess and some popsicles...
On Friday,"El día de los estudiantes," I walked to school with my madre, somehow oblivious to the overstuffed duffle bag she was carrying. When we got to school, all of the teachers were moseying about in capes, and pig masks, and gypsy costumes. Even the school dog (and by that I mean the stray that the lunch ladies regularly throw scraps to) was wearing a sombrero. I turned to ask my madre for an explanation and was instead handed a gypsy skirt, a blouse that clashed horribly with the skirt, a pair of nasty old shoes, and some gaudy costume jewelry. At this point, I was still unaware that I would have to take the stage and lose all respect and dignity that I had to my name.
I told my madre that I couldn't dance. She laughed and shoved me into a room full of my half-naked colleagues all putting on similarly hideous outfits. I sighed and followed suit (pun, anyone?). My skirt was a little too transparent for my liking so I slipped on a pair of leggings underneath. In hindsight, I don't think I've ever made a wiser decision in all my (now) 23 years.
After I was dressed, I tried to ask again what I was supposed to do but instead got bright red lipstick smothered on my lips by the heavy-handed gym teacher. I was then scooted out the door and escorted to the stage by the mayor (who I might add, quickly became my most avid fan). The music that was apparently our designated song (to which I had still not been clued in on) had started. No one heard my protests...they were drowned out by hundreds of little Chilean students chanting "Meeess Kelsey, Meeeess Kelsey!!" As I was hustled up onto the stage, I cleared the first three steps no problemo. Mid-fourth step, I caught the front of my stupid Gypsy skirt with my foot. I fell forward, tripping onto the stage with my skirt around my knees. Bless those leggings. The sea of chants faltered and all of those cheeky little estudiantes erupted in laughter. I tried to remain composed.
I attempted to pull up my skirt and retie the band, simultaneously mimicking the obnoxious hip-swinging of the other gypsy-imposters. The dance was extensively choreographed and as every Chilean had grown up listening and dancing to the song, it never crossed anyone's mind that someone (ME) might NOT have every move thoroughly rehearsed and engrained in muscle memory.
After the torture concluded, I made my way back to change into not-gypsy clothes, feeling pretty good about myself. I made it through the number without any other noticeable mess-ups. It was then that I was intercepted by a third grader (Note: I don't teach third grade and had no idea who this kid was.).
The following is our translated exchange:
Kid: "Hey Miss Kelsey, do you like to dance?"
Me: "No. I can't dance."
Kid: "I know. I saw. You have no rhythm."
I'm glad he cleared that up for me because I was seriously considering taking up a professional dancing career. All I can say is, that little twirp is lucky that Meesss Kelsey isn't grading his tests. Also, in case you were wondering, the answer is yes. Yes, of course the gringa's entire performance was taped and televised. Whoever said that no publicity is bad publicity has never seen my dance moves.
On Friday,"El día de los estudiantes," I walked to school with my madre, somehow oblivious to the overstuffed duffle bag she was carrying. When we got to school, all of the teachers were moseying about in capes, and pig masks, and gypsy costumes. Even the school dog (and by that I mean the stray that the lunch ladies regularly throw scraps to) was wearing a sombrero. I turned to ask my madre for an explanation and was instead handed a gypsy skirt, a blouse that clashed horribly with the skirt, a pair of nasty old shoes, and some gaudy costume jewelry. At this point, I was still unaware that I would have to take the stage and lose all respect and dignity that I had to my name.
I told my madre that I couldn't dance. She laughed and shoved me into a room full of my half-naked colleagues all putting on similarly hideous outfits. I sighed and followed suit (pun, anyone?). My skirt was a little too transparent for my liking so I slipped on a pair of leggings underneath. In hindsight, I don't think I've ever made a wiser decision in all my (now) 23 years.
The whole gang...my host mother is the man to the left of the actual man:
After I was dressed, I tried to ask again what I was supposed to do but instead got bright red lipstick smothered on my lips by the heavy-handed gym teacher. I was then scooted out the door and escorted to the stage by the mayor (who I might add, quickly became my most avid fan). The music that was apparently our designated song (to which I had still not been clued in on) had started. No one heard my protests...they were drowned out by hundreds of little Chilean students chanting "Meeess Kelsey, Meeeess Kelsey!!" As I was hustled up onto the stage, I cleared the first three steps no problemo. Mid-fourth step, I caught the front of my stupid Gypsy skirt with my foot. I fell forward, tripping onto the stage with my skirt around my knees. Bless those leggings. The sea of chants faltered and all of those cheeky little estudiantes erupted in laughter. I tried to remain composed.
I attempted to pull up my skirt and retie the band, simultaneously mimicking the obnoxious hip-swinging of the other gypsy-imposters. The dance was extensively choreographed and as every Chilean had grown up listening and dancing to the song, it never crossed anyone's mind that someone (ME) might NOT have every move thoroughly rehearsed and engrained in muscle memory.
Note how I am desperately emulating my colleagues (to no avail):
After the torture concluded, I made my way back to change into not-gypsy clothes, feeling pretty good about myself. I made it through the number without any other noticeable mess-ups. It was then that I was intercepted by a third grader (Note: I don't teach third grade and had no idea who this kid was.).
The following is our translated exchange:
Kid: "Hey Miss Kelsey, do you like to dance?"
Me: "No. I can't dance."
Kid: "I know. I saw. You have no rhythm."
I'm glad he cleared that up for me because I was seriously considering taking up a professional dancing career. All I can say is, that little twirp is lucky that Meesss Kelsey isn't grading his tests. Also, in case you were wondering, the answer is yes. Yes, of course the gringa's entire performance was taped and televised. Whoever said that no publicity is bad publicity has never seen my dance moves.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Return of the Prodigal Blogger
Beloved readers, please forgive me, as I have slacked. I have had a mild (to severe) aversion to writing this past week and a half. I apologize profusely for the lack of reading material for all of you cubicle dwellers and college students that use your computers for alternate entertainment instead of taking lecture notes...you know who you are (Laura). Who am I kidding? Odds are, no one noticed my brief absence. Thus, I will obnoxiously draw your attention back with an ostentatiously titled "comeback" entry. I have compiled a list (in no particular order) of ten short stories/observations/noteworthy moments that will bring you all up to speed on the past, rather uneventful, ten days of my Chilean life.
1. As if my presence in this tiny town wasn't already conspicuous enough, it has now been assured that even the most secluded hermits know that: a) there is an awkward Gringa teaching their youth; and that b) despite the rumors, she does not, in fact, speak fluent Spanish. Although I have spoken pure Spanish, day in and day out for the past month, there are a few times when English gets the better of me. These particular instances usually occur when a person or situation draws a raw reaction out of me. Examples include waking me up in the middle of the night, calling me a *** (insert Spanish profanity of your choice) when I ask you to switch seats in class (and yes, unfortunately I am speaking from experience), finding a spider on my toothbrush, and in this particular case, sticking a camera in my face for a TV interview. We had an assembly last Friday at school. I was in the teacher's workroom afterward, taking advantage of the banquet food. I turned around, with a mouthful of cake (complete with icing mustache) to find a camera in my face. I stammered in very fluent Spanglish, got icing on the microphone, and then had to relive my ten minutes of televised fame six more times over the course of the week with the recycled broadcasts (not much else to report I suppose).
2. My dad and sister are visiting me next week, which I am thrilled about. Apart from bringing down a few personal necessities (gum and chapstick) to replenish my dwindling supplies, they are also going to come armed with some presents for my host family. With this in mind, I asked my host sister if she would like anything specific from the United States. She bit her lip and thought hard for a few minutes. Then her eyes lit up as she described a "window-shaped pastry that you pour honey on" that she had seen advertised on the American channels. It took me a few minutes, but I finally worked out that she was referring to waffles (and syrup). Perhaps I'm the abnormal one, but a hot, made-to-order breakfast item is not the first thing that comes to mind when asked for present suggestions from a foreign country. Ivanna, you mean a lot to me, but I'm just not sure that I can deliver on this one...
3. I need to conduct some field research to determine if this is customary or a quirky practice specific to my host family...but the other night, I emerged from the bathroom after showering to find my padre and Ivanna sipping tea, sitting in chairs, with their feet in the hands of my madre. She was clipping their toenails. I'm sorry, but this is taking the traditional housemaker role a little too far. I tried to avert my eyes and duck into my room. Too late. She spotted me and informed me that it was "my turn." No way, lady. I can groom myself, thank you very much.
4. I attempted to bake chocolate chip cookies the other day. Complications: Brown sugar does not exist here, I paid six American dollars for a measly cup of highly coveted chocolate chips from a old woman with a pushcart tucked away in a dodgy part of the city (no joke), there were no measuring cups/spoons in my madre's kitchen, and I had to use a molded cake pan to bake because cookie sheets were nowhere to be found. I did the best I could and eyeballed the ingredients (the biggest no-no in baking). Needless to say, I wasn't surprised when the first batch ran together and formed a thin, crispy, cookie sheet. Feeling defeated, I chipped the pieces off with a spatula, put the discarded cookie shards on a plate, and returned to my dough. I added some more flour and some raw oats. This did the trick and normal-ish cookies resulted. When I turned around to dump the previous batch into the trash, I found my host family crowded around an empty plate with expectant eyes. They had already devoured my mess-ups. I proudly presented them true cookies. They turned their nose up the second batch and demanded more of the misshapen cookie shards. Odd people, these Chileans.
5. Last weekend, Tía Gloria and Dani took me to a small coastal town not far from the city. We used rocks to smash the shells of freshly caught and steamed crabs and Gloria introduced me to one of her favorite delicacies..."pescado seco" (dried out fish). The name pretty much sums it up. A decent-sized fish sliced laterally, salted, and laid out in the sun for a few weeks. It tasted like...salty fish...and had the texture of a chewy feather. You eat it by scraping the flesh off the fish skin with your teeth. As you can imagine, I was not nearly as enthusiastic about the shriveled marine morsel as Tia Gloria.
6. In conjunction with number 5, there exists another "Chilean snack" prepared in similar fashion. I was driving into Coelemu with Nelson and we were stopped on the side of the road waiting for cars to pass in the opposite direction (there is only room for one-way traffic). A man with a basket of packets (filled with what appeared to be lint) approached us. Nelson rolled down the window and purchased two packets. He greedily consumed the entire first package without taking so much as a breath and then ripped open the second package. He offered me a pinch. I typically don't like to eat food that looks like a wad of gray hairy flakes without first knowing what I am putting in my mouth. "Caballo," he tells me. What? Surely I misheard him. In response to my slightly horrified blank expression, "caballo," he says again, pointing out my window to a horse grazing in a pasture. Yes, dimwit, I know what "caballo" means. But where I come from, horses are for riding, not eating. Certainly not in dehydrated form. My sister is going to be horrified when she reads this. Sorry, Shannon!
7. This Saturday, Gloria asked me to accompany her to the outdoor produce market. I enthusiastically obliged (perusing outdoor markets happens to be one of my favorite pastimes). We debated whether to walk or drive. I always prefer to walk but thought that in this case, it might be prudent to drive so we wouldn't have to lug our purchases all the way back. Gloria INSISTED that she only had to buy some fish. And so we set off, and merrily walked the 14 blocks to the market. Well, I should have known better. I'll have you know that Gloria's "fish" ended up being two WHOLE fish (each longer than my arm), three FULL (overflowing, that is) bags of produce, a sack of potatoes, a sack of onions, and a pumpkin. By the time the two of us managed to get everything (14 blocks) back to the apartment, I was smelling like a fisherman and cussing (under my breath, of course) like a sailor.
8. I tried (as in ATE) barnacles. And some form of warm, oily seaweed. I didn't care for either.
9. My padre's latest purchase: a remote control for the car radio...aka the most useless gadget known to man. Note: The family car is so small that from the backseat, seatbelt buckled and all, I can touch the radio by merely extending my arm without even leaning forward. Therefore, there is no feasible purpose for a remote control for the car radio (which might I add, is static hunk of junk anyways) when all passengers can reach the dashboard to change the station/adjust the volume at any given time. And yet he drives, punching buttons on the remote control which he holds centimeters away from the actual (perfectly functioning) radio dials. Then he pushes the control into my hands and nods enthusiastically. At first I humored him by ooh-ing and ahh-ing as I turned the volume up and down a few notches. Now, the novelty has worn off and my madre, Ivanna, and I have started brainstorming creative ways to terminate the darn thing. Suggestions welcome.
10. The other day at school, a kid approached me in school yard and asked me if I was "andar a lo gringo." Strange question. "Andar" means "to walk" or "to go/get along," and "gringo" is a slang term for a white person. And so, to the best of my knowledge, "Yes, I 'andar a lo gringo' as you say." Everyone within earshot exploded in laughter. For the rest of the day, other students approached me asking the same question and I continued to answer in the same manner. At the end of the day, one of the other teachers overheard and pulled me aside. Apparently, "andar a lo gringo" is a Chilean phrase that means "going commando." Awesome.
And there you have it. Until we meet again...
1. As if my presence in this tiny town wasn't already conspicuous enough, it has now been assured that even the most secluded hermits know that: a) there is an awkward Gringa teaching their youth; and that b) despite the rumors, she does not, in fact, speak fluent Spanish. Although I have spoken pure Spanish, day in and day out for the past month, there are a few times when English gets the better of me. These particular instances usually occur when a person or situation draws a raw reaction out of me. Examples include waking me up in the middle of the night, calling me a *** (insert Spanish profanity of your choice) when I ask you to switch seats in class (and yes, unfortunately I am speaking from experience), finding a spider on my toothbrush, and in this particular case, sticking a camera in my face for a TV interview. We had an assembly last Friday at school. I was in the teacher's workroom afterward, taking advantage of the banquet food. I turned around, with a mouthful of cake (complete with icing mustache) to find a camera in my face. I stammered in very fluent Spanglish, got icing on the microphone, and then had to relive my ten minutes of televised fame six more times over the course of the week with the recycled broadcasts (not much else to report I suppose).
A picture from the assembly (some of my students dancing the traditional Chilean dance, The Cueca):
3. I need to conduct some field research to determine if this is customary or a quirky practice specific to my host family...but the other night, I emerged from the bathroom after showering to find my padre and Ivanna sipping tea, sitting in chairs, with their feet in the hands of my madre. She was clipping their toenails. I'm sorry, but this is taking the traditional housemaker role a little too far. I tried to avert my eyes and duck into my room. Too late. She spotted me and informed me that it was "my turn." No way, lady. I can groom myself, thank you very much.
4. I attempted to bake chocolate chip cookies the other day. Complications: Brown sugar does not exist here, I paid six American dollars for a measly cup of highly coveted chocolate chips from a old woman with a pushcart tucked away in a dodgy part of the city (no joke), there were no measuring cups/spoons in my madre's kitchen, and I had to use a molded cake pan to bake because cookie sheets were nowhere to be found. I did the best I could and eyeballed the ingredients (the biggest no-no in baking). Needless to say, I wasn't surprised when the first batch ran together and formed a thin, crispy, cookie sheet. Feeling defeated, I chipped the pieces off with a spatula, put the discarded cookie shards on a plate, and returned to my dough. I added some more flour and some raw oats. This did the trick and normal-ish cookies resulted. When I turned around to dump the previous batch into the trash, I found my host family crowded around an empty plate with expectant eyes. They had already devoured my mess-ups. I proudly presented them true cookies. They turned their nose up the second batch and demanded more of the misshapen cookie shards. Odd people, these Chileans.
5. Last weekend, Tía Gloria and Dani took me to a small coastal town not far from the city. We used rocks to smash the shells of freshly caught and steamed crabs and Gloria introduced me to one of her favorite delicacies..."pescado seco" (dried out fish). The name pretty much sums it up. A decent-sized fish sliced laterally, salted, and laid out in the sun for a few weeks. It tasted like...salty fish...and had the texture of a chewy feather. You eat it by scraping the flesh off the fish skin with your teeth. As you can imagine, I was not nearly as enthusiastic about the shriveled marine morsel as Tia Gloria.
The dried fish:
The cute little fishing port where we found the goods:
Smashing crabs:
6. In conjunction with number 5, there exists another "Chilean snack" prepared in similar fashion. I was driving into Coelemu with Nelson and we were stopped on the side of the road waiting for cars to pass in the opposite direction (there is only room for one-way traffic). A man with a basket of packets (filled with what appeared to be lint) approached us. Nelson rolled down the window and purchased two packets. He greedily consumed the entire first package without taking so much as a breath and then ripped open the second package. He offered me a pinch. I typically don't like to eat food that looks like a wad of gray hairy flakes without first knowing what I am putting in my mouth. "Caballo," he tells me. What? Surely I misheard him. In response to my slightly horrified blank expression, "caballo," he says again, pointing out my window to a horse grazing in a pasture. Yes, dimwit, I know what "caballo" means. But where I come from, horses are for riding, not eating. Certainly not in dehydrated form. My sister is going to be horrified when she reads this. Sorry, Shannon!
7. This Saturday, Gloria asked me to accompany her to the outdoor produce market. I enthusiastically obliged (perusing outdoor markets happens to be one of my favorite pastimes). We debated whether to walk or drive. I always prefer to walk but thought that in this case, it might be prudent to drive so we wouldn't have to lug our purchases all the way back. Gloria INSISTED that she only had to buy some fish. And so we set off, and merrily walked the 14 blocks to the market. Well, I should have known better. I'll have you know that Gloria's "fish" ended up being two WHOLE fish (each longer than my arm), three FULL (overflowing, that is) bags of produce, a sack of potatoes, a sack of onions, and a pumpkin. By the time the two of us managed to get everything (14 blocks) back to the apartment, I was smelling like a fisherman and cussing (under my breath, of course) like a sailor.
8. I tried (as in ATE) barnacles. And some form of warm, oily seaweed. I didn't care for either.
Grilling the seafood inside a barn at a vineyard:
The ocean´s delicacies:
The barnacles:
9. My padre's latest purchase: a remote control for the car radio...aka the most useless gadget known to man. Note: The family car is so small that from the backseat, seatbelt buckled and all, I can touch the radio by merely extending my arm without even leaning forward. Therefore, there is no feasible purpose for a remote control for the car radio (which might I add, is static hunk of junk anyways) when all passengers can reach the dashboard to change the station/adjust the volume at any given time. And yet he drives, punching buttons on the remote control which he holds centimeters away from the actual (perfectly functioning) radio dials. Then he pushes the control into my hands and nods enthusiastically. At first I humored him by ooh-ing and ahh-ing as I turned the volume up and down a few notches. Now, the novelty has worn off and my madre, Ivanna, and I have started brainstorming creative ways to terminate the darn thing. Suggestions welcome.
10. The other day at school, a kid approached me in school yard and asked me if I was "andar a lo gringo." Strange question. "Andar" means "to walk" or "to go/get along," and "gringo" is a slang term for a white person. And so, to the best of my knowledge, "Yes, I 'andar a lo gringo' as you say." Everyone within earshot exploded in laughter. For the rest of the day, other students approached me asking the same question and I continued to answer in the same manner. At the end of the day, one of the other teachers overheard and pulled me aside. Apparently, "andar a lo gringo" is a Chilean phrase that means "going commando." Awesome.
And there you have it. Until we meet again...
My moral dog dilemma
I haven't yet made up my mind yet whether the following incident constitutes animal abuse. I'll let you be the judge.
My host family has a dog. The world's most annoying dog. In fact, I often have strong urges to boot it through the window. (Don't worry- that's not the direction this story is headed.) The Devil Dog, as I like to call it, goes by "Flor" ("Flower" in English), which I find incredibly ironic as it posses utterly no floral qualities. Flor is loud, terrorizes the neighborhood children, and smells like "caca" (I'll let you do the math on that translation). Flor is a Jack Russell Terrier just like Wishbone (a staple childhood television program of my generation)...sans the cute costumes and knack for story-telling.
Anyhow, Flor barks at everything. The mailman (how cliché), trucks, camera flashes, loud noises, silence, a breeze...you name it. More than anything though, he barks at cats on the roof. We have a tin roof and my madre tells me that the local street cats run back and forth across the roof to torment the dog (and subsequently me). The other night, I was awake for approximately 4 hours because the pooch wouldn't give it a rest. In my sleep-deprived state, I lost my cool and shouted from my room, "FLOR SHUT UP!" Obviously, this was completely ineffective because Flor does not speak English. The next morning, my madre timidly asked me if Florcito woke me up.
Pause for quick Spanish language lesson. The suffix -ito/-cito can be affectionately tacked onto any noun to transform it into something tiny and cute. Example: abuelo = grandfather; abuelito = cute, little, old grandpa. Resume.
Flor should be the one exception to this rule because under no fathomable circumstance are these adjectives ever applicable. Madre, I am truly sorry, but the answer is SÍ. YES, YOUR DEMONIC DOG WOKE ME UP. Ok...so I was a little more tactful than that...but I definitely gave it to her straight. She bit her lower lip and muttered something about a sleeping pill. I didn't think much of it at the time.
The next night, not so much as a peep came from Flor. I got to sleep in, too because I had a planning period in the morning. I was eating breakfast around 9:30 when I realized that it was eerily quiet. Sure enough, Flor was not at his usual perch by the front window. I peered over the table and saw a curled mass under a mangled blanket by the wood stove. I called out his name. No response. I walked over and nudged the mass with my foot. No movement. I lifted the blanket and he still didn't rouse. I knew he wasn't dead because he was heaving long deep breaths. I played with his feet, jiggled his collar, splashed him with some water. Nothing.
Did she ACTUALLY slip Flor a sleeping pill?? My answer came the following night. I saw her crushing up a tablet in the kitchen and punching the powder into a doggy-sized morsel of leftover bread. She bent over, shoved it into a still-groggy-Flor's mouth and flashed me a smile and a thumbs up. Last time I checked, canine sleeping pills were not flying off Petsmart shelves. Does this mean that poor Flor is being force fed human doses?
My internal struggle is as follows. On one hand, I do enjoy sleeping soundly through the night. On the other hand, I am indirectly responsible for drugging the (not quite unanimously) beloved family pet. My conscience is burning but I'm not exactly sure how to reverse the situation. Plus, do you think that Flor could be all that opposed to some deep slumber? Even if it is 16 hours a day...
Anyhow, Flor barks at everything. The mailman (how cliché), trucks, camera flashes, loud noises, silence, a breeze...you name it. More than anything though, he barks at cats on the roof. We have a tin roof and my madre tells me that the local street cats run back and forth across the roof to torment the dog (and subsequently me). The other night, I was awake for approximately 4 hours because the pooch wouldn't give it a rest. In my sleep-deprived state, I lost my cool and shouted from my room, "FLOR SHUT UP!" Obviously, this was completely ineffective because Flor does not speak English. The next morning, my madre timidly asked me if Florcito woke me up.
Pause for quick Spanish language lesson. The suffix -ito/-cito can be affectionately tacked onto any noun to transform it into something tiny and cute. Example: abuelo = grandfather; abuelito = cute, little, old grandpa. Resume.
Flor should be the one exception to this rule because under no fathomable circumstance are these adjectives ever applicable. Madre, I am truly sorry, but the answer is SÍ. YES, YOUR DEMONIC DOG WOKE ME UP. Ok...so I was a little more tactful than that...but I definitely gave it to her straight. She bit her lower lip and muttered something about a sleeping pill. I didn't think much of it at the time.
The next night, not so much as a peep came from Flor. I got to sleep in, too because I had a planning period in the morning. I was eating breakfast around 9:30 when I realized that it was eerily quiet. Sure enough, Flor was not at his usual perch by the front window. I peered over the table and saw a curled mass under a mangled blanket by the wood stove. I called out his name. No response. I walked over and nudged the mass with my foot. No movement. I lifted the blanket and he still didn't rouse. I knew he wasn't dead because he was heaving long deep breaths. I played with his feet, jiggled his collar, splashed him with some water. Nothing.
The mass under the blanket:
Flor in drug-induced coma:
Did she ACTUALLY slip Flor a sleeping pill?? My answer came the following night. I saw her crushing up a tablet in the kitchen and punching the powder into a doggy-sized morsel of leftover bread. She bent over, shoved it into a still-groggy-Flor's mouth and flashed me a smile and a thumbs up. Last time I checked, canine sleeping pills were not flying off Petsmart shelves. Does this mean that poor Flor is being force fed human doses?
My internal struggle is as follows. On one hand, I do enjoy sleeping soundly through the night. On the other hand, I am indirectly responsible for drugging the (not quite unanimously) beloved family pet. My conscience is burning but I'm not exactly sure how to reverse the situation. Plus, do you think that Flor could be all that opposed to some deep slumber? Even if it is 16 hours a day...
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