Oh snap!
I went and bought wine this morning to carry home with me, then I laughed at myself because I don't know how I am going to fit three bottles of wine and a bottle of pisco in my tiny backpack, when I barely had room for all my stuff when I arrived. We'll see how that goes.
Anyways, so, Chile, al final I am going to miss you muchísimo, and yes, I am glad that I came. I know this is the way it always goes (and hence why I decided to stay in Guatemala for longer), but now that I am leaving I'm sad because I have finally found my rhythm socially. I met some neat artsy kids that are fun to hang out with, I'm not scared of riding my bike anymore, I have Chilean friends that live close by, I've grown quite fond of Chilean cultural idiosyncracies, and I find myself incorporating the ridiculous but loved Chilean slang in all parts of my speech as if it were nothing. So now I'm leaving.
Well, on to Buenos Aires tomorrow, that is, and then Mexico City.
10 July 2008
13 June 2008
Unwittingly benefiting from...
$3000 pesos = approx $6-$7 (depending on exchange rate)
$3000 pesos (today) =
6 eggs
6 clementines
3 potatoes
3 plums
2 artichokes
2 oranges
2 onions
2 hot peppers
1 small pkg of mushrooms
1 smallish bag of spinach
1 apple
$3000 pesos = The awkward guy at the little produce shop thinks I am attractive so my produce purchases all of a sudden become insanely cheap. Economically, it's nice. Ethically, I feel a little sleazy, even though I am not the one ringing it all up.
$3000 pesos (today) =
6 eggs
6 clementines
3 potatoes
3 plums
2 artichokes
2 oranges
2 onions
2 hot peppers
1 small pkg of mushrooms
1 smallish bag of spinach
1 apple
$3000 pesos = The awkward guy at the little produce shop thinks I am attractive so my produce purchases all of a sudden become insanely cheap. Economically, it's nice. Ethically, I feel a little sleazy, even though I am not the one ringing it all up.
12 June 2008
30 to go.
So, a month from now I will have left Chile, although I will still be a long ways and time away from home. ETA to Boston: July 17th at night.
The only strong feeling I have at this point is a lot of remorse, but I am going to try and change that. I really wanted to get involved in Santiago, and instead I have been somewhat of an awkward hermit. But, more on that later!
In the meantime, I am just trying to get through the next two weeks, which is to say, two weeks from now I will be happily drinking an artesanal beer and appreciating how great it is to have finished finals. And at the very least get through to June 20th, when my internship fiasco will finally end.
Random observation: although Quínoa is from the Andes/this region of the world, it is much cheaper in the states than here. Odd, right? Also, it's really hard to find non-organic quínoa, which is kind of cool, pretty expensive, but still odd.
The only strong feeling I have at this point is a lot of remorse, but I am going to try and change that. I really wanted to get involved in Santiago, and instead I have been somewhat of an awkward hermit. But, more on that later!
In the meantime, I am just trying to get through the next two weeks, which is to say, two weeks from now I will be happily drinking an artesanal beer and appreciating how great it is to have finished finals. And at the very least get through to June 20th, when my internship fiasco will finally end.
Random observation: although Quínoa is from the Andes/this region of the world, it is much cheaper in the states than here. Odd, right? Also, it's really hard to find non-organic quínoa, which is kind of cool, pretty expensive, but still odd.
08 June 2008
Dear Santiaguinos
Dear Santiaguinos,
Your baffling walking patterns and skillfull obstruction of walkways continues to pester me, but, never fear, you have found new ways to challenge and dumbfound me: umbrellas. I have almost lost an eye or both approximately seven times in the past month. I understand that everyone has a distinctive walking pace and pattern, but at times my attempts to navigate the sidewalks here merit outright laughter.
Hey guys, I heard walking five people deep on a narrow sidewalk at the pace of a two-year old about to fall over, is a great idea! Or, dodging back and forth across the sidewalk when approaching from the opposite direction as someone. But, the lovely umbrellas: a lethal combination of dangerous eye-level sharp spokes + the already non-existent space to pass a slow walker diminished in size by the tripled diameter of the other pedestrian (umbrella width).
But, there is a bright side: When it rains it means the next morning will be clear and slightly breathable. Because, normally the air is full of smog and absolutely disgusting like this:
I have been having severe mental lapses, and I hope that I can attribute it to...smog? Not the lack of sleep, not the pisco and ron consumption, not the me-not-being-cut-out-for-bilingual-thought because my brain can't process it all (i.e. I sound like an idiot no matter in which language I am speaking). I have now officially had my first days where I have walked outside and felt sick/some sort of burning feeling from the air. Delicious!
But, I do love this country. Really do. And to continue that thought: Santiaguinos, for all of the crap I may give you, please keep walking. My lungs might collapse if you drive instead.
Love,
Lindsey
(ps, photos yanked from this person's blog. They are from 2006, but don't worry, it's still the same now: http://snailtrails.blogspot.com/2006/07/look-what-were-breathing.html)
Your baffling walking patterns and skillfull obstruction of walkways continues to pester me, but, never fear, you have found new ways to challenge and dumbfound me: umbrellas. I have almost lost an eye or both approximately seven times in the past month. I understand that everyone has a distinctive walking pace and pattern, but at times my attempts to navigate the sidewalks here merit outright laughter.
Hey guys, I heard walking five people deep on a narrow sidewalk at the pace of a two-year old about to fall over, is a great idea! Or, dodging back and forth across the sidewalk when approaching from the opposite direction as someone. But, the lovely umbrellas: a lethal combination of dangerous eye-level sharp spokes + the already non-existent space to pass a slow walker diminished in size by the tripled diameter of the other pedestrian (umbrella width).
But, there is a bright side: When it rains it means the next morning will be clear and slightly breathable. Because, normally the air is full of smog and absolutely disgusting like this:
I have been having severe mental lapses, and I hope that I can attribute it to...smog? Not the lack of sleep, not the pisco and ron consumption, not the me-not-being-cut-out-for-bilingual-thought because my brain can't process it all (i.e. I sound like an idiot no matter in which language I am speaking). I have now officially had my first days where I have walked outside and felt sick/some sort of burning feeling from the air. Delicious!
But, I do love this country. Really do. And to continue that thought: Santiaguinos, for all of the crap I may give you, please keep walking. My lungs might collapse if you drive instead.
Love,
Lindsey
(ps, photos yanked from this person's blog. They are from 2006, but don't worry, it's still the same now: http://snailtrails.blogspot.com/2006/07/look-what-were-breathing.html)
27 May 2008
The weather: Floods, Volcanoes, Rain, Temperature etc
First of all, in case you haven't heard, Chile is in the southern hemisphere, which means while all of my loved ones are basking in the glory of spring and sun, I am experiencing the smog-um (autumn) here in Santiago, which is a fun mix of smog, rain, more smog, ickyness, and 40-50 degree temperatures without indoor heating. Those tempeartures are colder than you think and unfortunately are not tempered by beautiful, bright 65 - 70 degree daytimes like it was in Guatemala.
So I sit here in my concrete building staring out our slider windows at the dreary grayness that is fall and winter. The upside is that all this rain is slowly taking care of the severe drought problems that were plaguing the area throughout this summer and fall. The downside is that all the rain kind of brings down my outside world-relation motivation. Oh, that and it floods a lot because the city's infrastructure to deal with rain, for lack of a better word, blows. The other day I went to class after a solid day and a half of intermittent light rains, only to find an area formally known as "street corner" had been converted into a veritable seaway with its very own new shoreline and specific tide schedule linked not to the moon but rather the passing traffic in the middle of the road trying to avoid said water body.
Even worse, the really big rain storms found karate-kicking the central parts of Chile recently happened to coincide with the surprise re-activation of the once very-unactive (think to the tune of some-odd 2000 years of inactivity) volcano, Chaitén, in a region about 750 miles south of Santiago. The surrounding areas were forcefully evacuated as frequent earthquakes, toxic gases erupted from the volcano, and tons upon tons of spewed ash that clogged every single waterway made the situation impossibly dangerous for virtually anything living aside from cockroaches. The government is still trying to figure out exactly what to do about the upheaval of an entire town population and some surrounding areas, post-complete destruction.
And that's my weather update for Chile. Sweet. (Sort of not really at all).
So I sit here in my concrete building staring out our slider windows at the dreary grayness that is fall and winter. The upside is that all this rain is slowly taking care of the severe drought problems that were plaguing the area throughout this summer and fall. The downside is that all the rain kind of brings down my outside world-relation motivation. Oh, that and it floods a lot because the city's infrastructure to deal with rain, for lack of a better word, blows. The other day I went to class after a solid day and a half of intermittent light rains, only to find an area formally known as "street corner" had been converted into a veritable seaway with its very own new shoreline and specific tide schedule linked not to the moon but rather the passing traffic in the middle of the road trying to avoid said water body.
Even worse, the really big rain storms found karate-kicking the central parts of Chile recently happened to coincide with the surprise re-activation of the once very-unactive (think to the tune of some-odd 2000 years of inactivity) volcano, Chaitén, in a region about 750 miles south of Santiago. The surrounding areas were forcefully evacuated as frequent earthquakes, toxic gases erupted from the volcano, and tons upon tons of spewed ash that clogged every single waterway made the situation impossibly dangerous for virtually anything living aside from cockroaches. The government is still trying to figure out exactly what to do about the upheaval of an entire town population and some surrounding areas, post-complete destruction.
And that's my weather update for Chile. Sweet. (Sort of not really at all).
02 May 2008
Happy International Worker's Day
Who knew that in other countries, people ACTUALLY respect and honor those labor causes?!
Everything was actually closed today. People for real got the day off and rested.
Also, it was perhaps one of the most beautiful days in weather history I have ever experienced.
Everything was actually closed today. People for real got the day off and rested.
Also, it was perhaps one of the most beautiful days in weather history I have ever experienced.
27 April 2008
Da' club.
Up to this current juncture, I had only ever considered the following elements as interrelated within a family wedding context:
-Lindsey
-dancing
-middle-aged men
-80's and 90's music played not ironically
-getting hip-checked by 40+ year old women
Ha. Well, fear not, my experience at "Da' club" (not actually named as such) changed that all. One fateful Saturday night, four young women, including myself, unwittingly payed an over priced cover (even after trying to bargain it down) to get into a bar-discoteque located very close to my house. Turns out that club is the middle-aged dance scene hotspot. Uh, sweet? It was rather humorous, especially when one of the four of us got whisked away to dance which left the defense formation a little weak. So, on to middle-age slow dancing for all it was. It might have actually been "Stairway to Heaven", come to think of it. Anyways, fun: In that awkward 7th grade dance but with unattractive older men sort of way. Oh, and you know, in Spanish with blaring 80's hits in the background making all conversation virtually unintelligible.
So, that unto itself makes me laugh, but it also speaks to the general question mark that punctuates my daily life here: What the hell is everyone's obssession with 80's and mid 90's US-British music? (File that under things that were unsuspected prior to arrival in Chile) I wish I could say I were joking, but I'm not. Don't get me wrong, I love me some Morrissey or The Cure from time to time, but the complete barage of 80's music in nearly every club, bar, or house party, results in a rather bewildered, slightly-amused, but increasingly-less-amused Lindsey in Chile. But mostly bewildered.
-Lindsey
-dancing
-middle-aged men
-80's and 90's music played not ironically
-getting hip-checked by 40+ year old women
Ha. Well, fear not, my experience at "Da' club" (not actually named as such) changed that all. One fateful Saturday night, four young women, including myself, unwittingly payed an over priced cover (even after trying to bargain it down) to get into a bar-discoteque located very close to my house. Turns out that club is the middle-aged dance scene hotspot. Uh, sweet? It was rather humorous, especially when one of the four of us got whisked away to dance which left the defense formation a little weak. So, on to middle-age slow dancing for all it was. It might have actually been "Stairway to Heaven", come to think of it. Anyways, fun: In that awkward 7th grade dance but with unattractive older men sort of way. Oh, and you know, in Spanish with blaring 80's hits in the background making all conversation virtually unintelligible.
So, that unto itself makes me laugh, but it also speaks to the general question mark that punctuates my daily life here: What the hell is everyone's obssession with 80's and mid 90's US-British music? (File that under things that were unsuspected prior to arrival in Chile) I wish I could say I were joking, but I'm not. Don't get me wrong, I love me some Morrissey or The Cure from time to time, but the complete barage of 80's music in nearly every club, bar, or house party, results in a rather bewildered, slightly-amused, but increasingly-less-amused Lindsey in Chile. But mostly bewildered.
16 April 2008
Lisps: still idiotic in the naming.
So apparently the word for lisp in Spanish is ceceo and the verb is cecear.
Those words using English pronunciation are said "say-SAY-o" and "say-say-AR", which, much like the English equivalent, lisp, is quite difficult for someone to say with said speech defect. Oh, language, why don't you ever learn?
On the subject of pronunciation and language confusion, a subject on which I could expound at length referencing only my own personal mishaps, (and likely material for a forthcoming entry), my favorite little blunders of late on the part of my Chilean friends are the following two: One friend consistently confuses the words "nipple" and "nibble". You can imagine what a request for a nibble ends up coming out as...! And, several people end up saying "bitch" instead of "beach", which results in entertaining sentences that sound ridiculous out of context like "yeah man, it was a great bitch."
Those two pale in comparison to my numerous daily blunders, but nonetheless you've got to take the little giggly pleasures out of life and savor them, no?
Those words using English pronunciation are said "say-SAY-o" and "say-say-AR", which, much like the English equivalent, lisp, is quite difficult for someone to say with said speech defect. Oh, language, why don't you ever learn?
On the subject of pronunciation and language confusion, a subject on which I could expound at length referencing only my own personal mishaps, (and likely material for a forthcoming entry), my favorite little blunders of late on the part of my Chilean friends are the following two: One friend consistently confuses the words "nipple" and "nibble". You can imagine what a request for a nibble ends up coming out as...! And, several people end up saying "bitch" instead of "beach", which results in entertaining sentences that sound ridiculous out of context like "yeah man, it was a great bitch."
Those two pale in comparison to my numerous daily blunders, but nonetheless you've got to take the little giggly pleasures out of life and savor them, no?
08 April 2008
Would you like a bag with your bag?
Just a quick note: much as in Guatemala, where everything was in a plastic bag...in Chile, everything is still in a plastic bag. And by that I mean (best items seem from both locations): yogurt, milk, mayonnaise, coca cola poured from a bottle, fresh orange juice, olives from a jar, fried empanadas hot enough to melt said plastic bag (and that do so), tomato paste, jello, purified water, ice cream, one pound bags of flour, coconut juice, and so on.
Anyways, aside from sometimes puzzling packaging choices, there is the - let me stick that in a bag for you connundrum: You're at the check out counter with the following: a loaf of bread, margarine, a bottle of wine, some slices of cheese, a can of tuna fish, and a couple avocados. Didn't you know that every item on that list, except the margarine and can of tuna fish together, deserves its own plastic bag? Or at the produce store: two onions, a red pepper, two apples, an eggplant, and some grapes. Also clearly another opportune moment to give every single item its own bag, right? It drives me crazy.
So, I bring my reusable beat up shopping bag around and try to minimize the amount of bags used. Reactions? Complete and utter confusion. And better yet, people bag the margarine, the loaf of bread, the cheese, etc separately, and then stick it into my reusable bag. Thanks guys, that really helped.
So, that brings me to this (a comic called made by this woman, Kelly Vivanco. It's called "Patches" and I love it):
http://hingos.com/patches/index.php?pt=080327
It pretty much sums up the past year and a half of my life.
Anyways, aside from sometimes puzzling packaging choices, there is the - let me stick that in a bag for you connundrum: You're at the check out counter with the following: a loaf of bread, margarine, a bottle of wine, some slices of cheese, a can of tuna fish, and a couple avocados. Didn't you know that every item on that list, except the margarine and can of tuna fish together, deserves its own plastic bag? Or at the produce store: two onions, a red pepper, two apples, an eggplant, and some grapes. Also clearly another opportune moment to give every single item its own bag, right? It drives me crazy.
So, I bring my reusable beat up shopping bag around and try to minimize the amount of bags used. Reactions? Complete and utter confusion. And better yet, people bag the margarine, the loaf of bread, the cheese, etc separately, and then stick it into my reusable bag. Thanks guys, that really helped.
So, that brings me to this (a comic called made by this woman, Kelly Vivanco. It's called "Patches" and I love it):
http://hingos.com/patches/index.php?pt=080327
It pretty much sums up the past year and a half of my life.
29 March 2008
Also in Chile: Perfect Paltas
(Knock on wood) Every single palta* that has set foot in my mouth has been perfect. I actually mean perfect when I say it - luscious green ambiguously firm and soft wonderfulness. I don't know what this country does to make their avocados perfect, but I am in love.
Unfortunately I have a propensity to get little green bits of heaven smeared/stained all over my clothing because I am a complete slob. But that's a small price to pay for eating a piece of heaven.
Things like wine, large quantities of red meat, empanadas**, cucumbers, tomatoes, fresh grapes, lots of bread, avocados, mayonnaise, and pisco*** are pretty much the consumption standards here. Sort of yummy, sort of unhealthy. And that's where I'm at.
*Chilean Spanish lesson for the day: whereas everywhere else avocados are called aguacates, in Chile, Argentina, Uruguay and Perú they are paltas. This caused minor confusion upon my arrival to Chile.
**Empanadas are exactly what you think they are. Pastries filled with yumminess. The classic filling, pino, is apprently the standby Chilean filling for pretty much any consumible you can imagine. Aside from ground beef and salt, it's like.... Hey let's throw in a hardboiled egg, lots of onions, an olive or two, a few raisins, and some zesty ají pepper!
***Pisco is a distilled liquor (apparently in the brandy family, who knew?) made from grapes and produced in Perú and Chile. The "most" popular drink, aside from what is essentially a rum and coke but pisco-ized, is a pisco sour which is exactly what it sounds like. Pisco, lemon juice, egg white, some sort of syrup, and something called bitter are blended together to make the drink. It's kind of great but also kind of sickeningly lemon sweet.
Unfortunately I have a propensity to get little green bits of heaven smeared/stained all over my clothing because I am a complete slob. But that's a small price to pay for eating a piece of heaven.
Things like wine, large quantities of red meat, empanadas**, cucumbers, tomatoes, fresh grapes, lots of bread, avocados, mayonnaise, and pisco*** are pretty much the consumption standards here. Sort of yummy, sort of unhealthy. And that's where I'm at.
*Chilean Spanish lesson for the day: whereas everywhere else avocados are called aguacates, in Chile, Argentina, Uruguay and Perú they are paltas. This caused minor confusion upon my arrival to Chile.
**Empanadas are exactly what you think they are. Pastries filled with yumminess. The classic filling, pino, is apprently the standby Chilean filling for pretty much any consumible you can imagine. Aside from ground beef and salt, it's like.... Hey let's throw in a hardboiled egg, lots of onions, an olive or two, a few raisins, and some zesty ají pepper!
***Pisco is a distilled liquor (apparently in the brandy family, who knew?) made from grapes and produced in Perú and Chile. The "most" popular drink, aside from what is essentially a rum and coke but pisco-ized, is a pisco sour which is exactly what it sounds like. Pisco, lemon juice, egg white, some sort of syrup, and something called bitter are blended together to make the drink. It's kind of great but also kind of sickeningly lemon sweet.
21 March 2008
Hark the herald bike lanes sing..
Glory to my newfound wings.
In other words, I finally have a bicycle (hooray!). Said bicycle is a very old very beat up carnation pink Oxford women's bicycle. It also has a bell which I am not ballsy enough to use at people. Anyways, to cut to the chase, I am a much happier camper now that I have this bike, because it enables me to get to the "faraway" campus where I have some of my classes.
To get to the campus one must take a bus, which, depending on the traffic, can be anywhere between 22 and 35 minutes, give or take. Walking to the bus stop takes another 10 minutes both getting to and from the bus for a stop, and waiting for the bus is also an adventure, because it means another 5-30 minute wait. It also costs money. In contrast, I get on my bicycle at my door, and I arrive to the building where I am going for class without fail in 25-35 minutes tops. And there are bike lanes for most of my ride (only about 12 blocks or so without). Yay. Also at this campus, Juan Gomez Millas, they have bike racks indoors for one of the departments, and at the entry to the campus there is a manned bike rack where they have a guard and you register your bike when you leave it there. Awesome.
Hooray for bicycles (but not hooray for malfunctioning bike locks).
In other words, I finally have a bicycle (hooray!). Said bicycle is a very old very beat up carnation pink Oxford women's bicycle. It also has a bell which I am not ballsy enough to use at people. Anyways, to cut to the chase, I am a much happier camper now that I have this bike, because it enables me to get to the "faraway" campus where I have some of my classes.
To get to the campus one must take a bus, which, depending on the traffic, can be anywhere between 22 and 35 minutes, give or take. Walking to the bus stop takes another 10 minutes both getting to and from the bus for a stop, and waiting for the bus is also an adventure, because it means another 5-30 minute wait. It also costs money. In contrast, I get on my bicycle at my door, and I arrive to the building where I am going for class without fail in 25-35 minutes tops. And there are bike lanes for most of my ride (only about 12 blocks or so without). Yay. Also at this campus, Juan Gomez Millas, they have bike racks indoors for one of the departments, and at the entry to the campus there is a manned bike rack where they have a guard and you register your bike when you leave it there. Awesome.
Hooray for bicycles (but not hooray for malfunctioning bike locks).
13 March 2008
Thank you, Municipalidad de Providencia.
In my confusingly shaped and colored apartment complex area, there is a goodly sized cement plaza area with a sort of raised up semi circle where the jovenes like to skate, the little kids like to run around chasing ambiguously domesticated stray dogs, and old folk like to sit and chill at night. The semi circle and plaza extension is also the site of a weekly Wednesday night concert series, put on by the municipal government of Providencia, the comuna where I live.
They set up a big stage with professional lights and audio and then they add some chairs out front, and voilá! Insta-culture! When I lived in the big apartment building a little ways away I could hear the music on Wednesday nights, and see a general area where sometimes there were flashing lights, but I didn't really know what it was. Several weeks ago all I could think was "Who the hell is blaring Sting so loudly at 9pm?" Well, lo and behold, it is the municipality trying to entertain its residents.
Today they had a band playing jazz but with an interesting twist. And by that I mean the Darth Vader star wars theme but with lots of spaced out improvisation squeezed in. Other sonic appearances were "Somewhere over the rainbow" and "My Favorite Things". But, to make a long story short, it was a great event. People come out of their big apartment buildings to sit and hang out, little kids run around chasing each other, couples sit holding hands, people bike or walk over from other nearby areas; in short, people are brought together, and I smile.
They set up a big stage with professional lights and audio and then they add some chairs out front, and voilá! Insta-culture! When I lived in the big apartment building a little ways away I could hear the music on Wednesday nights, and see a general area where sometimes there were flashing lights, but I didn't really know what it was. Several weeks ago all I could think was "Who the hell is blaring Sting so loudly at 9pm?" Well, lo and behold, it is the municipality trying to entertain its residents.
Today they had a band playing jazz but with an interesting twist. And by that I mean the Darth Vader star wars theme but with lots of spaced out improvisation squeezed in. Other sonic appearances were "Somewhere over the rainbow" and "My Favorite Things". But, to make a long story short, it was a great event. People come out of their big apartment buildings to sit and hang out, little kids run around chasing each other, couples sit holding hands, people bike or walk over from other nearby areas; in short, people are brought together, and I smile.
09 March 2008
Moving (forward)...
Last night I moved apartments, finally. I moved from a 23 story building, where I lived on the 19th floor, to a 10 story building, where I live on the second floor. I used to live with two Chilean women, a French girl, and a Chilean man. I got along well with the French girl and the Chilean man, but the two women, who were the owners/people's whose names were on the least/furnished the apartment, and I didn't communicate well. They were also, in my opinion, slightly crazy.
All these odd things that I chocked up to cultural differences with them turned out to be, in the end, pretty much eccentricities of their character. We didn't mesh well and the whole feeling of the apartment was more like I was renting a space in a hostel where I was allowed access to a couch and table and kitchen etc. Everyone had to buy their own individual toilet paper and we were supposed to bring it in and out of the bathroom with us and store it in our rooms. They bought 3 cheap pots/pans particularly for the other 3 of us (French, Chilean, and I) to use and said we couldn't use any of the other pans. They wanted the bathroom to be cleaned every day or every other day (cleaned as in swept, mopped, tub scrubbed with and only with an awful acid that takes off veneers from things - Muriatic acid - and apparently is linked to pretty serious respiratory problems from its frequent use here as a cleaning agent, toilet scrubbed, sink bleached). I was not allowed to have anyone stay over night. Ever. Even if they were to stay in my room with me. The internet would get shut off whenever they went to bed at night. And some other stuff.
But anyways, my new roommates, however, two Chilean guys about the same age as me, are fantastic. I am so much happier than I was in my old apartment, even if I don't have the gorgeous view I had before. The layout is nicer (it's a duplex), the kitchen is way better, the two guys are wonderful, I live near trees and grass and flowers, and I don't have to take an elevator to get to my apartment. It is a world's worth of difference. So here's to change and moving forward.
On the unfortunate side note, I am about 80% sure that the Chilean girls stole my Ipod while I stepped out briefly to go to the ATM. Either that or I am a complete idiot and managed to lose the Ipod while packing all of my belongings last night. But I think it is the former rather than the latter, because none of my stuff was left behind in the old apartment, and it just wasn't with me when I got to the new one. Uff.
All these odd things that I chocked up to cultural differences with them turned out to be, in the end, pretty much eccentricities of their character. We didn't mesh well and the whole feeling of the apartment was more like I was renting a space in a hostel where I was allowed access to a couch and table and kitchen etc. Everyone had to buy their own individual toilet paper and we were supposed to bring it in and out of the bathroom with us and store it in our rooms. They bought 3 cheap pots/pans particularly for the other 3 of us (French, Chilean, and I) to use and said we couldn't use any of the other pans. They wanted the bathroom to be cleaned every day or every other day (cleaned as in swept, mopped, tub scrubbed with and only with an awful acid that takes off veneers from things - Muriatic acid - and apparently is linked to pretty serious respiratory problems from its frequent use here as a cleaning agent, toilet scrubbed, sink bleached). I was not allowed to have anyone stay over night. Ever. Even if they were to stay in my room with me. The internet would get shut off whenever they went to bed at night. And some other stuff.
But anyways, my new roommates, however, two Chilean guys about the same age as me, are fantastic. I am so much happier than I was in my old apartment, even if I don't have the gorgeous view I had before. The layout is nicer (it's a duplex), the kitchen is way better, the two guys are wonderful, I live near trees and grass and flowers, and I don't have to take an elevator to get to my apartment. It is a world's worth of difference. So here's to change and moving forward.
On the unfortunate side note, I am about 80% sure that the Chilean girls stole my Ipod while I stepped out briefly to go to the ATM. Either that or I am a complete idiot and managed to lose the Ipod while packing all of my belongings last night. But I think it is the former rather than the latter, because none of my stuff was left behind in the old apartment, and it just wasn't with me when I got to the new one. Uff.
06 March 2008
Hacia el Sur: i.e. Gringo Train on a Bus
This past weekend my program had it's big "fieldtrip", which is part of the required distribution of funds that the mothership organization, IES, mandates. After being left in the dark despite many inquiries, the day before leaving we learned we were actually going not ambigously "South" but rather to Puerto Montt, the island of Chiloe (second largest island in South America), Frutillar, Puerto Varas, and some other places. Joy of all joys. We got on an airplane went South and then consequently spent most of our 4 days on a bus. And when I say on a bus, I really mean it.
1 marco polo bus
+ 23 gringos of aged 19 to 22
+ 1 tour driver named Claudio
+ 2 middle aged women who direct the IES program
+ too many locations spread out
+ squeezed into 4 short days
= Get on bus, get off bus, take pictures of a vista or some inane tourist site whose cultural significance hasn't been explained to us, get on bus, get shuffled to a bad restaurant, get on bus. Repeat.
And then we stayed in the middle of nowhere, i.e. Frutillar (which basically means Strawberryville...or something akin to that). In Frutillar there was one bar, Frutibar, which closed for the season after our second night in town. Ha. On Saturday we got to play in a national park for a bit, which was a welcome change. But, unfortunately, we still got carted around on the bus. A lot.
In short, it was a gringo-bus bonding experience. Not exactly what I was hoping for, but it was what it was. Photos of Chile forthcoming, probably on Facebook because Blogger is really slow with uploading photos.
1 marco polo bus
+ 23 gringos of aged 19 to 22
+ 1 tour driver named Claudio
+ 2 middle aged women who direct the IES program
+ too many locations spread out
+ squeezed into 4 short days
= Get on bus, get off bus, take pictures of a vista or some inane tourist site whose cultural significance hasn't been explained to us, get on bus, get shuffled to a bad restaurant, get on bus. Repeat.
And then we stayed in the middle of nowhere, i.e. Frutillar (which basically means Strawberryville...or something akin to that). In Frutillar there was one bar, Frutibar, which closed for the season after our second night in town. Ha. On Saturday we got to play in a national park for a bit, which was a welcome change. But, unfortunately, we still got carted around on the bus. A lot.
In short, it was a gringo-bus bonding experience. Not exactly what I was hoping for, but it was what it was. Photos of Chile forthcoming, probably on Facebook because Blogger is really slow with uploading photos.
21 February 2008
"But don't you think Latinamerican men are more...tropical?"
...The guard in the Metro station asked me last night as I was waiting for a friend (who didn't show up). In fact, no, I do not think that. I think that the climate here is more "tropical" than where I am from, and that here people give kisses on the cheeks and hugs to greet friends and strangers alike, but no, I do not think that my fellow male North Americans are cold, unfriendly, or on the whole unattractive.
Perhaps I need to make myself a little sign to carry around that says something akin to Newsflash: I did not come to live in Latin America for "hot Latin nights".
[[Although the exchange ended in me getting hit on, we did manage to maintain an interesting conversation about the recession of the U.S. economy (Don't you think it's caused by everyone having to pay for the effects of Hurricane Katrina plus the war on Iraq?), love at first sight (The first time I was kissed by a girl I fell in love.), and the quality of Chilean education (You're lucky to have choices. Go to the private university).]]
Perhaps I need to make myself a little sign to carry around that says something akin to Newsflash: I did not come to live in Latin America for "hot Latin nights".
[[Although the exchange ended in me getting hit on, we did manage to maintain an interesting conversation about the recession of the U.S. economy (Don't you think it's caused by everyone having to pay for the effects of Hurricane Katrina plus the war on Iraq?), love at first sight (The first time I was kissed by a girl I fell in love.), and the quality of Chilean education (You're lucky to have choices. Go to the private university).]]
16 February 2008
Sometimes being a stupid gringa reaches up, sort of slaps you in the face a little, and runs away with your cell phone.
Ringing in my new year of life I will not be able to ring anyone up. Hah.
I already bought a new one today, but last night my cell phone was stolen off my person. People had told me to be careful about talking on the street, but apparently sometimes one just has to learn these lessons for themselves. The entire experience left me with a sour taste in my mouth, but there is nothing I can do about it except be more careful in the future!
At any rate, I was going to attend a gathering of sorts in a bar that is a "typical Chilean" bar, which is in a slightly sketchy part of town. My friend and I arrive. The bar is extremely full. I look around and can't find who I am looking for, while the two of us meanwhile are transformed into the center of attention of an entire gaggle of drunk Chilean men shouting slurred English and Spanish at us. We decide to go outside to try and call my friends because we feel uncomfortable. I call. No one answers. I go to call again, starting to pace a little bit, but with the left side of my body toward the street and sidewalk.
The phone is next to my face, in my left hand, when all of a sudden I feel someone hit me pretty hard on my neck/shoulder. Thinking that it was one of my friends using very poor physical judgment in trying to surprise me from behind, I start turning. Understandably, the grip on my cell phone is loosened, and then all of a sudden the cell phone is gone. Stunned, I look on as a ten year old girl dressed in all denim runs away from me at top speed around a dark corner and disappears.
I feel like an idiot for not better heeding the advice of my roommates, but it is still a little unnerving to have a small girl rob a cell phone straight out of your hand on a street with lots of people on it. Add to that the issue of feeling uncomfortable in a bar where everyone was singling us out for noticeably being gringas, that I couldn't find my other friends, the difficulty I have understanding the Chilean accent, and my general discomfort with my Spanish since my arrival, and you have the perfect storm of my personal pity party realization that being a gringa in a completely foreign city actually really sucks.
Heading back toward the Metro, we talked to the Metro guards and they said that kind of stuff happens all the time; one ought not to speak on a cell phone at night in the street, particularly in those parts. Then he told my friend to step away from the metal grating that she was leaning against toward the street, because people would undoubtedly try to steal her necklace off her neck from behind as we were standing there talking. Nice. But, point being I am grateful it was just an old and inexpensive cell phone, that I have all those numbers written down, that nothing more important was robbed, and, most importantly, that I have learned to be more careful.
And on that note, cheers to a new year of life and learning.
I already bought a new one today, but last night my cell phone was stolen off my person. People had told me to be careful about talking on the street, but apparently sometimes one just has to learn these lessons for themselves. The entire experience left me with a sour taste in my mouth, but there is nothing I can do about it except be more careful in the future!
At any rate, I was going to attend a gathering of sorts in a bar that is a "typical Chilean" bar, which is in a slightly sketchy part of town. My friend and I arrive. The bar is extremely full. I look around and can't find who I am looking for, while the two of us meanwhile are transformed into the center of attention of an entire gaggle of drunk Chilean men shouting slurred English and Spanish at us. We decide to go outside to try and call my friends because we feel uncomfortable. I call. No one answers. I go to call again, starting to pace a little bit, but with the left side of my body toward the street and sidewalk.
The phone is next to my face, in my left hand, when all of a sudden I feel someone hit me pretty hard on my neck/shoulder. Thinking that it was one of my friends using very poor physical judgment in trying to surprise me from behind, I start turning. Understandably, the grip on my cell phone is loosened, and then all of a sudden the cell phone is gone. Stunned, I look on as a ten year old girl dressed in all denim runs away from me at top speed around a dark corner and disappears.
I feel like an idiot for not better heeding the advice of my roommates, but it is still a little unnerving to have a small girl rob a cell phone straight out of your hand on a street with lots of people on it. Add to that the issue of feeling uncomfortable in a bar where everyone was singling us out for noticeably being gringas, that I couldn't find my other friends, the difficulty I have understanding the Chilean accent, and my general discomfort with my Spanish since my arrival, and you have the perfect storm of my personal pity party realization that being a gringa in a completely foreign city actually really sucks.
Heading back toward the Metro, we talked to the Metro guards and they said that kind of stuff happens all the time; one ought not to speak on a cell phone at night in the street, particularly in those parts. Then he told my friend to step away from the metal grating that she was leaning against toward the street, because people would undoubtedly try to steal her necklace off her neck from behind as we were standing there talking. Nice. But, point being I am grateful it was just an old and inexpensive cell phone, that I have all those numbers written down, that nothing more important was robbed, and, most importantly, that I have learned to be more careful.
And on that note, cheers to a new year of life and learning.
15 February 2008
¡Feliz día de....!
I have been pleasantly surprised by the plethora of Valentine's Day names in Spanish that I have seen. From what I can remember, in good ol' US English we just say Valentine's Day (maybe slip a St. in there sometimes) and presto, voila, there is the day that everyone (minus those in love or fooling themselves to be) loves to hate.
At any rate, I have seen such variations in ads down here such as Happy St. Valentine's Day; Happy Lovers' Day; Happy Affection Day; Happy Day of Lovers; and so on and so forth. Cute.
Not cute, however (although bien amusing), is that my roommates have begun a campaign to convince me to attend this: Sensation White, i.e. a very expensive, dress-coded rave some weekend in March. I will repeat that: My roommates want me to go to a Chilean.... rave.
Aside from having absolutely no interest whatsoever in going owing to my extreme apathy toward rave culture and sheer boredom of that genre of electronic music, the "cheapest" ticket is running a price of approximately $30.000 CLP, or roughly, $65 USD. Right.
Despite their assertations that this will event will be "super cool!!!!" (super being everyone's favorite adverb in these parts), I just don't buy it. Unfortunately, I don't have the heart nor the Spanish prowess to adequately express my sentiments of "lame".
I can construct a long list of "better investments" for the precious little money I have to sustain me here, but chiefly, at the top of that list right now, is a nice new bicycle. (The roommates know this.) So, yesterday, I was brought out on a shopping expedition with my two female Chilean roommates, who now I refer to as the two P's, as they looked for a new bed frame. We ventured out past the City center (further than I have ventured before) toward the Franklin metro stop, region of warehouses and slightly sketchy but endearing street vendors. I felt right at home as if I were back in a Guatemalan market, except everything was a bit fancier and all the stalls better-established.
We wandered the Furniture sector looking for their bed item. Then, to my happy surprise, we went looking for the "Bike street", Calle San Diego. What a glorious little surprise that was! An entire I don't know-how-many-blocks stretch of Bike shops all along the same street. It never ceases to amaze me how, honestly, you can find entire item regions. I have lovingly begun to call this type of one-stop one-item shopping -o-landias, ie...We're going to Bicyclandia; We just came from Furnitureolandia; I am from Gringolandia (this particular phrase was not coined by me, but deserves mention), and so on.
At any rate, they had everything from very legit and nice looking bikes to expensive Trek road bikes to crap mountain bikes with shocks/suspension shooting out of anything you could imagine. Much to my chagrin, they were kind of expensive. But, I got a few quotes and went along my merry little way, and all signs point to a self-given Birthday present this weekend of bicycle, which means for a much happier me. The only problem will be maneuvering the bicycle into the elevator to get up and down from my apartment. But, there is always a solution (vertical)...
At any rate, I have seen such variations in ads down here such as Happy St. Valentine's Day; Happy Lovers' Day; Happy Affection Day; Happy Day of Lovers; and so on and so forth. Cute.
Not cute, however (although bien amusing), is that my roommates have begun a campaign to convince me to attend this: Sensation White, i.e. a very expensive, dress-coded rave some weekend in March. I will repeat that: My roommates want me to go to a Chilean.... rave.
Aside from having absolutely no interest whatsoever in going owing to my extreme apathy toward rave culture and sheer boredom of that genre of electronic music, the "cheapest" ticket is running a price of approximately $30.000 CLP, or roughly, $65 USD. Right.
Despite their assertations that this will event will be "super cool!!!!" (super being everyone's favorite adverb in these parts), I just don't buy it. Unfortunately, I don't have the heart nor the Spanish prowess to adequately express my sentiments of "lame".
I can construct a long list of "better investments" for the precious little money I have to sustain me here, but chiefly, at the top of that list right now, is a nice new bicycle. (The roommates know this.) So, yesterday, I was brought out on a shopping expedition with my two female Chilean roommates, who now I refer to as the two P's, as they looked for a new bed frame. We ventured out past the City center (further than I have ventured before) toward the Franklin metro stop, region of warehouses and slightly sketchy but endearing street vendors. I felt right at home as if I were back in a Guatemalan market, except everything was a bit fancier and all the stalls better-established.
We wandered the Furniture sector looking for their bed item. Then, to my happy surprise, we went looking for the "Bike street", Calle San Diego. What a glorious little surprise that was! An entire I don't know-how-many-blocks stretch of Bike shops all along the same street. It never ceases to amaze me how, honestly, you can find entire item regions. I have lovingly begun to call this type of one-stop one-item shopping -o-landias, ie...We're going to Bicyclandia; We just came from Furnitureolandia; I am from Gringolandia (this particular phrase was not coined by me, but deserves mention), and so on.
At any rate, they had everything from very legit and nice looking bikes to expensive Trek road bikes to crap mountain bikes with shocks/suspension shooting out of anything you could imagine. Much to my chagrin, they were kind of expensive. But, I got a few quotes and went along my merry little way, and all signs point to a self-given Birthday present this weekend of bicycle, which means for a much happier me. The only problem will be maneuvering the bicycle into the elevator to get up and down from my apartment. But, there is always a solution (vertical)...
14 February 2008
Addendum to observations of Day 4...
FANNY PACKS: Everywhere. Apparently a fanny pack is called a 'banano' here, i.e. a banana. This has been the source of much amusement for me.
13 February 2008
My theoretical non-venn venn diagram of basic perceived differences to this moment.
Guatemala
dogs (chuchos) everywhere that look mangy enough to give you diseases from a distance
vos
no trashcans
dirty water
spinach
cordial look in the eye and Buen@s Días/Tardes/Noches, que le vaya biens, and etc!
12 person mini vans filled to 22 plus a helper sticking his head out of the window
indigenous languages
sticking out like a sore thumb for being white and thus foreign
Chile
people stop on the street to give food to stray dogs (still perros)
tú y tú action (men)
well kept trashcans everywhere!
water that I drink out of the tap!
romaine lettuce if you're lucky
angry looks when you smile at someone; confused looks when you greet them
metro stations and seatbelts
weird accent. just weird
sticking out like a sore thumb for looking like i could be chilean, and then being a foreigner with a non-chilean accent who still speaks spanish.
dogs (chuchos) everywhere that look mangy enough to give you diseases from a distance
vos
no trashcans
dirty water
spinach
cordial look in the eye and Buen@s Días/Tardes/Noches, que le vaya biens, and etc!
12 person mini vans filled to 22 plus a helper sticking his head out of the window
indigenous languages
sticking out like a sore thumb for being white and thus foreign
Chile
people stop on the street to give food to stray dogs (still perros)
tú y tú action (men)
well kept trashcans everywhere!
water that I drink out of the tap!
romaine lettuce if you're lucky
angry looks when you smile at someone; confused looks when you greet them
metro stations and seatbelts
weird accent. just weird
sticking out like a sore thumb for looking like i could be chilean, and then being a foreigner with a non-chilean accent who still speaks spanish.
Reflections from Day 4 in Santiago.
One word for Chilean haircuts: Mullet.
(In unbelievable varieties of color, height, gel usage, forms, and weirdness, all with a requisite high degree of vanity and usually appearing on a large gang-like cluster of 12 or so youngsters who cannot move two meters without the presence of at least 3 others. See wannabe hipsters.)
Wannabe Hipsters: You are 15 and have weird shirts that say things like "Got crabs?". Do you even understand what that means?
Chilean Spanish: Are we even speaking the same language? Because at this point one would never guess. Just because I can't understand what you say when you speak to me at 10,000 times the speed of light with a funny accent, doesn't mean that I have never heard Spanish before. You just speak kind of funny, and I am getting used to it. Please, thank you.
The Metro: Not designed for sitting.
Tomar las 11 (take-drink-eat the 11): Actually means eat a very light meal and beverage at approximately 8'o'clock at night. What?
Chileno time: Not nearly as late (read: 20 minutes instead of an hour) as Guatemalan time but still equally as annoying.
Santiago: Still neat and exciting. (And hot.)
(In unbelievable varieties of color, height, gel usage, forms, and weirdness, all with a requisite high degree of vanity and usually appearing on a large gang-like cluster of 12 or so youngsters who cannot move two meters without the presence of at least 3 others. See wannabe hipsters.)
Wannabe Hipsters: You are 15 and have weird shirts that say things like "Got crabs?". Do you even understand what that means?
Chilean Spanish: Are we even speaking the same language? Because at this point one would never guess. Just because I can't understand what you say when you speak to me at 10,000 times the speed of light with a funny accent, doesn't mean that I have never heard Spanish before. You just speak kind of funny, and I am getting used to it. Please, thank you.
The Metro: Not designed for sitting.
Tomar las 11 (take-drink-eat the 11): Actually means eat a very light meal and beverage at approximately 8'o'clock at night. What?
Chileno time: Not nearly as late (read: 20 minutes instead of an hour) as Guatemalan time but still equally as annoying.
Santiago: Still neat and exciting. (And hot.)
11 February 2008
My first night in my new home.
The good news is that I have an apartment. And a cell phone. (The main goal for this week is: get a bicycle, get to know my local grocery situation, catch up on sleep, and explore...) I live on the 19th floor of a giant building and every room has giant windows with beautiful views of the city.
I can't understand my three Chilean roommates por nada, but I am trying nonetheless. We watched Flight 93 tonight, which was a crazy experience in which I was asked to explain what Americans "think" about 9/11. I said it was a heavy question, and that I was not a normal American. They all expressed their doubt about who the authors of the act were, particularly after having seen Fahrenheit 9-11 and various things about the controversial discrepancies between the actual events, the results, and the official government story of what happened.
I struggled in my awful Spanish to say that I don't think we will ever know, because the entire country doesn't care enough to research things on their own and that unless some media group like Fox (who has a blatant political agenda) were to radically change....the public is never going to be fully informed because they don't care to. Even if it were not terrorists from the Middle East, American people are happy to accept that story because it fits within the polarized cultural notions we have of us vs. them and are complacent with the political agenda that the government has long had but is just couched in terms of "anti-terrorism" that we use to advance our own geopolitics. I tried to say that I felt sorry for everyone's losses. And that the whole situation was awful, particularly as we as a country threw away in less than three years all the positive sentiment we had from the rest of the world, and that I had a hard time separating the actual events of 9-11 from the politics and awful foreign and domestic policy backlashes from it.
What actually came out of my mouth was complete nonsensical blabber in poor poor Spanish that made no sense. I have a long ways to go. The Chilean accent is difficult, and my ability to speak is still woefully inadequate. But, I am here safe and sound!
I can't understand my three Chilean roommates por nada, but I am trying nonetheless. We watched Flight 93 tonight, which was a crazy experience in which I was asked to explain what Americans "think" about 9/11. I said it was a heavy question, and that I was not a normal American. They all expressed their doubt about who the authors of the act were, particularly after having seen Fahrenheit 9-11 and various things about the controversial discrepancies between the actual events, the results, and the official government story of what happened.
I struggled in my awful Spanish to say that I don't think we will ever know, because the entire country doesn't care enough to research things on their own and that unless some media group like Fox (who has a blatant political agenda) were to radically change....the public is never going to be fully informed because they don't care to. Even if it were not terrorists from the Middle East, American people are happy to accept that story because it fits within the polarized cultural notions we have of us vs. them and are complacent with the political agenda that the government has long had but is just couched in terms of "anti-terrorism" that we use to advance our own geopolitics. I tried to say that I felt sorry for everyone's losses. And that the whole situation was awful, particularly as we as a country threw away in less than three years all the positive sentiment we had from the rest of the world, and that I had a hard time separating the actual events of 9-11 from the politics and awful foreign and domestic policy backlashes from it.
What actually came out of my mouth was complete nonsensical blabber in poor poor Spanish that made no sense. I have a long ways to go. The Chilean accent is difficult, and my ability to speak is still woefully inadequate. But, I am here safe and sound!
31 January 2008
Violence and errands.
Guatemala is a violent country.
Thankfully (knock on wood) during my time here I have been fortunate enough to not experience that violence in a drastic way. I have not been a real victim, although I do find myself prisoner of fear, perhaps one of the more understated additional consequences of routine violence. As I move about my daily life I am aware of the horrible could have beens and the leery possible-robberies or petty thefts to-be surrounding and threatening me. There are also far more atrocious violent acts of the rape, murder, kidnap, torture, and senseless combinations of the aforementioned. These acts pass on such a routine basis that they are sometimes featured as single paragraph or line blips on the national media scene in such a manner that one could almost forget that inhumane suffering is actually transpiring in relation to individual lives.
Domestic violence isn't really even registered within this. It is like its own supreme reigning force of normality that people barely even bat an eyelash at except to pay it lip service as something vaguely "bad" when viewed as publicly necessary. Granted all of this is tied into the horribly corrupt police force and the pitiful lack of cases that are actually pursued or investigated nevertheless brought to any modicum of justice. I have been on buses before and seen out the window a man openly beating a woman, presumably his wife, on the side of the road. And the bus won't stop, the people won't cry out in protest, and even if we were to "help", the police would never do anything about it and the woman would probably get beat even more harshly as soon as the couple disappeared from the public eye. I have seen this more than once, and at least a handful of friends have witnessed similar if not nearly identical situations. It's the kind of situation that makes you want to vomit for feeling so awful.
Sometimes the insidious reality of it (the culture of violence) stares you straight in the eyes without blinking once.
Sometime in the past year one of the some 80-odd Habitat building brigades of international volunteers helped build a house for a family in Zacapa. Both the mother and the 11 year old daughter helped build their new home, which they were eager to move in to and get out of their renting situation as soon as possible. The house was completed and awaiting a few minor things like electricity and water hook ups, and the family was waiting to move from their old rented place to their new home.
Today I had to run errands for my boss, one of which was to get quotes for the printing of an 8x10 photograph, the making of its frame, and a small plaque to attach to it with the girl's name and, in Spanish, "We will remember, you and carry you in our hearts forever". It is a meager gift to be given to the girl's mother in memory of her daughter. The girl was alone in the house one day cleaning something and was raped, beaten, and then murdered by the landlord. He is a drug dealer, and from what I can understand, nothing of any consequence will happen to him for that, because he has a lot of power.
Excuse my language, but that's just plain fucked. Every aspect of it.
Thankfully (knock on wood) during my time here I have been fortunate enough to not experience that violence in a drastic way. I have not been a real victim, although I do find myself prisoner of fear, perhaps one of the more understated additional consequences of routine violence. As I move about my daily life I am aware of the horrible could have beens and the leery possible-robberies or petty thefts to-be surrounding and threatening me. There are also far more atrocious violent acts of the rape, murder, kidnap, torture, and senseless combinations of the aforementioned. These acts pass on such a routine basis that they are sometimes featured as single paragraph or line blips on the national media scene in such a manner that one could almost forget that inhumane suffering is actually transpiring in relation to individual lives.
Domestic violence isn't really even registered within this. It is like its own supreme reigning force of normality that people barely even bat an eyelash at except to pay it lip service as something vaguely "bad" when viewed as publicly necessary. Granted all of this is tied into the horribly corrupt police force and the pitiful lack of cases that are actually pursued or investigated nevertheless brought to any modicum of justice. I have been on buses before and seen out the window a man openly beating a woman, presumably his wife, on the side of the road. And the bus won't stop, the people won't cry out in protest, and even if we were to "help", the police would never do anything about it and the woman would probably get beat even more harshly as soon as the couple disappeared from the public eye. I have seen this more than once, and at least a handful of friends have witnessed similar if not nearly identical situations. It's the kind of situation that makes you want to vomit for feeling so awful.
Sometimes the insidious reality of it (the culture of violence) stares you straight in the eyes without blinking once.
Sometime in the past year one of the some 80-odd Habitat building brigades of international volunteers helped build a house for a family in Zacapa. Both the mother and the 11 year old daughter helped build their new home, which they were eager to move in to and get out of their renting situation as soon as possible. The house was completed and awaiting a few minor things like electricity and water hook ups, and the family was waiting to move from their old rented place to their new home.
Today I had to run errands for my boss, one of which was to get quotes for the printing of an 8x10 photograph, the making of its frame, and a small plaque to attach to it with the girl's name and, in Spanish, "We will remember, you and carry you in our hearts forever". It is a meager gift to be given to the girl's mother in memory of her daughter. The girl was alone in the house one day cleaning something and was raped, beaten, and then murdered by the landlord. He is a drug dealer, and from what I can understand, nothing of any consequence will happen to him for that, because he has a lot of power.
Excuse my language, but that's just plain fucked. Every aspect of it.
29 January 2008
Coins here are of a pleasing weight and substantiveness as compared to those at home.
An hour long wait at a construction traffic block on the highway from Guatemala to Xela. An indigenous woman from Xela with long plaited silver hair that looks like she could be reaching the upper limits of 70s but who is probably actually in her 50s. An intricately hand woven bulky but always delicately made huipil blouse bristling with geometric patterns. Lots of black and white interlocking arrows making thin stripes circumscribing her body but always seeming to point to her husband on her left. Purples, reds, cerulean blues, and bright brocaded flowers spilling over and around the neck hole of the shirt. The visible part of the shirt ends above her bellybutton, where it is tightly tucked into an unimaginably full and pleated navy blue skirt with skinny stripes of light colors like tiny prisms running from bellybutton to ankle.
And somewhere in that woven cotton shirt is 25 centavos. In goes the hand and it does not stop its methodological and through rummaging above, below, around, behind, within, without, lift, let drop and I don't know how else within one's own shirt and breasts for an inconceivable hiding place. Finally, her hand emerges with the rather sizeable 25 centavo coin, with which she triumphantly decides not to go ahead and buy the 1 quetzal peanuts from the peddler she had just summoned. And back the coin gets plunked for safe keeping.
And somewhere in that woven cotton shirt is 25 centavos. In goes the hand and it does not stop its methodological and through rummaging above, below, around, behind, within, without, lift, let drop and I don't know how else within one's own shirt and breasts for an inconceivable hiding place. Finally, her hand emerges with the rather sizeable 25 centavo coin, with which she triumphantly decides not to go ahead and buy the 1 quetzal peanuts from the peddler she had just summoned. And back the coin gets plunked for safe keeping.
28 January 2008
Other things seen: (an previously unposted bunch of thoughts from Guatemalan observations)
=Spray painted on a warehouse across from the large market in Xela appearing shortly after election results announced: NARCOLOM (Clever, Narcotrafficker-Colom)
=Abundance of pair-less two year old girls' dress shoes (think white scuffed Mary Jane approximately 4 inches in length) accompanying middle aged or father-aged men either in hand or hung from nearby places to their heads (bus shelves).
=5 people fit snugly on one undersized hybrid bicycle (3 were children).
=Half tub (no, not tube) of hair gel used in one male's hair styling for one day.
=Forthcoming English phrase t-shirts such as "Playgirl", "Hot Chick", "Bitch", "Your boyfriend wants me" and other such imaginable gems on rather unsuspecting looking pre-preteens (maybe this just means I am not "hip").
=Bathroom signs (in a country I would put near the bottom of likely-to-make-an-issue-about-clothing-gender-stereotypes list) which depict, to clarify the which bathrooms go with which sex/gender, a woman sitting on a toilet and a man with a small penis pulled out peeing into a urinal. In case there were any sort of doubt about how the deed is done.
=Walking out of my front door: an entire funeral procession descending upon my rather small street.
=Abundance of pair-less two year old girls' dress shoes (think white scuffed Mary Jane approximately 4 inches in length) accompanying middle aged or father-aged men either in hand or hung from nearby places to their heads (bus shelves).
=5 people fit snugly on one undersized hybrid bicycle (3 were children).
=Half tub (no, not tube) of hair gel used in one male's hair styling for one day.
=Forthcoming English phrase t-shirts such as "Playgirl", "Hot Chick", "Bitch", "Your boyfriend wants me" and other such imaginable gems on rather unsuspecting looking pre-preteens (maybe this just means I am not "hip").
=Bathroom signs (in a country I would put near the bottom of likely-to-make-an-issue-about-clothing-gender-stereotypes list) which depict, to clarify the which bathrooms go with which sex/gender, a woman sitting on a toilet and a man with a small penis pulled out peeing into a urinal. In case there were any sort of doubt about how the deed is done.
=Walking out of my front door: an entire funeral procession descending upon my rather small street.
26 January 2008
Proselytizing sell(ing),
I don't really take public transportation in the States. Granted I do live in a city, Providence, where taking public buses (or driving for that matter) is often slower than riding a bike, and ultimately the span of areas that I need to reach is just not very extensive. The most convincing of reasons to not ride a bike are the following: sleet, snow, rain, cold, arriving sweaty. In that order. Additionally, kudos to RIPTA for existing, but it just isn't the best system in the world. Anyways, I grew up in a rural area where public transportation does not exist.
I say this all as (unnecessary) pretext to my proselytization observations to clarify that I have no real basis for comparison in the states, only conjecture. At any rate, among the long and ever growing list of things that never cease to me as I go about daily life in Guatemala, the aggressive yet paradoxically benign proselytizing & random product-pushing culture that runs rampant. Primary targets are buses, always. Second targets are the streets.
I am sitting in an aforementioned (see Aug 20th entry) camioneta ("chicken bus") in Salamá, the capital of the department of Baja Verapaz, waiting to take a midday bus into Guatemala City. This bus is not exactly a second-class coach bus, nor is it quite a normal camioneta. Whereas most buses have normal school bus seating, this bus had taken a classy step up by ripping out all normal school bus seating and replacing it with what I will call affectionately well worn to the threads coach bus seats, four per aisle. Additionally, each of the windows had its own some sort of red velour or crushed fake velvet type curtain strung up so as to protect one from the sun as wished. Complimenting the incongruous seating were new panels of fake granite siding running the length of the bus from floor to window.
But, I digress. I am sitting there in Salamá waiting for an unknown hour upon which we will depart (the "10 minutes" in the phrase "we leave in 10 minutes" has the incredible ability to defy our clearly naive standard conceptions of "time" and span anywhere from 30 seconds to 1 hours worth of "time"), and I am watching every person like a hawk who strolls up the front steps of this bus, half of whom are not actual passengers to be but rather people hawking their wares to all the clientel already settled in the bus: el Diario (Guatemala's trashy newspaper), La Prensa (the NY Times equivalent), aguas (soda or purified water), jugos (too-sugary juices), llaveros (key chains), dulces (penny candies) and more. I am not phased by this type of selling, it's expected and even desired on my part by now. It's just part of life. Salamá to Guate is a long bus ride, and I am trying my best to telepathically beseech a street vendor bearing chiles rellenos to enter the bus so I can bring along a modest lunch-snack. Or at least toasted fava beans.
Instead, I get an Evangelical.
It's a funny game to play, which I suppose is made easier by my being a non-too-apparent foreigner, the game of "please for goodness sake don't bother me or make me feel awkward but not too disinterested as to be perceived rude" game. We (i.e, anyone trying to get your attention for vending wares, whether they be God, help for family plight, consumibles, a cure all pill for an un-realized ailment, or a marketing mixture of any and all of the above) always start with a:
Most beautiful God blessed day to all of you, ladies and gentleman, with all due respect, I am here to ...... (and then we begin).
He whips out the worn Bible and... Although I understand perfectly what he is saying his exact words don't really stick with me, just general vagueness and indecent amount of repetition. (I guess that is the idea). God is great, God knows all, stop pretending he can't see what you do and what you think. She sins, he sins, you sin, and God knows it. Going to church is not enough, being pious is not enough, you have got to know it. (interlude with a quick actual Bible passage read that says nothing illuminative). I love my family but I love God so I had to leave them to find for themselves to spread the word. (A brief fumbling, pointed fingering, incompatible Bible passage, and dramatic pause later, we return to preaching). You can never know full well on your own how to fully comprehend your sin and the power of God, it's just not possible. Being a good Evangelical is not good enough. But I do. That's why I had to leave my family and preach. Become an Evangelical. I have to continue spreading my truth.
....(and how we always end) So, ladies and gentleman, with all due respect I will be passing individually to your seats, I appreciate your support greatly. God bless.
I'm puzzled. He actually made no coherent point, and then he ended. But a good one quarter of the people on the bus are giving him small amounts of money anyways. Some street vendors had climbed on the bus, one even bearing fava beans (!), but I felt too awkward to interrupt and to flag them down from behind the proselytizer and make them walk up the aisle toward me, so I lose my snack chance.
But why does that work? Why the (dare I say it) hell did that work? The man said nonsense for Evangelicals and nothing conversion-worthy for non-Evangelicals. He made a poor case for giving financial support to his dubious, I guess I could say...missionary? work. Is he actually a swindler? Does he really believe himself to be gifted with the word of God? Do people feel better because he mentioned God so they ought to give some sort of donation, no matter what? Are people always that easily controlled? And where did my past 15 minutes go? I can't decide if it is true dedication or true ridiculous repulsiveness.
The bus starts.
But I do know that the man and the bus driver and his helper know each other. He is a regular. In fact, the man's preaching fell upon deaf ears as far as the bus driver and his assistant were concerned, to the point that they felt no qualms about bantering in a slightly interruptive volume of voice throughout the whole process. The proselytizer gets left off in a neighborhood five minutes on the way out of the city center, presumably to catch another bus on in the way in. The three wave their respective goodbyes. This happens one out three or four times I am on a bus.
I can't imagine anyone pulling a stunt like that on public transportation in the states. Am I just that naive? I am still puzzled.
I say this all as (unnecessary) pretext to my proselytization observations to clarify that I have no real basis for comparison in the states, only conjecture. At any rate, among the long and ever growing list of things that never cease to me as I go about daily life in Guatemala, the aggressive yet paradoxically benign proselytizing & random product-pushing culture that runs rampant. Primary targets are buses, always. Second targets are the streets.
I am sitting in an aforementioned (see Aug 20th entry) camioneta ("chicken bus") in Salamá, the capital of the department of Baja Verapaz, waiting to take a midday bus into Guatemala City. This bus is not exactly a second-class coach bus, nor is it quite a normal camioneta. Whereas most buses have normal school bus seating, this bus had taken a classy step up by ripping out all normal school bus seating and replacing it with what I will call affectionately well worn to the threads coach bus seats, four per aisle. Additionally, each of the windows had its own some sort of red velour or crushed fake velvet type curtain strung up so as to protect one from the sun as wished. Complimenting the incongruous seating were new panels of fake granite siding running the length of the bus from floor to window.
But, I digress. I am sitting there in Salamá waiting for an unknown hour upon which we will depart (the "10 minutes" in the phrase "we leave in 10 minutes" has the incredible ability to defy our clearly naive standard conceptions of "time" and span anywhere from 30 seconds to 1 hours worth of "time"), and I am watching every person like a hawk who strolls up the front steps of this bus, half of whom are not actual passengers to be but rather people hawking their wares to all the clientel already settled in the bus: el Diario (Guatemala's trashy newspaper), La Prensa (the NY Times equivalent), aguas (soda or purified water), jugos (too-sugary juices), llaveros (key chains), dulces (penny candies) and more. I am not phased by this type of selling, it's expected and even desired on my part by now. It's just part of life. Salamá to Guate is a long bus ride, and I am trying my best to telepathically beseech a street vendor bearing chiles rellenos to enter the bus so I can bring along a modest lunch-snack. Or at least toasted fava beans.
Instead, I get an Evangelical.
It's a funny game to play, which I suppose is made easier by my being a non-too-apparent foreigner, the game of "please for goodness sake don't bother me or make me feel awkward but not too disinterested as to be perceived rude" game. We (i.e, anyone trying to get your attention for vending wares, whether they be God, help for family plight, consumibles, a cure all pill for an un-realized ailment, or a marketing mixture of any and all of the above) always start with a:
Most beautiful God blessed day to all of you, ladies and gentleman, with all due respect, I am here to ...... (and then we begin).
He whips out the worn Bible and... Although I understand perfectly what he is saying his exact words don't really stick with me, just general vagueness and indecent amount of repetition. (I guess that is the idea). God is great, God knows all, stop pretending he can't see what you do and what you think. She sins, he sins, you sin, and God knows it. Going to church is not enough, being pious is not enough, you have got to know it. (interlude with a quick actual Bible passage read that says nothing illuminative). I love my family but I love God so I had to leave them to find for themselves to spread the word. (A brief fumbling, pointed fingering, incompatible Bible passage, and dramatic pause later, we return to preaching). You can never know full well on your own how to fully comprehend your sin and the power of God, it's just not possible. Being a good Evangelical is not good enough. But I do. That's why I had to leave my family and preach. Become an Evangelical. I have to continue spreading my truth.
....(and how we always end) So, ladies and gentleman, with all due respect I will be passing individually to your seats, I appreciate your support greatly. God bless.
I'm puzzled. He actually made no coherent point, and then he ended. But a good one quarter of the people on the bus are giving him small amounts of money anyways. Some street vendors had climbed on the bus, one even bearing fava beans (!), but I felt too awkward to interrupt and to flag them down from behind the proselytizer and make them walk up the aisle toward me, so I lose my snack chance.
But why does that work? Why the (dare I say it) hell did that work? The man said nonsense for Evangelicals and nothing conversion-worthy for non-Evangelicals. He made a poor case for giving financial support to his dubious, I guess I could say...missionary? work. Is he actually a swindler? Does he really believe himself to be gifted with the word of God? Do people feel better because he mentioned God so they ought to give some sort of donation, no matter what? Are people always that easily controlled? And where did my past 15 minutes go? I can't decide if it is true dedication or true ridiculous repulsiveness.
The bus starts.
But I do know that the man and the bus driver and his helper know each other. He is a regular. In fact, the man's preaching fell upon deaf ears as far as the bus driver and his assistant were concerned, to the point that they felt no qualms about bantering in a slightly interruptive volume of voice throughout the whole process. The proselytizer gets left off in a neighborhood five minutes on the way out of the city center, presumably to catch another bus on in the way in. The three wave their respective goodbyes. This happens one out three or four times I am on a bus.
I can't imagine anyone pulling a stunt like that on public transportation in the states. Am I just that naive? I am still puzzled.
24 January 2008
A bit sentimental
As my times winds down here in Xela, I have become more astute to the niceties of those that I know and the particular people and situations that I will miss.
Last Tuesday there was a giant despedida (going away party) in the office for four people (including me) that are leaving their jobs in Habitat. Granted, I don't think that were it to be just me leaving, not the others, that it would be such a grand fanfare. But, regardless, it was incredibly touching. I have only been there a short five months and some change, and I travel a lot, so I am unfortunately not in the office that much.
But, I am left dumbstruck by how kind everyone has been to me in my short time here. From emails to hugs to random text messages saying May God bless you (or related other things) to teary goodbyes, it's made quite the impression on me. And I am incredibly thankful for it.
Last Tuesday there was a giant despedida (going away party) in the office for four people (including me) that are leaving their jobs in Habitat. Granted, I don't think that were it to be just me leaving, not the others, that it would be such a grand fanfare. But, regardless, it was incredibly touching. I have only been there a short five months and some change, and I travel a lot, so I am unfortunately not in the office that much.
But, I am left dumbstruck by how kind everyone has been to me in my short time here. From emails to hugs to random text messages saying May God bless you (or related other things) to teary goodbyes, it's made quite the impression on me. And I am incredibly thankful for it.
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