Four Basic Questions

If all of my students can answer these questions by now, my work at G-4 will be done!

Connecting through disconnecting

The best moments in Chile often happen when I'm busy trying to do something else, like check my email in the office at school. I was clicking away through the Internet when I heard the strum of an out-of-tune guitar in the anteroom outside the door. Then calls of "ven!" from the director, Ricardo, and the music teacher, Patricio, who were busy taking out brand new instruments out of cardboard boxes, tuning them up, and trying them out.

"Here, try this!" they said, handing me one of those keyboards that you blow through to make a sound. (Sorry, I can't remember what this is called in English or Spanish!) I played a few notes as they got their guitars in key, and then traded it for a tambourine.

Ricardo took up a recorder and started playing melodies, Patricio strummed along on guitar quite beautifully, and I did my best to tap along to it all. They knew so many songs...Chilote folksongs, Christmas music, Andean songs, marches, Valparaiso, Violetta Parra, "Gracias a la vida." I had to wonder if people at home in the states could pull out as many songs as these two did in the middle of the day.

"Thanks to the life!" Ricardo said, practicing his English. When he'd play a sad song, sometimes he'd pretend to cry dramatically, putting down his flute to wipe tears from his eyes and then burst into laughter. When he played the theme from Titanic, he paused to stand up, arms out, alá king-of-the-world Leonardo DiCaprio.

We played for a long time, and Ricardo traded the flute for a guitar. He has always known both, but when he was a broke student in the university, he said he had to choose between a $20 flute and a $100 guitar. "Obviously I picked the flute!" he said.

In the office next door, the phone started to ring.

"Should I get that?" I asked, seeing a possible escape from the rhythm section.

"No, leave it!" Ricardo replied, still strumming.

The phone rang again. And again. We ignored it every time. Ricardo closed the door to the office so we woulnd't hear it ring anymore--but it still chirped over our little band. That's when Ricardo went in the office and ripped the phone cord out of the jack, disconnecting the school for good. Back to the music.

All the teachers had gone to the center to strike, so there wasn't really anyone in the school besides us, the auxiliar, and a handful of other staff. A few students were there too. Luckily they can still get lunch at school even if the paro continues. They drifted to the music with juice boxes, and I handed off my tambourine. We took all the instruments out of the boxes, even the xylophone, until everyone was playing something. There was dischord, sure, but it was a beautiful sound. It was an entirely Chilean moment. I imagine at home, school directors would jump to answer the phone and be very organized about how new musical instruments are distributed and shared and played. I'm starting to think the Chilean way is better though. Tomorrow is my last day at school, and I am really going to miss this place and this wonderful if chaotic way Chileans have of doing things.

I went back to my email, my Facebook, this little blog, documenting and retelling. But it was so great to be in that moment, just enjoying it and hearing what we were playing, and connecting as we disconnected the phone.

11-07-08

My fourth graders were not ready for yesterday's acto. We had been practicing a forensics-style presentation of One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish, complete with their hand drawn-placards of various creatures and scenes, and were close--the pronunciation getting better, the flipping of pages almost in sync, the animo just about there--but just not totally ready.

An acto is a drawn-out citywide ceremony featuring students from all of the colegios, the red-headed governora of Ultima Esperanza, the mayor Mario Margoni, ministery officials, and other dignitaries. Yesterday's acto was the culmination of a rather disorganized "English Week" (which entailed playing games in class instead of doing lessons). We were last to go on the docket, in slot number 12. Two hours after other students performed "Tears in Heaven," a duet with Rihanna, and a short play, we were up, and suddenly one of the microphones had disappeared. Javiera and Valentina took turns holding the mike so one or the other could flip a page or hold up one of the drawings. It was a rocky start, but they did it in spite of the hitch. I was proud of them.

Claudio, the director, and I got to go on stage and put gold medals around their necks. It wasn't the smoothest presentation, but Javiera, Valentina, Claudia, and Sara were beaming with pride. They had all put their hair in pigtails for the event. Afterwards, all the students and teachers were invited to the comedor for sodas and snacks.

"Hay que pagar?" they asked me as they looked at the trays of empanadas and dollops of pate on bread. Do we have to pay? We had to explain that this celebration was in their honor. I think this type of event was a first for them. It was just Fanta and Coke and greasy pastries, but what a big difference that canmake to a fourth-grader.

The important thing, my director explained, is that different students have the opportunity to participate in events like this--not just our best speakers, like the bright but feisty Coni, from eigth grade. ("I'm intelligent," she told me in perfect English the other day. "She's a bitch," she added, pointing to another student.)

The director is right. I realized how much today. When I came to school, the girls were wearing their medals over their sweatsuits and smiling with pride.

Barack Obama, by Claudio (4º básico)

Today is the day! Fingers crossed. We're gathering around Jeff's cable TV--and woodstove--tonight to watch the results come in.

What’s This Gonna Cost Us?

I noticed it on my first cab ride in Santiago. Four of us were packed in the back seat, hurling through the city center at night, with James in front talking to our driver, the older man at the wheel who was missing every turn, coming across every one-way street, and taking every detour imaginable it seems, keeping us far from our hostel in the Barrio Brasil.

This is it, I thought, we’re being ripped off. Just like it said in the guidebook. Katie and I whispered suspiciously to each other. Heads together, we watched our fate play out before our eyes, unable to stop it. Where on earth was he taking us?

La Moneda, the Plaza de Armas, Cerro Santa Lucia. Suddenly our driver was playing tour guide. And that’s when it first arose, an ugly sense of mistrust buried deep in my American consciousness—What’s this gonna cost us? As we began to seethe with worry, cruising every so slowly through the orange-glow of mercury streetlights, our driver pointed out more sites, accompanied by stories and anecdotes.

Turning a corner, another feeling cropped up. Could it be, we wondered, that this man might just be a genuinely nice person? A Santaguino who loves his city and wanted to show it to us? Free of charge?

We wrestled with this notion in the back seat, unsure whether or not this was a possibility we could accept. Acceptance to us would come down to the bottom line, the final fare.

But after that long ride, when it was finally time to pay, that price was fair, even low. And to top things off, our dear driver got out of the cab to give each one of us gringos, in Chile for our first time ever, a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

As walked through the hostel lobby, we exchanged bewildered glances. “He was actually just a nice guy,” we mused to each other. How sad it was, I realized then, that this postulation has become so difficult for us to believe.

I realized in Chile just how little faith I had in sincerity and generosity. The question that always haunted me, popping up in the back of my mind—What’s this gonna cost us—made me feel uglier and uglier about my culture.

But it was a hard notion to shake, even as unquestioning kindness and hospitality has been shown to me time and time again. When Kate and I arrived at the Mirador Dorotea too late to hike up to the lookout over Natales, Frida, who owns the land where the trail runs up the hill, invited us in for “once.” As she laid out the table with an assortment of teabags, a jar of instant coffee, jam, crackers, bread, and cheese, Kate uttered the question that had been racing through my own mind—What’s this gonna cost us?

The answer, as it almost always is in Chile, was of course nothing. Frida was simply happy to have us at our table to chat. She talked about her animals—it was going to be a difficult year for the lambs, who had arrived so early in the season—and showed us pictures of countless other tourists, sitting at the table where we were then warming up.

In Punta Arenas, a colleague of Dan’s invited Kate, Casey, and I to stay at her and her husband’s home for the weekend. Their two sons had grown up and were off at university or doing other things, so they were very happy to have the group of us. Invite your friends over to the house, they told us, toma cerveza, listen to the stereo. They made us real coffee—a gift one of the sons had brought back from Columbia—drove us everywhere, posed in pictures with us, and played tour guide with the same zeal I had seen in the cabbie in Santiago.

As a traveler, you’re told again and again to be careful and watch your back. A good piece of advice, and certainly one to hold onto while abroad. But how can you balance watching your back with opening your heart and mind? I didn’t know it when I left Chicago, but I came to Chile with the idea that something is usually wanted in return for whenever something is given. But as I know now, that’s an assumption that can cost an awful lot.

Is it Harder to Travel Now?

Puerto Natales is one hundred years old, according to my guidebook. With the tin siding on the simple frontier homes, a horse or two chained up to a fencepost on the most residential streets, or even an old wooden boat sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, it sometimes looks like little has changed since 1908, and that a great distance has been traveled to get to Patagonia.

However, it is so easy to stay in touch with American culture, even down here at the “end of the world,” as the Natalinos like to say. Though the only McDonald’s in Punta Arenas closed down years ago, the influence of the Northern Hemisphere is never far. English language music and movies are everywhere. I plopped down in front of “Cast Away” and “The Last King of Scotland” (with Spanish subtitles) recently, thanks to the myriad of TV channels we have at home—many more than we ever would have dreamed of at Editor’s Rook. I see the influence of English-language media in my students every day. When I told my students to “please stand up” so we could play a game, they all started repeating “please stand up, please stand up,” quoting the Real Slim Shady! When I asked Marcos the date on another occasion, he replied “Friday! Friday Night Smackdown!” I was delighted when Claudia told me how badly she wanted to learn English—even if one of her main motivations for was to watch E! News.

Thanks to CNN, absentee ballots, and the newspapers online, the other volunteers and I have managed to stay up on the election. We’ve watched every single one of the debates at a “debate watch party.” Live political coverage is a good excuse to gather together other pieces of the culture we left at home—like burritos and margaritas.
Mexican night.

True, there are no limes in Puerto Natales, and you’ll have to look hard for Triple Sec and pay dearly for tortillas, but the point is that overall, it is possible to create or find just about anything you miss from home.

A little of this recreation is good. A stiff margarita can ease homesickness, a night of CNN can keep a person informed. But on the extreme end, these luxuries make it possible, it seems, never to travel at all, even while in a foreign country.

With the package that John sent, I even have real coffee from the coffee shop that was just down the block from my office building. Taking a sip of Intelligensia, I’ve traveled no further than a little stroll down Randolph Street.

With globalization, email, the Internet, and other media, even in remote Patagonia, real travel is a whole lot harder than it was a hundred years ago. That’s why, even if it pains me to be without my Macbook, I can live without it for a couple months more.

What Changed?

Going through the bags of American-made Halloween candy my mom sent, I realized something fundamental has changed between this journey and my year in England, now an incredible five years ago. Where I was savoring every cold Cadbury Fruit and Nut out of the vending machine at Oxford, I now find myself delighted with good old Hershey’s Kisses and Tollhouse Morsels imported from the USA. (I admit, I even bought a can of Coke for three bucks at Torres. And I never even drink soda at home. And while I admired English waiters for their slowness in bringing the check, I often bemoan Chilean disorganization and disinterest in “the customer.” Even my attitude towards Nescafe—which I religiously downed without flinching in the UK—is markedly different here. What changed, I have to wonder. Was it simple homesickness? Was it the difference between 21 and 26 (nearly)? The cultural disparities between the two countries? Was it that the economic crisis and heart-pounding election had inspired me a new and stronger passion for my country? Or was it, perhaps, that the Windy City suddenly felt like home to me—a place just too good to give up for another. Change is good—at 21, 26, or 62. But on this trip, I’m realizing that consistency—knowing better who you are and where you’re from—can be pretty good too.

Some Things I Don’t Like About Puerto Natales

Given the 100+ kilometer an hour winds this spring, I’ve traded my bike for running shoes on recent afternoons. Doing my little “Perimeter Run” of town—which doesn’t take that long—I’ve caught a closer glimpse of two things that make Natales an uglier place than it deserves to be: dogs and garbage.

On the edge of town farthest from me, where all of the new houses look exactly the same, with their brightly colored red, yellow, or green, aluminum siding, an open, scrubby field marks the end of the city. It looks like a garbage dump—plastic bags cling to every bush and piece of brush, bottles and cans cover all ground in between. Blame it on the wind or a lack of consciousness or education, it is a disturbing site—all the more because Natales is such a beautifully situated city in one of the most spectacular parts of the world.

The Costanera, the edge of the sound where cormorants nest with the mountains in the background, is just as bad. Go to the shore, and you’ll find more soda and beer bottles, broken glass, and whole shopping bags full of trash apparently just dropped out of someoene’s car. Needless to say, there is no recycling in Natales.

Many families in Natales keep garbage in a metal cage on a post in front of their home. This is to prevent the other problem—the dogs—from getting into the trash. The fact that people have had to construct these elaborate garbage cans as a preventative strike against hungry dogs, I think, speaks to the enormity of the animal issue here. People just don’t control their animals at all…dogs and cats run free everywhere, none of them spayed or neutered. Needless to say, springtime can be pretty disgusting, as there are usually about five dogs on top of another one right at the door of my school in the morning. Walking, running, driving, or biking—dogs dominate the streets and sidewalks. At this point, it’s difficult to feel a whole lot of sympathy for these poor animals, having been chased on an almost daily basis. I was running near a saw mill by the Club de Rodeo when I saw two dogs jump on top of a pair of older ladies hauling their groceries home—paws on the chest, noses in the bags.

As I looked on in shock, one of the women turned my way, straining her neck from the dog’s face. “They’re just playing,” she said, not particularly fussed.

Kate just paid out of her own pocket for a stray kitten to get an infected leg amputated. She’s an adorable and friendly grey cat, but it saddens me that a volunteer English teacher had to deal with this problem in the first place. People need to take care of their animals and be accountable for them. The same with the garbage we generate. It’s a first-world luxury, perhaps, to be able to address these issues properly. But what a difference it does make in how a city looks and feels.

Are You Athletic?

“Do you like to play sports?” was one of the first questions I was asked when making small talk in Natales. I’m so used to answering “no” to the question, I hadn’t really stepped back and thought about it in a while. Maybe biking, jogging, hiking, and yoga don’t count as sports in the team-oriented sense of the word. But I’ve realized here in Magallanes, supposedly the most sedentary region in Chile, how much I value physical activity, and what a huge difference it makes in how I feel each day. The spring weather here—freezing rain in the face and winds topping 100 kilometers an hour—make getting out of the house challenging, but I always feel better when I do.

Today is the first day in three months where I have been truly alone—and it feels stupendous. My family is in Punta Arenas today, and I have been told I am “duenña de casa.” This means a big pot of coffee just for me, free reign over CNN and HBO, a loaf of pumpkin bread in the oven, and enjoying some precious time on the computer: Chicago Tribune, NYT, and just plain old “surfing”…a luxury I’ve not really had in some time. I’ve had a lot on my mind in the past few months, so in these precious hours of “alone time” I’ve hammered out a few of my thoughts. The posts above are a bit of a first draft of what I’ve been thinking.