Let's talk about music

Erging is bad, but usually music can sweeten it, especially if this music is in English. It gets a little harder if the music is in Spanish, because much of the music here is really sappy and romantic, when all you really want is some Beatie Boys or U2. It gets even harder when much of the radio is mostly talk and commercials, but the all-time low is Christian radio in Spanish, with lots of ads and talk about the "palabra de dios."

I get home yesterday and hear the deep beat of some loud music somewhere and I think "hmm, 11.30 is a little early for loud music on a Monday, but this is Chile, so I don't know." No sooner do I get in the door of the house than I realise that the loud music was none other than my tia rocking out to Christian rock music while cooking our lunch of lentils, rice and pumpkin.

Life just keeps getting funnier.

Long time no post

Sorry, I haven’t posted in a while. I have been feeling a little ambivalent about my relationship with the weblog (and that it might potentially become abusive) and thought it might be a good idea to take a break for a while. I also came to the sad realization that the reason I write so much is that I don’t have any friends (and so, by the marvelous reasoning of Maddy, thus, if I don’t write, I will magically get friends—let me tell you, it hasn’t worked).

So, what has happened in the last two weeks? Well, I will tell you what HASN’T happened. The weather hasn’t gotten better and has developed multiple personality disorder. It is raining one minute, beautiful blue skies and sun shining the next, hailing later, then a nice monkey’s wedding or two (for you Phillistines, I believe this is called a ‘sun shower’ in the US; for etymology of ‘a monkey’s wedding’ please consult the author), minutes later a few rainbows if you are lucky, perhaps some winds that bend your umbrellas the wrong way, some more rain for good measure, then some more sunshine on a freezing cold day, just to tempt you. I know I talk about the weather a lot, but the fact of the matter is that the Chileans are REALLY interested in it and it is always a topic of conversation (and great for filling in awkward pauses at the lunch table :) .

I went to Temuco last weekend (well, Wednesday and Thursday) with Christine and spent 2 nights in probably one of the nastiest dives in the world. Now let me tell you, I have spent some miserable nights in places all over the world, including tents, churches, and train stations, but this place was just NASTY. I got another case of fleas, suspect I probably have some nasty fungus growing in my lungs from the mildew on the walls, and we had a slug crawling across the ceiling of the bathroom (although I am not complaining about him, I always like a little wildlife in my life). Aside from the lodging, it was alright, though it seemed a little soulless, but compared to Valdivia, totally enormous. They had probably twice as many big name department stores (and twice as big) and had actual throngs of people on the streets, which is more or less unheard of here. We met up with Megan (also on the SUNY program) and her crazy Canadian co-pensionista and hung out for a few hours and went to see “Machuca” this Chilean film that just came out that thrilled critics as Cannes (yes, this is a shameless plug to get you to go see the film) and is about the Golpe (the coup that put our friend Pinochet in power). It was nice to get a break from La Christine (everyone here gets a definite article in front of their name when you refer to them, which is AWESOME, though I have yet to hear myself referred to as “la Magdalena”), who is slowly driving me crazy. I can’t really rant about her over the internet, that is not fair, but let us just say that it is always a relief to say good-bye to her (oh, that sounds so awful). But the fact of the matter is that sometimes I would just rather be alone.

Last weekend was the Fiestas Patrias (Fatherland Celebration—no, this isn’t Nazi Germany)—three days of cueca dancing, chichi/pisco/vino swilling, asado (pig on a spit) roasting, empanada guzzling, parade watching, flag waving debauchery. Typically, it rained all three days, though it cleared the last day (Sunday). Saturday we went to Los Lagos where the tío works and we watched the parade from under a pine tree and then came home and downed a couple dozen empanadas between the five us and went to sleep the rest of the day and stayed up late reading while my brother watched Spanish-dubbed Christian programs at full volume next door (which are twice the fun, because I get to listen to all the “Hear me Lords” and ‘Amens” in English and then again in Spanish). Then next that same brother took me to see the fair that the city (though Valdivia really is more of a town, let’s be honest) puts on and we watched horse races, which were slow, I mean, they were fast, but there was typically a lot of waiting around and reconvening between races. I took lots of pictures, but my maldito camera sucks and I found out once I got home that the memory card had jumped out and all my efforts were null and void. Typical.

Otherwise, I got myself a volunteer job working at the Mexican school about seven blocks from the school. I was taking my traditional (how many times does something have to happen to be a tradition?) post-lit class coffee with Mary—do you know about Mary, she is my only other friend from Central Michigan University—when she told me that she had to teach a 1.5 hour drug prevention class to a bunch of seventh-graders and was really nervous. I said I would join her and we both got all excited and started planning out a lesson plan. We agreed to meet later at the U and then go to the school together. We arrive, wait around for a solid 15 minutes or so and then get led out to the courtyard by the directora of the school. We stand there, looking a little lost while they do some “formacion,” which as far as I could tell, involved them filing off to their classrooms once they were called. We went through a battery of kisses from little schoolgirls (it is normal for Chileans to kiss on the cheek when they meet) we had never met, got led in and out of the school by the directora, who said first that we would teach drug prevention, then character development (not really sure what that means), and then finally English.

So, English it was. We got put in front of a class of about 20 sixth-graders while the directora explained that we were going to do some “collaboration project” (which we knew nothing about), meanwhile the real teacher showed up (not an English teacher) and sat down at a desk like one of the girls, very excited to be a student in our English class. I don’t know, this is Chile, I stopped shaking my head a long time ago. We had the kids go around the room and say their names and reviewed colours, animals, numbers, played some pictionary, the usual stuff. The next day, Mary and I had a group of six fifth-graders who were more or less a nightmare and probably had greater or lesser degrees of ADD/ADHD and demonstrated the peculiar Chilean inability to say the English alphabet—one of the hardest letters is S, which is almost exactly the same. We were both also asked if we “pololea” (the verb for “to have a boyfriend”—my new favourite verb, other then chanchar), when the response was negative, they asked if we were married.
That is my life in a nutshell right now. I am looking forward to some nicer weather this weekend and trying to plan a week-long trip to Buenos Aires, though I don’t really have anyone to go with except Christine, though I think I might rather have fleas for the rest of my life than travel alone with her again. Lord, I need to stop being so blunt, that is the Chilean in me, whereby about 50% of the English words that come out of my mouth are swear words.

Guest Star: Caroline Pott

To further stimulate your procrastination, we take a break from our regularly scheduled programming to bring you "Tales from Cambodia," my sister Caroline's account of her several week's trip to that far away place. See if you can spot the similarities between me and my "twin."


Episode 1: Transport Travails and How sCambodia has earned its moniker.

--There are strange booths scattered around town with numbers plastered all over them. These are phone booths. When you approach one, a lady will appear with her various cell phones and you will tell her what number to call and pay her when you are finished. Quite simple. The first time I tried to use one, no sooner had I sat down and handed the lady the number than a man in a wheelchair rolled right up and addressed me in english. We started chatting and he was saying that the lady didn't understand what I wanted--right, since everybody else walks up and hands her a number, when I do it, she should all of a sudden become confused. So I let him 'help' me and he actually ends up talking to the lady at the guest house I was trying to reach for quite a long time, occasionally holding his hand over the phone and saying 'when do you want a room' or 'do you want a vip room?' and then 'when do you want a room?' again. Finally I said, forget it, I don't know what's taking so long, we'll try somewhere else. This time I grabbed the phone before anyone else could and decided to bumble through in English. I called the same guesthouse and she said "that guy I just talked to, I didn't understand him at all. I don't know if I have any rooms available for Wednesday yet." One more phone call and I'd found a room within 45 seconds and was out of there, but not without paying for the wheelchair guy's 15 minutes confusing the hell out of the other guest house lady!
--I visited the train station in Phnom Penh to inquire about train times. It looked well deserted as I approached, and had to pull open the concertina grill to get inside, where I was to find a man asleep in a hammock strung between the barriers separating the queues in front of the ticket booths. The area behind the ticket booths looked to be a storage space for various items. After a few moments of obviously looking confused some other blokes lounging around on a bench asked me what I wanted. 'A train to Kampot. Today?' He shook his head. 'Tomorrow?' He shook his head. 'Why?' I asked vainly... 'No have' (the very handy all purpose answer to get a farang to shut up). Not entirely convinced of our exchange, I went and looked wistfully at an elaborate drawing of train lines when a tour guide for some Japanese folks offered to translate: apparently the trains to the south were 'broken.' Ealron's separate inquiry elucidated 'there are no customers.' Either way, we were taunted by the train tracks the whole drive to Kampot, and we think actually drove across a bridge intended for the train itself. A few days later, thinking we could walk no more after descending 30 km from the top of Bokor Hill and arriving in the dark, what to our wondering eyes should appear but a TRAIN. We dashed away from our motorcycle driver who had said, innocently enough 'o, a train' and we stood in wonder at the trains that weren't running actually running.
-The return boat trip to Thailand was among the more frightening experiences of my life. The tin can of a (river, not oceangoing!) boat lurched back and forth in rough seas with swells of several meters hitting us broadside making landings on the other side of them fairly abrupt and the sounds were no less comforting. I would say 70% of the passengers were seasick at some point (myself excepted), and I was at the back with no potential escape route (I checked out the window latches and the only lifejackets and exits were at the front) and seated across from a Japanese dude who spoke English as if he was French and downed a whole bottle of whisky during the perilous journey.
-Most nationalities pay 20 dollars for a Cambodian visa upon arrival. Apparently immigration officials thought it
would be a neat way to earn a little more cash and also ask Khmer returning from overseas for the same 20 bucks. Well someone finally caught on and now in the immigration at the airport there is a sign in Khmer that says "Cambodians do NOT need to pay 20 upon entrance. Please refuse and report any officer requesting such payment."

Get your priorities straight

One of the girls from Valpo on the SUNY program, Ashley, came down with a friend to Valdivia for the weekend because her (communist) unversity is "on vacation" due to riots (God, I wish we could get some riots down here). We went out last night to a club (which charged a horrendous cover charge of US$5) and went dancing. I was alternately being checked out by a 19 year-old lesbian and a 50-something old man. Not sure how I feel about that. No, actually, I know exactly how I feel about that, I didn't appreciate it and I would much rather have been hit on by the bartender. Ashley later asked me which one I would have gone for. Needless to say I chose proximity in age over sexual orientation.

Look what I learned at school today Mom...

(Translated from the Spanish and enhanced for your humouristic pleasure)

At the General Assembly of the United Nations, someone recently posed the question: What do you think about the scarcity of food in the rest of the world?

The Europeans didn't know what scarcity was.
The Africans didn't know what food was.
And the Americans didn't know what the rest of the world was.

The revenge of winter

I was thinking of regaling you all by recounting the interesting happenings of this weekend’s travels south with Matt and Christine. It was full of silly happenings of the typical Chilean ilk, such as, when Chileans (yes, multiple) are asked why a bank whose name is blatantly written BBVA, it is called B-B-U-V-A and the answer is “oh, well, it used to be a Chilean bank and then it was bought up by a Spanish bank and now it is called B-B-U-V-A.”
But no, this week’s topic of conversation is much more sober. For a while now I have been harbouring the suspicion that Chileans are overly and unnecessarily paranoid about crime and security. Pretty much any store you go into—including pharmacies, bookstores, department stores, and post offices—will, without fail, have one or more security guards on watch, milling around, uncomfortably eying you as you browse merchandise. Most stores (including wool and bookstores), many hostels, and even many of the different institutes at the uni have a complicated system of bells and locking mechanisms whereby you have to get buzzed in and out of the building or part of the building. There must be about 50 (loud, obnoxious, and completely irreverent of the fact that people like to sleep at night) dogs in a one block radius of my house which I have been informed are for protection from “delinquents.” The tía also religiously attends not only church services, but also the neighbourhood watch meetings and they recently had brighter lights put in down our street. The family also leaves at least one light on and the radio blaring whenever they leave the house (which can be very deceiving for little me, who comes home hoping for onces only to find the house empty) and also have a dog. I have also been warned many times to never, ever put ANYTHING of value in my pockets in case I get pick-pocketed.
Deciding that I, in my 1.5 months here, was not in any position to really judge the perceived persecution mania of Chileans, I bought a newspaper and scanned it for a crime section which might detail what sorts of crimes are committed here in Valdivia. I didn’t find a crime section, but I did find that the local newspaper, the Diario Austral, is little more than a tabloid and was very saddened by the lack of inspired writing. (Inspired writing, what am I talking about, I probably wouldn’t be able to recognize inspired Spanish if it hit me like a brick in the face). The jury was still in deliberation on crime last time I checked.
Well, apparently, between ten to five and ten to six on Friday, someone entered the house here on little old Calle San Martín and stole all the tía’s gold jewelry, “plata” (which I assume meant cash and not silver since they were intending to pay their rent with it, and as far as I can tell, solid silver is no longer an equitable form of payment here) and my brother’s jacket (it was raining and the thieves don’t like rain either). The neighbours of course, saw nothing, and the thieves apparently rang the doorbell to make sure no one was home (or so I am told by my tía) and then jumped the wall (I told you it was easy) and opened a window (which are usually cracked because otherwise the windows are dripping with condensation on cold days) and climbed in, rifling through drawers and scanning surfaces for valuables. I had (stupidly?) left my laptop out on my bedside rolly table thing and I had a bunch of US cash and passports stashed away and my first thoughts went to them, which would have been easy to carry off, but my tía was more worried about my gold jewelry (not like I would know if anything had been lifted anyways). But luckily all was safe and sound, “gracias a Dios” (thanks be to God), seems these were pretty small time thieves.
I guess I was wrong about crime. I almost wish I had been here this weekend, so I would be forced to swallow my thoughts (can you swallow those?) and feel ashamed for presuming that I know better than my Chilean counterparts. But at least it probably won’t happen again, right, what are the chances? Lancelot, who was sleeping through the whole robbery, is now chained up outside his doghouse (he normally sleeps in the garage) so that he can now be a proper mascota and fend off would be robbers.


Score:
Maddy-1
La mascota-0

Breaking the back of the cold

Ok, so this is kind of a cop out entry because I have been keeping a list of random stuff (more random lists entries to follow), but I thought it might garner a few laughs and I am trying to catch a bus out of town for the weekend before my cabin fever starts catching, so I don’t have a whole lot of time. Have a great weekend and everyone at school--I am jealous!

Things I still don’t understand:

Why the family refers to the vacuum cleaner as “the pig.” It doesn’t have four legs, turn into sausages, oink, or in any way, shape or form resemble a farm animal. There is also the verb “chanchar” (to pig) which means to vacuum.

Why the family has an aversion to functioning doorknobs and locking mechanisms in general. I broke the back doorknob the other day (apparently a regular occurrence) which the family doesn’t like to lock—they prefer to leave it open and lock the gate to the yard, so would-be thieves only have to vault the wall (it’s easy, it’s been done, namely by me) and waltz right into the house. (Alternatively, they can bolt the door late at night so that when you straggle in at 6 AM, you have to wake up the whole house so as not to sleep out in the yard on the doorstep, huddled against the cold.) The doorknob on my bedroom door is literally held together with (get this) duct tape—you’re right, I did actually say duct tape. The bathroom door is also on its last legs, held shut with a thin metal latch.

So, there is a system of buses here called “micros.” Micros all have a prescribed route to follow. Some go to the university, some go to Niebla, a town on the coast 10 miles away, some go to the Centro. Now, like most countries, all these different routes have numbers so that you don’t have to hail every micro and ask the driver where he is going. Thus, in theory, I know I can hail a 14 and get to the U in the morning or a 3 and get to the rowing club. I am sure that you have heard of similar systems in other countries as well. But this is Chile, and there are 2 types of Nº20, 11, and 9 (as I and my wallet had the misfortune of discovering) and probably many more, for your micro-riding enjoyment. I don’t get why they just don’t split the numbers into 20a and 20b, or better yet, pick new numbers. They are using only maybe a dozen out of at least 100 available to number bus routes. Why don’t they branch out and the number 20, that goes far from my home and takes me to places I don’t want to be, to 54, that would be novel, wouldn’t it?