¿Jugo de qué?

Peru! My current playground. Classes finished up about 2 or 3 weeks ago, and I headed up north to explore a bit of Peru in my last few weeks in sudamerica. Although I am currently traveling alone( my three travel buddies having returned to Chile to see their families or fly back to the states) the first ten days of my trip were spent in the happy company of Robin, Heather, and April, three other gringas from my program.

Our first four days were spent in Arequipa and the surrounding area, visiting Colca Cañon (second deepest in the world), seeing condors, visiting a colorful and labyrinth-like monestary, and enjoying the sites. However, one of my favorite experiences took place off the beaten path and away from the swarms of gringos that flood the touristy section of the city. Heather and I set out at 8 am in search of fruit and bread for breakfast, only to discover (in what later turned out to be a fortunate turn of events) that El Super doesnt open at that ungodly hour. Wandering the streets, asking periodically in farmacias where we could find a panaderia (bread store) and a fruteria (fruit store), we were eventually given directions to el mercado. Treasure!! El mercado ended up being an enourmous warehouse crowded with stalls and vendors selling everthing imaginable. We found our fruit and then returned later with April and Robin to explore more completely the sights and smells.

The first thing I noticed was how nice everyone was. In the mercados in Chile, I often feel like I'm bothering the vendors if I ask a question and don't feel very welcome to simply wander. Here, although people were definitely hawking their goods, I felt free to ask what some of the unknowns were, and the vendors answered with a smile. Some of my discoveries included a liver the size of my torso and rows of goat heads (luckly my nose was stuffed, so what I'm sure was a delicious aroma of raw meat without ice in a warm warehouse did not make its way to my olfactory bulb). Fifty or more types of potatoes, stacked into perfect pyramides. Aisles of brightly colored fruit, amongst which we finally discovered the elusive Lucuma. Lucuma icecream is abundant in Chile, but we had thus far been unable to find the actual fruit, which turned out to be playdough-fiberous in texture and taste like dates...not a favorite. We were also able to buy some coca leaves, which peruvians chew for their energetic properties. ( I overheard a tour guide in one of the ruins explaining to his gringo group, "Coca sí. Cocaine, nooooooo." ). The winner for bizarreness, however, was... Jugo de Rana. Frog juice. Several times we walked by the clear plastic tank housing the thirty-some hopping frogs in a bit of dirty water, speculating what exactly jugo de rana would be. Eventually I stopped to ask how they make frog juice, and the vendor simply told me, "los liquidamos." We liquify them. Yum.

C-H-I CHI! L-E LE! CHI-CHI-CHI LE-LE-LE VIVA CHILE!!!!

Chile is currently number two in South America for qualifying for the 2010 World Cup in South Africa, so there is a lot of hype and futbol frenzy here. I joined in the cultural experience and went to an eliminatory game versus Bolivia. Thanks to the tireless efforts a friend, Daniel, who used his Chilean futbol senses to scour the city to find tickets the day before the game (and ultimately couldn't come because of a work conflict...) my friends and I were able to pile onto one of the countless buses making the journy from Viña del Mar to El Estadio Nacional in Santiago. The passengers consisted of a mix of gringo intercambio students like myself, hyped-up young Chilenos, and older couples patiently enduring the screaming energy careening around the interior of the bus. We came armPublish Posted with only the official chant for La Roja (Chile's national team; see title), but learned three or four more by the time we'd arrived at the stadium, thanks to our bus mates.

Ours was a fairly calm busride, compared to those we saw as we leap-frogged our way along the highway towards the city. The Chilenos in the back cracked open their beers, lit up their cigarettes in blatant denial of the signs (which are obligotory in all buses) that prohibit smoking in public transit, and periodically broke out in chants and songs. When we passed other buses, we would scream out the window, VIVA CHILE, and the other bus would reciprocate, its red-clad passengers waving their flags and banners out the window over the tops of other cars sharing the highway. As we neard the stadium the fans began jumping, shaking the bus, hitting the cealing in rhythm, and we joined in, being swept up in the frenzy that only built as we made our way into the stadium.

I have never been so happy to be part of a sea of red, white, and blue (the colors of Chile's flag). The 70,000-some fans filled the stadium with an intoxicating sense of pride and celebration. Looking around the stands, I spotted the fenced-off area, protected by Carabineros in full riot-gear, that housed the 46 Bolivian fans that had ventured onto enemy turf in valiant support of their team. And to hear the chants that the stadium sang, the Bolivians were very brave indeed. Some of the songs were purely mean, singing:

Ola, ola ola

Él que no salta no tiene mar (He who doesn't jump doesn't have the sea)

Chile beat Bolivia in the War of the Pacific, claiming the top bit of the country for itself and thus not allowing Bolivia to have any marine access. How brutal! Imagine the U.S. playing Mexico and yelling "Hey, hey, hey...we got the Alamo, suckers!"

The game was fantastic, with us beating Bolivia 4-0, and the last 3 goals scored in the final 20 minutes or so. And the celebratory screaming, chanting, jumping, flare-lighting, singing, flag-waving, friend-hugging, stadium-shaking uproar that overtook the stands when we scored was nothing short of what I'd hoped for. On the bus ride back 3/4 of the bus passed out from exhaustion and the last quarter sat in the back smoking, drinking, and celebrating. The bus even made a stop specifically for a Botilleria (liquor store) run. Have I mentioned that Chileans are known for their drinking? At 2 am back in Viña, there were still crowds outside of every bar waiting to get in and celebrate. I now wish, more than ever, that we Estadounidenses were as into futbol as the rest of the world.

Family Matters

Every weekend my host family walks 25 minutes through the streets of Viña del Mar to the house of my abuelo y abuela (Tata and Titi) for a family lunch, as do my two uncles, my aunt, and all the cousins. Three generations, all living in the same city. This is the trend in Chile: keep your family close. Children live with their parents until they get married. I just went to a goodbye party for a friend who is 26 and moving out of his house for the first time to go and live in Australia for a year. Many of my gringa friends have older siblings upwards of 25 living at home with them. And parents accomodate their children's social lives, helping them to throw parties and staying up until 4:30 am, not to hover and chaperone, but to say goodbye to the guests and thank them for coming.

I used to define independence and maturity as synonymous with complete self-sufficiency. At college, I relished the freedoms of coming and going without telling the parentals, doing my own grocery shopping, the gratification of spending my own money, and living with friends and experiencing that new type of family. But I also felt mature and free because I didn't need to call my parents, and when confronted with a problem, I felt some small sense of defeat when I broke down and called the family for advice. Living here, where your family is your best friend and your fail-safe support network, my perceptions have changed. Having been raised in the U.S. I still would't want to live with my parents until I got married or go home every weekend while at school , but I have a new appreciation for the value of family connections. [Interjection: My host mom asked me if my parents missed me a lot and I replied that yes, of course they did, but since I live in Portland when I'm at school, it really isn't all that different. Yes, she replied, except you visit them every weekend. No, I don't. Her eyes widened, and she stared at me... ] We all have parents, and we all know that they are the best people to call when we're feeling down or in a funk, so why deprive ourselves of that? Talking to our families a few times a week and visiting home are vital to strengthening and maintaining the incredible bond we have between ourselves and those people who will always always be there for us.

Because my host family has maintained that bond, the dynamic of our family lunches are more like those of a group of friends than of (at least in my mind) a typical family gathering. We sit outside, weather permitting and I frantically attempt to follow one of the five conversations being yelled back and forth across the circle of people. One weekend they pulled out a bottle of wine called Sexo. Here was the conversation, more or less:

Titi: ¿Quieres Sexo?

Viejita flaca (who is she? I don't know. I met her on my first day in the whirlwind of introductions to the entire family, forgot her name instantly, and now refer to her as 'viejita flaca' [little old skinny woman] ):

Sí. No he probado el Sexo antes.

Pascale (aunt): Siiipo, es rico el Sexo.

Viejita flaca: Mmm, si, me gusta. ¿Terra, has probado el Sexo? ¡Pruébalo!

Translation:

Titi: Do you want sex?

Viejita flaca: Yes. I haven't tried sex before.

Pascale: Yessss, sex is delicious.

Viejita flaca: Mmm, yes, I like it. Terra, have you tried sex? Try it!

Another evening as the whole family was eating La Once (ohn-say: tea time) they started discussing uroligists and rectal exams. I was absolutely dying of laughter, gasping for breath. Here I am, in a Catholic country, being asked if I'd like to try sex and joking about rectal exams. What a wonderful contradiction. They have transformed family gatherings from awkward conversations about classes, life plans, and job troubles, from strained hours in which you try to fill the gaping holes in the details of eachothers lives, to light hearted joking, laughter, and comfortable discourse. Upon my return to Gringolandia I am hoping to bring a bit of the Chilean family-spirit back with me.

The Gringas Get Lost

I contemplated not writing about this less-than-savory experience, but decided to share it with you since my ill-fated adventures are as much a part of this semester abroad as the good ones.

A couple of weeks ago, Roxanne and I decided to go for an adventure into the hills of Valparaìso. The city is known for its hills, or cerros, which roll down from the Cordillera de la Costa and populate all but the city center with a labyrinth of twisting streets, tight allys, and winding staircases.  The houses are quaint and bohemian, covering the entire palate of colors, from bright happy reds, yellow, blues, to awful salmon-pink and pukey-green.  Yet all of them somehow fit the scene perfectly; quaint houses, erratic colors, and crooked streets.  We rode up the acensor Artillería to see a view of the port and the city and then started wandering.  Oooh, look at that church!  Look at that building!  Look at these stairs!  In short, stupid.  

We ended up on one of the sketchier cerros.  There were few people out in the streets, although those that we did see looked decently respectable.  Normal people in normal clothes.  No shady corners with wired druggies, no homless individuals sleeping in the gutter.  Some of the houses were dilapidated, with shingles hanging off and siding falling away, but often enough the house next door was well-kept, clean, and decorated with nice furniture.  None the less, we realized that we had wandered far off of the gringo path into a neighborhood where we stuck out like neon signs, clearly foreign and naive to life in such a place.  We turned back towards the plano, the city center, and began to make our way down the cerro, futilely attempting to stay on bigger and well-trafficked streets that simply don't exist up in the hills.  

Roxanne later told me that as we backtracked by a house where two men had been sitting, one walked inside and the other stood by the door, watching us.  Several blocks later, I saw two other men walking down an ally towards our street.  We perhaps should have been more on our guard by this point, but we were foolishly unworried.  Its hard to imagine anything going wrong at four in the afternoon on a clear sunny day, as you walk by cerulean blue and lime green houses.

The two men from the ally turned onto our street and followed us as we passed two other pedestirans and rounded a wide, blind corner bordered on one side by a wall and the other by a railing and a drop-off.  I saw two men jogging towards us from the front, but when one reached into his belt and pulled out a gun, my vision blurred.  I swayed on my feet, stupidly wondering why someone would pull out a gun, who it was intended for.  My mind was numbly chanting at me, this isn't happening, this isn't happening, this isn't happening...  Why was he waving the gun around, pointing it at my face?  I couldn't see anything except for him, and the cold, dangerous piece of metal in his hand.  He finally brought the gun to rest in Roxanne's gut, pressed up under her rib cage.  The two men who had been following us rushed at us from behind and pulled our bags from over our shoulders, pulled camera and wallet from Roxanne's pockets, took my camera.  They were strangely gentle.  No shoving, no physical intimidation.  Perhaps this, combined with my dysfunctioning consciousness, prompted me to grab onto my bag. "Porfavor...nuestras cosas..."  The man who was taking my bag, more of a boy really, with his patchy adolescent beard and moustache, held his fingers to his lips and shook his head, "Shhhhhhh...."  With that simple sound, the repititious chanting of my denial stopped and allowed the reality of the situation to sink in.  The look in his eyes screamed at me YES, THIS IS HAPPENING.  WE HAVE A GUN.  ARE YOU REALLY GOING TO RESIST?  They could kill us, I thought, and let go.  I hardly remember them running away, our bags over their shoulders.  Up some stairs, down a street, and gone into the labrynth of the cerros.  

Two women came out on the street down which the men had fled, looking at us and pointing after the theives.  As I stood pulling at my hair, unable to move, the two pedestrians we had passed rounded the corner and looked pityingly at us, but did not pause.  The women helped us call the Carabineros, the Chilean police.  Or, rather, they helped Roxanne call them while I tried to get my body to stop shaking, sitting on the sidewalk, unable to stand.  After two phone calls and 15 minutes, the Carabineros arrived.  They weren't much help as far as getting our things back, but made the situation much lighter and easier to deal with.  As we were filling out our statements, they got call about another robbery commited by four men at the bottom of the same cerro.  With Roxanne and I in the back seat of the van, they took off on a police chase.  Our van was joined by one other and at least six motorbikes that sped through the cerros, splitting off down side roads and alleys.  As we passed pedestrians, our remaining Carrabinero (the other two had gone on foot down an alley) asked us " Is that them?  ¿Ellos? ¿Ellos?"  

Not surprisingly, we didn't find them.  The Carabineros helped us finish our statements, lightly making fun of our use of Chilean slang, the pronunciation of our names, the fact that Roxanne's camera case was a sock.  They hailed a bus for us, asking the driver to take us for free, and left us in good spirits, though still distinctly shaken.  The shock of the experience took several days to die down.  I was nauseous and faint the entire next day, nervous about being out of my house.  The image of the guy pulling the gun out, and of the other shhh-ing me replayed in my head, making my stomach drop and my head spin.  Walking back from frisbee practice we heard people running and talking behind us and I flashed back to the corner, seeing the yellow-tan color of the buildings for half a second, my heart pounding in my throat. 

With time, though, the PTSD faded.  It was an unfortunate experience, but all that was lost was stuff.  Things.  It could have been so much worse, and for that I am grateful.  They also somehow missed both of our phones, which we'd put in our pockets.  I'm hoping that my alloted rationing of robbery has now been used up and that I won't have a repeat situation.  But if anyone tried to rob us again, they'd be out of luck:  we have nothing left to lose.  By this point I consider myself completely recovred from the experience.   I'm happy and healthy, learned a good lesson, and even gained something from the experience: a good story.  After all, how many people can say they were robbed at gunpoint?

zoologico loco

I spent easter weekend in Mendoza, Argentina with four friends, living it up with wine tours and tastings, bike rides, incredible icecream and alfajores (dulce de leche cookies), hot springs, and ...the zoo.  

The zoo was...an experience.  First, we had to beg for change to take the bus there.  Apparently there was a serious shortage of mondedas (change) in all of Mendoza that weekend and none of the stores or restaurants could give us any, even when we bought something.  After walking for an hour and scrounging for change we made it to the zoo and walked in to find...monkeys!  But monkeys not in their cages, where we expected them to be, but rather swinging happily through the trees overhead, clambering over the birds' cages, and scampering across the path, taking popcorn from delighted children and their parents.  We soon realized that escaping animals was not a singular event.  As we walked the path, a peacock crossed in front of us.  The guanacos (a camelid) were happily munching grass on our side of their fence.  There was a cat in the condor's cage, eating some hunks of meat that had been thrown in for the birds.  And where were the condors?  In the open sky, circling overhead.  Five of them.  

On top of the free-roamers, we were skeptical of the integrity of the cages that still held their animals.   We watched two lions in a roaring match, uncomfortably aware that all that separated them from us was a chain link fence.  A chain link fence?  Yes.  I could have leaned over the hip-high railing, across the three-foot space inbetween that and the fence, and stuck my hand inside the cage.   Separating us (and the hundreds of small children running about) from another pit of lions was...nothing.  Just a big drop off.  Hmmm.  There were also signs saying, "Evite accidentes por imprudencia."  Avoid careless accidents.  Great safety tip.

Despite all of this, no one was eaten (as far as we know...)

Carrete

Chileans have a way of partying that goes beyond anything i've ever seen.  Two weeks ago the prof of my oceanography class anounced that on thursday we would be having a paseo (an outing) that would be paid for by the school.  We'd leave at 9:30 and get back by 7 pm, and it was optional.  I decided to go, at the urging of a chilean classmate, assuming it would be some sort of feild trip to an aquariam, beach, tide pools, or something.  How naive...

They loaded the entire Ocean Sciences student body onto some micros (small city buses), and we drove south, south, south, busses sagging under the weight of too many screaming, singing, smoking passengers squished in the aisles, on laps, hanging out of windows.  Three-cuarters of the aisle of our bus was filled with stacks of Escudo, Chilean beer:  first sign that this would not be the trip I expected.  We arrived in a park/woodsey area and students gathered around picnic tables, segregated into their respective majors: oceanography, aquaculture, pescera (fishing), geography.  As speakers and a music were set up, asados lit, and bottles and bottles of booze appeared from students bags it became very clear that this school-sponsored event had nothing to do with academics (I don't even know if there were any professors there) and everything to do with partying.  

People started cracking open beers and wine at noon (whaaa?) and kept going until 7, when we headed home.  However, this being south america, they feel no need to rush with their partying as we college-kids often do in the U.S.  The alcohol was present, yes, but it was not the purpose of the gathering.  People sipped their drinks through out the day, making friends, playing games, chatting, and eating.  A much healthier partying-style than what we are accustomed to in the U.S.  Even when they go out at night, if they go out at 11, they won't come home until 5, so what's the rush?  Carretes (parties) are as they should be: about having fun, not about getting smashed.  

Someone organized a soccer tournament and we played, six to a side, haphazardly running around the pitch, 50-plus people watching and cheering. Even with such ephemeral team mates, Chileans form a type of comraderie and are so joyous when they win.  The players on the team that won ran around the field and gathered in a group, arms around eachothers shoulders, jumping in unison and chanting "Ey, ey, ey, ey, ey!!" The joy was tangible.

Later on the DJ gathered people together to start another game.  Curious, I went to watch.  In the center of the circle were teams consisting of one guy and one girl from the same major, and the DJ was hyping up the crowd, who was cheering on their respective representitives.  I couldn't understand what was being said or what the game was through the noise and the rapid garble of the DJ's words, but saw the guy in the center of the circle lean over, and then saw the girl lean her weight back and kick him, as hard as she could, in the butt.  What?  I turned to my friends and asked them, "This is a game??"  Yes.  "How is this a game?  What's the game part of this? "  The team that kicks/gets kicked the hardest (as judged by the crowd's cheers) wins a bottle of rum.  Unbelievable.  School-sponsored event and they have students kicking eachother for copete (alcolol).  I guess this is Chile.

Hola guapa

I have now been a resident of Vina del Mar for 2 weeks.  Woah.   Two weeks of being oriented; of meeting my new family, family friends,  extended family, extended family's friends, friend's friends, uncle's nephew's cousin's girlfriend....and so on;  of sitting in the midst of a crowd of Chileans, all yelling accros the table to eachother; of late nights, and even later nights; and of complete, unbelievable exhaustion.  

First, my family.  They are amazing; so perfectly matched to me that I wonder how CIEE (my study abroad program) managed it.  My host mom is Rosemarie, a 40-something woman who does yoga, smiles a lot and loves her family.  From the moment I met them she made me feel welcome and like a part of the family.  They gave me a family tree that had my name on one of its branches, and this morning over breakfast she told me that when she got the letter from CIEE that described me and had my picture, she burst into tears.  She called me the daughter she never had.  

I also have three brothers.  My two little brothers are Antonio (7) and Renato (6).  It's taken a bit, but they are warming up to me, and I to them.  Yesterday when I got back from class Antonio ran into the kitchen and gave me a big hug around my legs.  So, so cute.  They scream a lot and throw a lot of fits, but overall are super cute and sweet.  My other brother is Nicolas (Nico).  He's 21, vegeterian, Taoist, studies precussion (specifically latin american drumming), has dreads, and is super cool.  He's been great about taking me out, introducing me to his friends, and showing me around the city.  On top of my family, my house always seems to have other people in it.  Someone named Claudio, who I think is Rosemarie's exhusband's brother.  Why he's here, I haven't figured out yet.  Random friends and family, all who remain nameless yet familiar faces.

One aspect of Chilean life that has taken some getting used to is the lateness:  everything, EVERYTHING, is late, both on purpose and otherwise.  First, they arrive late: my drawing prof arrived 45 minutes late to class, rosemarie will tell our nana (maid) that she'll be home in 30 minutes, but won't get home for1.5 hours.  Nico told me its an thing of Chilean pride and also an assertion of power.  Higher-up types can be late, those beneath them cannot.  Second, their daily schedules are later than ours, shifted a few hours.  Lunch is at 2 or 3.  La once (ohn-say; tea and sandwiches) is at 8, and dinner (if it happens at all) is at 9 or 10.  Bars don't fill up until 12 or 1 am, and dancing doesn't start until 1 or 2.  People are often out until 5 or 6, and they somehow manage to do this day after day!!!   Last friday I made an attempt at this lifestyle, going out to a huge discotheque called El Huevo (the egg...why?  who knows.)   until 4, and the next day going to a bar and a party until 5.  Very nearly killed me.  By sunday I had to revert to full-on gringa, napping and going to bed early.  

I'm also begining to adjust to the piropos (cat calls/whistles).  They're not excessive, but can be a bit wearying and unnerving, especially late at night.  I've decided to adopt the Latin American perspective and to take them as a form of flattery.  And how can you help but smile when walking down the street someone mutters, "Hermosa, cuatro hermositas," "Hola guapa," or "Bella, bella, bellisima!"