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.