finally some photos

http://mcgill.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2042019&id=13604199&l=66048

http://mcgill.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2041963&id=13604199&l=140e7

http://mcgill.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2041949&id=13604199&l=c6c2c

http://mcgill.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2041947&id=13604199&l=f652d

twenty one and back in chile

Today is my twenty-first birthday.

Well, it was, until about 15 minutes ago.

Julia and I woke this morning to a sunny (although significantly cooler than the 30+ we were used to in Rio) Santiago morning. Lo and behold my little bro called me bright and early to wish me a happy birthday. I was pleasantly surprised -- and just happy to talk to him.

J and I did some last minute souvenir shopping. I bought myself a lapis lazuli ring ... happy birthday to me.

The we had some monetary issues -- mainly the fact that no bank machine was willing to spit out any cash. With just enough coins in my wallet for some metro tickets (and that only because of cheaper weekend rates) and a credit card, Julia and I decided to take a little trip. It's my birthday -- forgive me for feeling a bit invincible.

So we hopped a bus to Isla Negra, a tiny town of one paved road that is neither an island nor black. On the ride over the rest of my family (sis, niece and nephew, mum and dad) called and treated me to a lovely rendition of the birthday song -- complemented by the happy shrieks of the twins. I miss my family -- it's weird to know that they are all together without me!

Back to Isla Negra. It's a small town on the beach, where Pablo Neruda had his third house, now a museum. At the ticket counter we were informed that they did not accept credit cards. And that there is no bank in the town. I must have looked disappointed, because the guy behind the counter decided to let us in on a tour for free...as "invitadas". I couldn't believe it -- I never expect that kind of treatment for formal institutions. It made my day. I told him it was my birthday and thanked him for the gift.

The house was amazing, as are most things related to Neruda. All of his houses have boat themes and are full of weird object. Neruda was a collector of collections -- hundreds of huge shells, sculptors of the prows of boats, little ships in bottles. Afterwards we hung out on the beach for a bit, then went into a restaurant (with a visa sticker on the door) for an extremely late lunch. We toasted to a successful voyage (can't believe it's over!) and to my cumpleanos. Sneaky Julia even got me a gift -- a collection of contemporary Brazillian plays (don't know how she managed it considering we were almost always together and she doesn't speak Portuguese). She's a crafty kid -- I was impressed.

I think we got back to the hostel around 10:30-ish, and spent the rest of my birthday minutes making annoying calls to banks in Canada to figure out why we couldn't get money. Turns out RBC cancelled Julia's credit card because it had been copied -- although there were no unusual charges made on it so who knows. TD got their act together on my debit card so we should have cash again tomorrow, joy.

We don't have any major plans for our last day in Santiago, just retrieve the rest of our luggage from a friend's storage room, repack, then make our way to the airport for our evening flight. We'll be back in Montreal 5 pm-ish on Monday. Then I'm off to Ottawa to celebrate my birthday with the fam (I haven't had my cake and candles yet) and to Winnipeg on Wednesday for my godfather's wedding. Definitively back in Montreal for the end of the month.

I'm going to miss a lot of stuff here, but I'm dying to go home. Sleeping in my own bed, peeing in my own bathroom, having my own internet access all seem quite luxurious to me. The blog's not dead yet though -- I intend to add photos to all these last entries so do check back in a few days for the finished product.

thoughts of a slightly smelly traveller

In my world of privileged university students, it's a right of passage. Like frosh and reading week road trips, it's part of the university experience. There's something about living out of an over-sized backpack, sharing bunks with strangers and showering in plastic flip flops -- a last rebellion against impending yuppiehood, perhaps?

This kind of traveling has its own rules, none of which are conventional. Take personal hygiene, or even cleanliness in general. Grammar says that a statement like "the clean shirt" is absolute. Backpackers know it is absolutely relative -- and at this point in my travels, frankly irrelevant. Showers occur only when several stars align: the bathroom is free, the hot water pressure is above trickle level, and you managed not to leave your soap in the last hostel. Even the most attentive preener slackens her standards. Untweezed eyebrows are less offensive; the solution for greasy hair is not shampoo but a hair-tie; the line between pajamas and street clothes begins to blur.

The magical thing about hostel life is that none of this skimping on soaping adversely affects interpersonal relations. At our hostel in Rio we'd all sit around after a day at the beach, still scantily clad and sandy, sipping Steve's happy hour caipirinhas or his even meaner mojito. Stevie's an Aussie -- been bouncing around latin america since finishing his degree in Psych 2 years ago. He's working at the hostel and learning Portuguese, thinking about heading home some time soon but no concrete plans. There were a lot of people on extended latin american adventures -- made our 8 days look pretty paltry. We made a lot of fast and good friends. Chris, our crazy danish roommate (who, despite speaking no Portuguese, boasts a vast collection of Brazilian girls' numbers scribbled on napkins and receipts) was rounding out a year exchange in Buenos Aires, where he purportedly researched for his masters' thesis. Barbara (aka Barbie) who was taking a break from her masters' internship with the German embassy in Bs As, proved that Germans are not all 'frios'. And of course, Capitanito, the Ecuadorian leader of our pack, who traveled 10 days by bus from Ecuador to spend a week in Rio. There were the Brazilians, too -- Rafa who asked me for a kiss everyday, Pedro whose mother is Portuguese, Leo who set me straight on politics, tropical fruit, and Brazilian musical genres. There were the three extremely loud Argentina brothers, with all the flirtiness, culinary talent, and boisterousness you would expect of Italian descendants. There was a cartload of Brits, a few Aussies, a few other latin americans. We were the only Canadians (there was one dude from the US but he slept all day) and I was the only Portuguese.

Life's a big question mark for me after graduation. There's a lot of the world to see and I haven't figured out which corner I'd like to start in. I don't know why I'm so addicted to picking up and starting from nothing all the time. I'm not even sure what I take from all these places I visit or the people I meet. But it was pretty cool to indulge my addiction with so many neat people these past couple weeks...

FOOD FOR THOUGHT. Pablo Neruda (Chilean poet, Nobel prize winner, diplomat, politician, traveler, etc.) writes:
"Pienso que el hombre debe vivir en su patria y creo que el desarraigo del los seres humanos es una frustración que de alguna manera u otra entorpece la claridad del alma. Yo no puedo vivir sino en mi propria tierra, no puedo vivir sin poner los pies, las manos, y el oído en ella, sin sentir la circulación de sus aguas y de sus sombras, sin sentir cómo mis raíces buscan en su légamo las sustancias maternas..."

cidade maravilhosa

The guidebook says that the view from Cristo Redentor should remove any doubt that Rio is the most beautiful place on earth. I have a lot of the earth left to visit, so I´m not about to make such absolute statements, but that view was incredible. The statue opens his arms to a sprawling metropolis, laced with long stretches of white sands. Favelas crawl their way up the oddly-shaped mountains that have sprouted in the urban landscape, islands and rocks formation lie just off the coast. It´s not called the cidade marvilhosa for nothing...

The rest of the afternoon was spent eating and wandering in the b ohemian Santa Teresa. Santa Teresa is a world away from the madness of Copacabana and Ipanema. There are beautiful turn-of-the-century houses, with sweeping views of the city, little bars and restaurants and plenty of corner shops. It was just so...quiet compared to the rest of the city.

As the sun was setting we made it to the Stairway to Heaven, a gift of a chilean artist to Rio. The stairs and decorated with tiles from all of the world (send a tile to the artist and he´ll add it): living art in an otherwise dingy part of town. There was a tile from Alfama, Lisbon which we have on a hot-plate in our house, as well as few from Canada. Represent.

We´re back at the hostel now...there´s a pizza party in the making, the usual relaxing and socializing with the grabbag of people we live with. Tomorrow we´re heading past Ipanema to a beach called Barra. I´m still frighteningly white so looking forward to a day of snoozing on white sands...

Deus é brasileiro

I wish I could explain how absolutely relaxed and content I feel at this moment. It started the moment we walked into our hostel: people lazing on hammocks and colourful couches, reading, chatting, drinking caipirinhas and listening to music. There is no reception desk or anything quite that formal, just a desk tucked under the stairs where I am currently sitting. Our door sleeps 9 in bunks 3 stories high -- there are no check-ins or locked doors. In Bs As we kept to ourselves mostly... on the first day here we made instant friends with Chris, the tall Danish dude on exchange in Buenos Aires (finishing his masters in political science), Barbara (aka Barbie), just off an internship at the German embassy in Buenos Aires and of course Dany, who spent a week on bus to get here from Ecuador. They´re a good bunch, and because of Dany, we almost always speak Spanish which is nice. When you live so close to people it´s always a good thing to get along.

So, what have we been up do again...? There was the first afternoon on Copacabana, then all of yesterday at Posto 9 of Ipanema. The weather is in the high twenties, the water is ideal, the sands are crowded but fun. Just lying on the beach listening to the sing-song of the beach vendors is entertaining. They sell EVERYTHING on the beach (like the micros in Chile!), from pareos and earings to beer and shrimp kebabs. My favourite yesterday was a guy dressed in a dish-dash selling ¨salgados arabes do mustafá¨. Like I say, you can buy anything.

In the evening there was an argentine-style asado at the hostel (it´s owned by argentines) and then out to a crazy street party type thing in Lapa. We came home early, at 4 am. It´s worth getting up for breakfast at the hostel, which includes plenty of fresh fruit, cake and ham and cheese grilled sandwiches. This afternoon we headed to a market, spent some reais, and came home for a nap. As I write this I am digesting a delicious dinner made mostly by our Equatorian friend. We´re planning to head to a little outdoor bar for a drink in a minute, but it´s only 10 so the night is still very, very young :)

So I love the hostel, I love the beach, I love naps. Also, am obsessed with the juice stands on every corner of this busy city. Fruits I´ve never ever heard of, squeezed and blended into the most amazing cocktails . My current favourite is a deep purple smoothy made of açaí. I don´t even know what it looks like, but it´s deeeeelicious.

Tomorrow the plan is to hit up Ipanema with the rest of the Sunday crowd. Apparantly they close the main waterfront avenue to traffic -- there are that many people. Monday we might head up to the Cristo, eventually we´ll take the cable car up to the sugarloaf...and more beach. Brazil is significantly more expensive than Argentina, so we´re making the most of the free entertainment. And I am so shamefully white that I need all the sand and sun I can get.

Utter contentment...I could get used to this life :)

hasta luego buenos aires

Closed out our 10 days in Bs As in style...one last cortado, one last round of the book store, one last wonderful plotless musical on Corrientes, one last empanada....

Tomorrow morning we'll be heading to the airport at about 5:30 am. We'll be in Rio until the 18th. We have no bigger plan than to read all the books we've bought in Argentina, lying on a beach. We're staying at a hostel in Botafogo (ie between Cristo Redemptor and Pao de Açucar) that was recommended to me by a fellow teacher in Santiago.

I'm so ready for my slice of summer!



By the way, thanks to the people who comment on my blog (or e-mail their comments to me). It's nice to know that people read this thing and it's not just floating around aimlessly in cyberspace :)

some countries are just sexier than others

I'm proud of being Portuguese. I think we have the most charming European capital, the best grilled fish, and enough coast for any beach lover. I have to admit, though, that Argentina -- with its pin stripe suited "chorros" and leggy ladies -- is much sexier.

Portuguese traditional dancing involves several couples, usually sweaty-looking in their frumpy skirts and long-sleeved shirts, skipping and twirling to the one-two-THREE of an accordian, various string and precussion instruments, and the somewhat whiney voices of elderly females. My parents did it, I've done it, my kids, if I ever have any, will probably be subjected to it too. It's the rhythm of our culture and we like it.

As everyone knows, the national dance of Argentina is the tango. Last week Julia and I watched a tango show in the atmospheric basement of Cafe Tortoni, the oldest coffee joints in town (over 150 years in the biz). Taken on its own, tango is sensual -- enlaced legs, curved backs, brushing lips -- but compared with other national dances, it's downright hot.

The show was fabulous -- three couples, rotating wardrobes, dancing that was acrobatic, theatrical, entertaining. The musicians were as gorgeous as the dancers. Piano, accordion, double bass, set to often nostalgic and always romantic poetry. In my Latin American Politics class we read an article that talked about Peron's charisma -- apparantly he often borrowed the images and poetry of tango in his speaches, giving him that common touch that made him so appealing to the masses. It makes a lot more sense now...

We've seen it in the street, in our hostel, in formal, choreographed shows. I can't help thinking that if I had tango in my veins instead of marchas, I'd be a little swankier.

I guess some countries are just sexier than others. ...

PS Sorry about the lack of photos, but not all internet cafes are camera friendly. I will edit these entries and add my bs as photos as soon as I can. Check back!

random smiles in buenos aires

Every once in a while, Julia and I giggle to ourselves as we walk down the street. Sometimes we stop and stare. Here are some of the things that have tickled us in Bs As.

- waitresses in theatre cafes singing arias to bemused tourists, and then promptly picking up their dishrags and returning to their spots behind the expresso machine

- baseball-style candy vendors peddling their overpriced papas fritas and manjar-filled chocolates during the intermission in high-end theatres

- in the same theatre, advertisements being lowered with the main curtain at intermission and at the end of the show (I always knew musicals were comercial, but seriously...)

- cute male waiters carrying trays of cortados (served in glass cups where you can see the coffee floating above the milk) down busy centro streets without spilling (or mixing the layers)

the benefits of beef

Honestly, I don't like red meat all that much. It's OK every once in a while, but in Argentina it's everywhere: slapped on the bbq, on my spaghetti, minced and stuffed in empanadas. And I'll admit, it's good (this is where Patrick says "I told you so").

There is, however, a happier side-effect of being in a beef-producing country. Where there are cows, there is leather. And where there is leather...there are shoes.

I'm on my second pair since arriving in Bs As. I fell in love with a pair of brown suede boots on the first day, and just yesterday, wandering down Santa Fe where every second store sells shoes or books (heaven!), bought a pair of black flats. A pair of pretty shoes (with leather soles....sigh...) makes my day. But I'm done now. Besides the fact that I don't need them, another pair would neither fit in my budget nor my backpack. I'm even rubbing off on Julia who bought some daring boots yesterday. (Jay, I'm sorry, I did my best to point out all the round-toed boots but there was nothing doing. I take no responsibility for the pointiness of her purchase. But...she does look pretty hot.)

It's not that we necessarily plan shopping days, but Bs As is a city for strolling. The combination of trendy stores and a very favorable exchange rate is what gets us. We've been taking the city a neighbourhood at a time. There was "The Producers" on Bs As's Broadway, Corrientes St (Springtime for Hitler is even more ridiculous in Spanish, if you can imagine). And huge Teatro Colon, more ornate than any of the churches we've seen. In Canitas (culinary haven) there was dinner at Las Cholas -- we showed up at 10 and weren't seated until 11, but the grilled meats and veggies were cheap and delish. In La Boca we saluted the Boca Juniors stadium for Patrick and Maradona, before dropping some cash at la feria artesenal and settling down for cafe cortado (a variation on the expresso + milk formula) and media lunas (croissants). Palermo is our favourite strolling neighbourhood. It's got a few different areas: Palermo viejo, Palermo Hollywood, Palermo SoHo. I'm not the only one feeling the NY connection here. In general it's got a pretty plateau-ish feel for you Montrealers, shops and more restaurants than we could ever stomach on this trip. Then there was San Telmo with its cobblestone streets and antique stores, and Puerto Madero (old yucky port land recycled and turned into posh business and residential area, reminiscent of our neighbourhood in Lisbon).

We also did our Evita tourism in the last few days. On Sunday we visited the aptly named Museo Evita, housed in a beautiful old mansion. The museum sets up the idea of the two myths of Evita (saint or manipulative you-know-what on a power trip). They had some cool stuff, including a lot of her clothes. Unfortunately the contextual information was pretty uneven, and I didn't feel like it quite as fair as it set out to be. Regardless of what you think of her, though, there is no doubt she captured the imagination of millions of people. We paid a visit to her final resting place yesterday (her body was variously buried in Italy and Spain before finally making it back in the 70s) at Recoleta Cemetery. She's in her family's mausoleum (no graves in this cemetery, creepy house type things with coffins on shelves inside), with commemorative plaques and flowers on the outside.

Today we're heading going to check out a photo exhibit and have plans to spend the evening sipping coffee somewhere exciting. Tomorrow is our last day in Bs As. We're getting our legs waxed in the morning in preparation for Rio and then we'll see where the city takes us. We're ending our stay here at the theatre again. We leave Thursday am for Rio. Keep your fingers crossed, we're hoping the weather stays at mid-20 range it's at now.

PS For anyone looking for reading material (or curious about Chile after reading my blog for the past months...) I recommend Mi pais inventado (or My Imagined Country) by Isabel Allende. Just finished it and can't stop talking about it.

a vacation from the vacation

There are few things I remember from the family vacations of my childhood. There was Paris (or that time we saw "Beauty and the Beast" at EuroDisney), Rome (that place with a lot of scooters), Muscat (aka a really long car ride) or Goa (the hotel with the life-size chess board).

There are some memories that don't belong to any particular vacation, rather to the idea of what it means to holiday with the Sousas.

First, and foremost, the walking. My dad is an energetic man with long strides. He is also possibly the only person to have powerwalked the Champs Elysees -- and enjoyed it. That's the lasting image of our travels: Mum, Daniel and I wondering why we couldn't just stroll like everyone else, Dad on a schedule all of his own.

Dad would probably be pretty bored with me and Julia. We sleep in, we take leisurely coffee breaks in the afternoons, we stop in at every other shop on our way anywhere. Buenos Aires is a big, busy city with plenty to see and do, and after three days we we ready for a vacation from our vacation.

And so we went to Uruguay.

On Thursday morning we hopped a ferry across the way to Colonial del Sacramento, a small town (reputadely the most pictoresque) in Uruguay. We spent two wonderful days doing nothing much -- meandering down cobblestone streets, taking in tiny museums and big lunches, napping and watching the water.

There's another thing about family vacations -- well, about my dad really. In Oman I can see him pointing out the royal coat of arms on the cannons outside the old Portuguese forts. In Goa, it's him attempting to speak Portuguese to anyone who looks like they might be old enough to remember those colonial days. Today he talks about going to Timor Leste or S. Tome e Principe off the West coast of Africa. It's a strange tendency, but a natural one -- no matter how far away he goes, he's always looking for pieces of home.

Colonia was founded by the Portuguese in the early 1700s. That's why there are narrow cobblestone streets to wander and azelujos (painted tiles) on the houses. The Portuguese weren't there that long (until about 1760 when they signed some peace treaty with the Spaniards) but they left their mark in the architecture of the old town. All of the museums are housed in well-restored manors of Portuguese governors and officials, including the Portuguese Museum (made possible by a generous grant from the Fundacao Calouste Gulbenkien interestingly enough).


That's me with my arm around a bust of Camoes, the Shakespeare of Portugal.

What can I say...

I am my father's daughter.

argentinian spanish is strange

We're here! No photos just yet, but there is internet in our hostel so hopefully I'll be able to keep you updated. I've already been charmed by Buenos Aires...

PS if anyone reading this has Diego Freytes´e-mail address, let me know!

the skeleton of the travel plans

monday 31 july 930 santiago-buenos aires

thursday 10 august 830 buenos aires-rio de janeiro

friday 18 august 1210 rio de janeiro-santiago

saturday 19 august santiago celebration of my 21st :)

sunday 20 august 2030 santiago-montreal


That's the bones of the thing. Julia (montreal roomie) and I are grabbing our backpacks and heading out tomorrow. Where we sleep tomorrow no one knows, but that's the fun of the thing.

I'll try to update from the hostels and pit stops along the way. Apparantly my chilean mobile will roam, so in case of emergency, try me at + 56 8 928 4631. Sms are good too.

Wish us luck!

aprendi a quererte y a veces entenderte...

Since leaving school I've been working with Alissa, the Project Aprender Canada coordinator in Chile. My job so far has been quite mind-numbing: I have been compiling mid- and final project evaluations, from volunteers as well as school administrators and project mentor teachers. Lots of tables and graphs, typing, translating, and turning the whole idea of this crazy project over and over in my mind.

Project Aprender Canada is only in its second year. It's still very much a personal project, something that started when Jon (fellow McGillian) met with Fernan ("the godfather") and talked about the possibility of sending McGill kids down to work at the schools run by Corporacion Aprender, of which Fernan is a board member. On a micro level, its about being the first gringo these kids have interacted with: help develop oral skills, provide incentives to learn English, broaden their cultural horizons, act as a positive role model. It's about "si se puede" as much as it is about driving home the point that English is real and useful. English is part of a national education policy in Chile -- which, when you consider the position Chile sees for itself in the world, should hardly be surprising.

There's more than a hint of social justice to it, too. Everything about the way this country works keeps the incredible social inequality in place. In Santiago's nicer neighbourhoods, kids attend schools that are perfectly bilingual. Those that have access to real language education are the ones that already have resources. My kids, in Puente Alto, are not necessarily poor -- at least not most o f them. They're from working families, but they all have cell phones, walk around plugged into their mp3 players, and a decent number (if they can make the grade for the public system) will go to university. But when they apply for an award or a job with a kid who went to Santiago College or Instituto Nacional, they are at an instant disadvantage. Just seeing that they went to a school in Puente Alto, no matter what their marks, can slice their chances. English is a skill that is really valued in the job market, something that can help them get out of the Puente Alto funk.

Obviously, in two and a half months we dinky Canadian uni students are not teaching anyone to speak English. But the fact that we come so far is a boost for the status of English at the school, and hopefully the effects of our sojourn will be felt later. We tried to make learning English fun and more relevant. Aside from my silly warm-up games, I filled my hour-and-a-half classes with listening exercises to things like "You're Beautiful" by James Blunt -- possibly the most-recognized English song of the season. In my beginning English class with the mothers, we started with "Hello, Goodbye" by The Beatles. They loved it...and it was fun for me, too.

There is no doubt in my mind that what we did outside of the classroom was far more important than what we did inside. It's really about the times we sat around fiddling with guitars and singing, talking bands and the Montreal music scene. It's about their questions about Canadian food and winters, and what people in Canada think about Chile. It was their constant marvel that we were friends with Julia and Jon (the volunteers from last year) and that we all got together in Canada. It was talking student mobilisation and gossiping about other teachers. It was about bringing me cuchufli and alfajores (cookies) to try, or burning me a CD by Los Prisioneros, the 80s protest band of choice. It's about the dozens and dozens of new additions to my msn contacts, the e-mails, the requests to post comments on their fotologs.

I learned so much from them. But did I actually teach them anything?



On our last day at school, a group of kids threw us a surprise party, where we were showered with confetti and gifts. The title of this entry comes from a card I got from one of my grade ten girls.

Aprendi a quererte y a veces entenderte, she writes -- I learned to love you and sometimes understand you.

I love it - the fruits of my labour at Colegio Obispo Alvear, put so simply. I always knew I couldn't open my mind for those kids and dump out all my English knowledge in 10 weeks. But I could open my heart and see what happened.

I think it worked out.

tick tick tick

The spaces between my thoughts are filled with ticks. There's so much I haven't seen, or photographed, or written about for this to be over. I never explained how the eigtht graders won me over, or told you about the principal with the TV in the closet, or how many times I taught "You're Beautiful" by James Blunt.

This is my last week of decent internet connectivity until I return to Montreal on August 21st. That's a euphemism, of course. It's not about the internet at all. It's leaving this bizarre city and everything it has meant to me over the past three months.

I have mixed feelings about Santiago. I mostly feel that I could never actually live here. It's just too big, too smoggy, too much like a million other cities. It's nothing like the other cities of my life -- it doesn't have the charm of Lisbon, or the attitude of Montreal, or the white sands of Abu Dhabi. Puente Alto, where I spent most of my time, is particularly devoid of character. It the largest 'comuna' of Santiago, at the southern extreme of the city. It's huge, almost a city in its own right. It has nicer neighbourhoods as well as ugly, poor areas, huge hipermarkets and daily street markets. But Puente Alto is primarily where people sleep. The jobs are closer to the heart of the city, which makes for long days and rough comutes.

I lived in a firmly lower-middle class neighbourhood. Blocks and blocks of rectangular houses that despite the idiosyncracies of paint colours and add-ons can't hide the fact that they are all essentially the same. The houses started taking over the vineyards about 15 years ago, to accomodate the thousands and thousands of people from all over Chile who followed the work opportunities. The last parcel of vina shared a wall with the school where I worked -- and it has already been sold for development.

My family is from the south of Chile. He's an engineer, and works at a paper factory about 15 minutes away. For the first month or so I hardly saw him. By the time I came down for breakfast at 8 am he was on his way out, and when he came home, often only in time to catch the last few minutes of the 9 pm news, I was in my room, thinking about sleep. Sometime in June I returned from a weekend trip to find him alone with the kids -- Ivonne, the mother, had just started a new job. She's a nurse, works at a hospital about an hour from home. Her shifts are 12 hours, some days from 8 am to 8 pm, others from 8 pm to 8 am. After that Adolfo was home more often, but I saw Ivonne only a few times each week. With three kids to get through university, working hard is the only option.

I felt comfortable in my yellow house across from school, in the bedroom with the pink winnie-the-pooh bed spread. There were some things I didn't love: lying in bed in the morning with the blankets up to my chin watching the vapour of my breath, the awkward silent treatment from the kids, the dad's first attempts at cooking. But every night I was thankful to come home to a family, to warm my hands over my cup of tea and chatter absentmindly in Spanish.

Last Sunday I left the yellow house and Puente Alto with my obscene amount of luggage. James and I moved into the apartment in Las Condes with the other Canadians. Las Condes is towards the north of Santiago, a classy neighbourhood of apartment buildings with watchmen, bars filled with the after-work happy hour crowd and even green spaces.

It's a different life, that's for sure. Sometimes it's nice to hang out with other Canadian kids, partying, talking travel plans. But the experience of living in Puente Alto, with a family, was certainly more valuable.

I've starting to think that maybe I could live in Santiago -- not, you know, forever, but for a bit. There's no water (unlike every other city I've lived in), but the mountains are pretty neat. The smog is gross, but the winters aren't as cold as Montreal. The city is big, but so are the hearts of its inhabitants. I guess anyplace can grow on you.

In this last week, between my work compiling programme evaluations for the corporation, I'll try to post some more reflections about this whole crazy experience. I've been thinking a lot about this project, trying to figure out what exactly we have achieved here and where this is all going. Expect some school stories. ...

from dany with love (she's in the top left with me)

a lot of love

left school and puente alto...but still feeling the love.

http://www.fotolog.com/cobuuu

vina del mar

I’m going to continue to avoid talking about school. I have four more days left at Obispo Alvear and that’s depressing, so I’ll tell you about my weekend instead.

Friday night was all about size. I joined the cool female teachers and their palolos y esposos (boyfriends and husbands) for dinner at a restaurant called Los Buenos Muchachos. We were a large group, sixteen I think. Not that it mattered – I can honestly say I have never seen a bigger restaurant. I got the feeling that you’d get laughed at if you tried to make a reservation for two. The place had a full stage, with screens in each of the three ‘wings’ of the hall so everyone could see the show. There was cueca (traditional napkin-twirling Chilean national dance), Hawaii-style hip swaying from Easter Island, scantily clad tango dancers, and a ‘group dance’ moment oddly reminiscent of aerodance at the Y. The food was parrilladas – a pile of meat served sizzling over hot coals. We probably started eating at around 10:30, and at 2:30 we finally decided to leave the dance floor. When we left the restaurant, it was pouring outside. Rain makes Santiago almost Venice-like – and I don’t mean that it gets any more romantic. The lack of drains makes walking across the street a cold and soggy experience. Luckily for me, one of the teachers lives vaguely near me so I got dropped to my gate.

It was still raining when I woke up on Saturday morning. I dragged myself out of bed, put my toothbrush and some clean socks in my backpack and hopped on a bus to Vina del Mar – where I was quite happy to find the only water around crashing joyfully onto the beach. The most beautiful part of Vina was of course Julia, who is halfway through a Spanish course at the Universidad Catolica. I can’t begin to tell you how wonderful it was to see her – a little taste of home. Her host family welcomed me with the characteristic hospitality that continues to impress me in Chile. We spent a lazy afternoon wandering the boardwalk and soaking up the sun. We took some ridiculous self-shots on the beach, which I am posting to show how disgustingly pale I am. Even Julia – blond and fair as she is – has more colour in her face. Ugh.

Vina is a classier, cleaner version of its sister city Valpo. There are massive palms lining the streets, glassy high-rises along the water, and the casino bulging out onto the beach. The long stretch of sand and its proximity to Santiago make Vina a summer hotspot – apparently the streets get so full of people that driving is impossible. Vina has mounds of festivals and the casino has its share of big acts. I heard plenty of English over the weekend – but I guess the foreigners are probably a lot more obvious in the winter.

The coolest thing about Saturday night was that I conversed in every single language that I know. English with Julia and her Canadian/American/Norwegian friends from school, French with Julia and the Chilean dude who just got back from a study abroad in France, Spanish with the Mexican and Columbian exchange students, and Portuguese with a Brazilian girl doing some sort of journalism internship. Our night started at a bar in Vina with a topless photo of Madonna on the wall and ended at a salsa-pumping patio in Valparaiso. Good partying, complete with piscolas (pisco + coke) and the 6 am micro bus ride that makes going out in Chile the adventure that is it.

Sunday involved waking up to a yummy lunch of casuela (a cross between chicken soup and stew), planning where will wander in August over a massive banana split on a patio near the beach and a sleepy 2 hour bus ride back to Santiago. ...

VIVA

A shout-out to the tuga team on their way to the semis!

Ricardo is a wall...

And, in spite of my students who insist that he is gay (their new favourite way to annoy me is to make suggestive comments about CR and Deco...) I still think Cristiano Ronaldo is the most beautiful man at the World Cup.

I technically will be teaching class on Wednesday during the next game... maybe we can watch the game in English? I will find a way... Root for us!

fiesta, football, and fieldtrips

A long weekend in Santiago...

Shayne and Sinmi's host family must think we are lame. Every Friday I come over, to find S and S home alone. We settle down infront of the TV with a dance movie -- Dirty Dancing, Havana Nights, Save the Last Dance, that sort of thing. Last weekend we watched Dance With Me. As the movies is ending someone walks in, saying something like "Haven't you seen this one already?" Truth is, commenting on Vanessa William's bizarre dancing face is about all we have energy for after a week at school...

On Saturday night we acted a bit more like young people. I went downtown to the apartment, walking in on the boys wearing sunglasses and playing poker. Mat and Gil, who are teaching in Temuco way in the South, were up for the weekend. Once Chris won the game we went to a party hosted by one of the Chileans we met the first week we were here. The party was huge -- three birthdays in one. We partied Chilean-style into the small hours of the morning, with a mixed bunch of foreigners (including another random McGillian) and many Chilean university students. Good fun, despite the reggaeton overload.

Sunday was a football day. After 'breakfast' downtown (check out my bowl of fries -- I was very happy) I agonized through the Portugal-Holand game. What an ugly game! I'm pretty nervous for the England-Portugal game on Saturday. I'm not even sure how I'm going to watch it. I'm supposed to be at a Canada Day carnival at one of the other schools...I may have to sneak a television with me. One of my eight graders yesterday spent pretty much all of class with one headphone in, listening to the Brazil -Ghana game on the radio. It's one strategy...

Monday was a holiday -- something about S. Pedro falling in the middle of the week and getting pushed to the weekend. I was invited by one of my twelveth graders, German, for a picnic into the 'cordillera'. Puente Alto is pushed up against the Andes, so the mountains are never far away. German is a sweet heart -- I hang out with him a lot because he plays guitar and sings brilliantly. He's got pretty decent English too. His mother (tia Pati) is very nice. I've been to their house quite a lot. Anyways, we picnicked in the sun, watched the condors soaring, and breathed in some less smoggy air. We were there all afternoon. Afterwards I was taken back to their house for tesito, and German continued my schooling in Spanish music.

That was my weekend. Relaxing, but quite lovely. Next weekend hopefully I'll hang out with Julia -- I'm pretty excited to see someone from home :)

boys and bands

The bell rings. Five minutes later, a pack of boys – normally so demure in their school ties and blazers – swarm in, ratty-looking in their jeans and hoodies. The forty desks in the classroom are pushed to the wall. From the PE storage room a drum set is dragged into the corner next to the window. The snare sits on a wooden chair, the bass is stuffed with what looks like dirty laundry – but I know it to once have hung over a classroom window. They play musical chairs with their instruments: the lead guitarist switches to drum set at the break, he sings as he bangs out some simple chords on the keyboard. They are kings of improvisation. The microphone couldn’t be found, so he’s singing into a set of headphones plugged into one of the amps. Who even knew that headphones would do that?? I didn’t.

Then there’s the flute. It’s a rock band, no mistakes. But one of the kids always has a flute in his pocket, ready for a trill between classes. Someone offers me a swig of coke. The first swig of the one liter bottle that will get them through rehearsal. There's something gentlemanly about this gesture that makes me smile, but I decline.

This could have been my high school. This could have been Matt, or Farah, or Mike or Jake. But it’s five years later, in another hemisphere, another language. Still, it’s kind of just, well…the same.

I take that back. The hair is different. The boys with curly hair all have one tendril, by their ear, slightly longer than the rest. Only slightly – I’m just noticing the pattern.

What happened to the Farahs and Mikes in my life? In university you have to be good to be listened to. The simplicity, the informality of high school is gone. No more lunch breaks in Block’s room, or class trips, or talent shows for parents and friends. It’s too bad, really. I miss this.

It falls apart when the headphones slide off the vocalist’s face and snap around his neck. A teacher arrives to caution them about the noise. They chortle, someone throws a towel over the snare and the music continues…


An average Friday night at school. Plugged in outside the cafeteria, after being kicked out of all the other buildlings.

VALPO!

n Saturday morning, Shayne, Simni and I met at our usual spot -- my corner, across from Colegio Emprender where they work. We decided for a not-so-early start, 9 am, for our long weekend in the port city of Valparaiso. Valpo, as it is more commonly known, is a pleasant two hour bus ride from Santiago. We drove in on Saturday afternoon to find the sun shining and the fog cleared -- a rarity. I think Valparaiso liked us -- and we liked it right back. It reminded me of Funchal, for my family who has been there. It's all hills, with colourful houses perched precariously in every empty space. It all slopes down towards the bay -- port, not beach. There are elevators that get you up, not as classy as the ones in Lisbon, more like the funicular in Quebec City. On a clear day, like the ones we had, the view is amazing. We did some sight-seeing: Pablo Neruda's house (the man was a collector, always fun to see his stuff), a museum dedicated to the famous Chilean cartoonist Lukas, the monument to Chile's naval heroes.

As we have discovered, Shayne, Sinmi and I are more what you might call 'culinary' tourists. We live for our meals and the happy discoveries we make in between. Most of our time was spent squeezing fruit in the market, having late-night coffee on a terrace on Cerro Conception, morning trips for fresh bread to go with our tea. The most memorable meal was not quite in Valparaiso, though. On Sunday we crammed into a collectivo (kind of like a taxi, but with a set route -- they take off as soon as they're full) to Quintay, a little fishing town about 45 minutes from Valparaiso. We made fast friends with Felipe, (a 12th grade kid, goes to Santiago College and therefore spoke perfect English) who was kind enough to let the three of us jam our generous hips into the back seat with him. Quintay has absolutely nothing except fisherman and a few ridiculously delicious seafood restaurants on the beach.

We sat on a patio for the better part of afternoon, taking in our shellfish and the sunset, which we saw for the first time (in Valpo the sun sets behind a hill, much to my disappointment). It was a chill weekend, but very enjoyable. I have a lot of fun with Shayne and Simni. We have similar travel priorities and we share a lot of laughter. The only thing is that we always attract much attention. If I wander down a street by myself I don't feel too conspicuous. I'm a little too pale to be Chilean, but I pass. Sinmi, however, is black, and Shayne is Caribbean mixed Indian-African something or other. They get SO many comments -- and people stare. We hear lots of 'me gusta la morenita!!' and such things. At some point you just have to abandon any pretense of blending in...

Julia (the roommate) is spending July in Valparaiso -- she's doing a Spanish course at the Universidad Catolica. Julia, I think you're going to like it...and I'm going to try to squeeze in another weekend trip....

NB

finally, a computer connected to the iunternet that runs xp!

The preceeding entry is something I wrote ages ago, before the student strike business. We're back to school tomorrow by the way -- I'll be updating with the wind-down of the strikes and my awesome long weekend in Valpariaiso with Shayne and Sinmi.

the kindness of strangers (finally)

This weekend was characterized by unexpected openness and kindness. It all starts with Juliette of course, the girls’ phys ed teacher at school. She’s 25, probably the youngest one on the staff. Since I arrived she has eagerly practiced her halting but quite understandable English. I usually have lunch with her. Every time we sit down to our steaming meal of meat and mush, she issues her disclaimer: “This is not Chilean food. Chile is not like this.” James and I nod out of politesse and not any real conviction -- we pretty much only eat cafeteria food and bread and tea at home.

Well, last week Juliette had invited me to spend the weekend with her and her boyfriend, Tito. On Friday, because we had no students, we skipped out at lunch time. We headed downtown – it was actually really exciting to be downtown during the week when things are open and people are wandering around. We oogled shoes, I bought my DVD of West Side Story, she bought Tito a bag. We saw chichineros – boys with the drum/cymbal contraption strapped on their backs who play and dance. We even saw a little one, maybe about 8 years old, who got rowdy applause when he took off his drum and his jacket, and swung the latter into the audience. Oh, and we had lunch at the Chilean fast food restaurant of choice, Domino. You walk into these places and it’s like grills on both sides, with dozens of guys in white hats zipping around behind the counter. People eat standing at the counter, scarfing down hot dogs/burgers/sandwiches a la Chilena. We had a massive sandwich which included, among other things, grilled turkey, tomatoes, secret domino sause, and tons of palta (avocados). Yum!

We eventually made it back to Juliette and Tito’s. They live in the center of Santiago, in a tiny apartment with their very yappy puppy Romeo. Juliette also works in a university across the street from her house, and I went with her to her 10-minute 'pausa active' course. She basically goes in at the beginning of a class and gets everyone to get up and play a silly game, or stretch, or relax, for ten minutes.
Anyone else want to bring her to McGill??

After class, at about 9pm, we went out for dinner to a marisco place by their house. After the requisite pisco sour, I had mussels covered in parmesan cheese, followed by a creamy crab baked thing, also covered in cheese. (I had to make up for the lack of cheese in my diet!) It was so delicious – I begin to understand why Juliette feels so strongly about cafeteria lunches.

Dinner conversation was as interesting as the food itself. I met my first (but not my last...) Pinochet supporter. More on that another day... Of course I tried to pay, and was summarily shot down – pretty much the theme for the weekend. We got home at around 11 pm. I was tired, full of cheese, and very happy. I crashed on their living room floor, on an inflatable mattress. Their apartment is tiny, and under other circumstances I probably would have felt like I was totally intruding. But they were so hospitable and chill – and I slept like a baby.

On Saturday, I went with Juliette to her mother’s, so she could dye her hair. Juliette's mother dye Juliette’s hair that is. So I sat in her mother’s bedroom, taking part of the sacred girlie ritual that is the make-over. I also met the aunt, the cousins, and the baby cousins. Once Juliette’s hair was back to its somewhat natural brown, we headed back to the apartment. We collected our things, picked up Tito and Romeo, and piled into the truck again.

Tito is from Melipilla, a small city about an hour outside of Santiago. Juliette always says that he lives in Melipilla – Santiago is just the place where he sleeps during the week. They spend every weekend in Melipilla, and this time I was taken along for the ride. On the way we met up with Sylvia, Tito’s cousin. She also lives in Santiago, and spends the weekend with the family in Melipilla. She is key, because his family does not know that he lives with Juliette, or that Sylvia lives with her boyfriend. Frightening, because she’s 30 and he’s older. Chile, in many ways, is a dastardly conservative place…

On the way we stopped in the small town of Pomaire for lunch – I was dying, it was almost 4 pm by the time we ate. We ate at this typical restaurant where I attempted the classic empanada de 1 kilo. I got about half way through the thing – it had ground beef, a quarter of a chicken, an egg, olives, and raisins. It was delicious, but devilishly large. Pomaire has like three restaurants, and a strip of handicraft stalls. It’s a typical daytrip for the city folk, and the place to buy anything traditional. I picked up some souvenirs before we continued onto Melipilla.

Tito has a collection of aunts that all live in this same compound. These two old ladies welcomed me into their house, set me up in a guest room, wined and dined me – and all I was to them was the friend of the nephew’s girlfriend! I spent most of the night trying to grab anything from the conversation that whizzed around the table. Far too much concentration required to keep up with the nattering – I was exhausted by the time we made it to bed.

On Sunday morning I awoke to more avocado and bread, much to my delight. Juliette, Tito and I went to the mall for a coffee – a terrible mocaccino, but characteristic of the lame coffee that people drink here. More interesting conversation, this time about the health care system and the problem with Chilean attitudes towards politics, education and the rest of life. We went home for lunch, magicked by Sylvia while we were out. Salmon, baked, with mashed potatoes and salad with more avocado. It was so good – Sylvia is a wonderful cook, and the fact that we were eating around a massive wooden table in an old kitchen apart from all the houses (complete with a wood stove!) made it all the tastier. After lunch we went to, quite literally, a shack in the middle of the cow fields for chicha, a grape-derived liquor. It was good – the ant floating in my glass just added to the charm...

On the way back, we stopped at another stall, where I bought ridiculous amounts of cheese, including fresh cheese just like in Portugal! I was rather gleeful. After the cheese shopping, we grabbed our stuff from the house, kissed the tias, and drove back to Puente Alto. I was dropped off in time for tea, much improved by the addition of my yummy cheeses, if I say so myself.

The most remarkable thing about the weekend was how normal it all was. What a privilege to be let into people’s normally routines, to be welcomed into their families and to hear their opinions about their country – I am more and more convinced that this is the only way to travel.

quite alive, but bored

FINALLY ... connected to the world again.

It seems like the students protests that have paralised the school system for almost two weeks now have finally made the international news. If you don't know what I'm talking about...
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/5048130.stm

I've been out of work since my kids 'took over' our schoool last wednesday. That's pretty much the scene across the country -- the mobilisation has been totally remarkable. Last tuesday we went down town to the center of the action. It was pretty crazy -- we got gassed and hosed down by the cops, despite the fact that the protests were largely peaceful. We did get some good photos, though -- check out Chris' on facebook:
http://mcgill.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2027651&l=8ae3f&id=13602199
Wednesday's protests were more violent, mostly backlash against the inappropriate response of 'Carabineros' on Tuesday. The government presented its proposal on Friday, student assemblies were not convinced, and so today they called for a national strike day. Other groups have joined the high schoolers -- teachers, uni students, health workers, etc.

So, I've been torn between total boredom (living in Puente Alto with no school SUCKS) and absolute infactuation with the politics of this all. It's neat to hear what all the teachers have to say about this too. There is a lot of support for the students. These 16- and 17- year old student leaders are total celebrities, they're on the news all the time. They have behaved with more composure than many of the ministers, with a clear sense of what they want and unparalleled legitimacy. One of the teachers this morning was talking about how these kids have given the adults and education professionals in particular a lesson in civics and democracy. Ah, the power of youth...

I go to visit my kids pretty much everyday because I have nothing else to do. They all look very sleep deprived, but they're keeping the school clean and staying fed. On Saturday night they had a bbq; when I got to school yesterday afternoon they were eating spaghetti out of the biggest pot I have ever seen. They play cards and fiddle with guitars, take turns guarding the gates and watching the news. And they smoke, pretty much non-stop. I have pictures, but this computer runs windows 98 and I'd have to download a driver to get my pen drive to work. Also, the way the usb works I basically have a choice between the pen drive or the mouse, so I guess I'll have to update my photos (and other entries I have already written...) another time.

Anyways, I just wanted to let you all know that I'm alive -- and that whatever you are seeing on the news or in the papers about violence and protests and casualties is really not the meat of what's going on here .

a teacher without students...

For the past week, education has been the news in Chile. Secondary students across the country have been on 'paro', with dozens of high schools actually taken over (en toma) by students. At issue is the law on education, passed days before Pinochet left office in 1990. The students have three specific demands: that students get free transit passes for school hours, that the fee for the national university entrance exams be dropped, and the end of the 'jornada escolar completa' that has them in school from 8:30 to 5:40. The mobilization finally hit our school on Friday. In the morning the kids had class meetings where they talked (read: shouted) and voted on further action. The kids here are most interested in the last issue, of the full school days. They all walk to school, and those that take the uni entrance exams probably all fall in the category that doesn't have to pay anyways.

Anyways, today at about 9 am all the students marched past my window on their way to meet up with the other high school students from this region for protesting and such things. There are maybe 30 kids in school, mostly seventh graders. Students are meeting with the government today, and pending results of the discussion, tomorrow may or may not be a national strike day. Since we have nothing to do at school, we're thinking of going downtown and taking part in the madness.

The protests are supposed to be 'peaceful', but on Friday a few of my otherwise docile eleventh grade boys were disturbingly excited about the prospect of chucking rocks at riot police. A lot of them genuinely care about the issues, but a lot of them are very misguided revolutionaries. What is impressive is that students have really mobilised in the past week, largely with the support of parents and teachers' unions. There's a lot of talk about seizing the opportunity to reevaluate the education reform of 1990, to shake up the system, turn out something better. I'm certainly watching the news. This weekend I gaped at the high schools downtown that have been taken over by the students -- they have signs everywhere, chairs and tables jammed in the gates, students camping outside. The signs are pretty standard -- stuff about the comercialisation of education, the right to education, also a lot of direct appeals to Bachelet. Her election slogan was 'Estoy Contigo' with pictures of kids, families, pregnant women, you get the idea. So now there are a lot of '¿¿estas comigo??' signs. People in general seem to be disappointed with Bachelet -- a case of unrealisitic expectations?

Well, I think I'm going to head home. A teacher without students...sad indeed.

I had, by the way, a fantastic, very Chilean weekend. Will write /post pictures asap.

Pucon

This weekend, we decided to trade the temperate smog of Santiago for the chilly (but much clearer air) of Pucon. Pucon is a small town in the lake region of Chile, featuring its own active volcano and massive lake. We spent all of Friday night on a bus, met up with Mat and Gil in Temuco, then piled onto another bus to Pucon.

The fact that it was low season didn't quite mask how touristy Pucon is. It's small and quaint looking -- little wooden houses, mountains on all sides, with the volcano rising, snow-covered, above the rest. There are summer homes all around the lake, and hostels everywhere. We took over a hostel-cabin, where we meet two backpackers from New Zealand. We used the two extra bodies to wrangle a cheaper fee for the minibus and tourguide to take us up to the volcano. We didn't go all the way to the crater, but we got pretty close. The view was amazing -- the photos will say it better than I can. I actually felt my lungs unshrivel a little bit up there. It was a clear, sunny day -- considering the season and the BC-like climate, we were really lucky not to be rained out.

Half of the group decided to hike around the volcano. Sinmi, Shayne, Christine, Mat and I were not as excited by the idea of plodding around in the snow in sneakers so we set up camp on a patio. When our companions slid down the volcano two hours later, we were napping peacefully in the sun. We went back down to town, where showering and such things ensued. I went for a stroll with Shayne and Sinmi and bought inordinate amounts of fruit at a stall. I couldn't help it...grapes and apples and tangerines and bananas and tomatoes and cucumbers and peppers and avocado...I CRAVED fruit.

We all went out for dinner later, to celebrate Mat's 19th birthday. Food was unremarkable, but we were sitting with Chris, who is possibly the most unintentionally hilarious person ever. I laughed all the way through my oily chicken and fries. On the walk home we gawked at the volcano some more. At night you just see a little red glow floating in the dark, it's pretty cool.

We went back to our cabin for pisco and games. I won (or lost, depending how you look at it) at 'Never Have I Ever', as per usual. There were more rowdy games, including some bizarre songs from the kiwis. Good fun had by all -- except for my tummy, where the cheap wine and bad chicken where having their own party. In the small hours the rest of the gang hit up a discoteca -- I chilled at home with Mat and Gil and watched American tv shows dubbed in Spanish.

The next morning we were up bright and early for our 9:15 bus. These Latin Americans, man, they have this bus travel thing down. We took the 'classico' (read: cheap)bus, and even then, there is an airline-style host who distributes cookies, tucks you in with fuzzy blankies, closes your curtain, and passes by with airfreshner every few hours. The trip was 11 hours, and I slept through almost all of it. All that for about $15. The only odd thing was that they played the same episode of Buffy -- the very first one -- on repeat the entire trip. I saw Buffy being dropped off at school every time I cracked an eyelid.

We were back in Puente Alto in time for tea, which after a weekend without, I kind of missed. All in all, good trip -- short, but the view was worth it.

Tune in next week for loving grade eight in spite of myself and the dirt on the host family.

what's black and white and red all over??

It's a not a newspaper -- it's my Chilean diet. Inordinate amounts of black tea, white bread and red meat. I CANNOT believe how much tea is drunk in this country. Tea at breakfast, tea between classes, tea after lunch, tea after school, tea before bed. Adults, children, everyone. Every time you go somewhere, no matter what time of day it is, someone is bound to offer you a 'tecito'. People keep telling me tea is good for you, but I don't know how much anti-oxidation my body can take.

Any positive health effects of the tea are bound to be offset by the negatives of the bread and meat. Yesterday Alyssa, the project coordinator in Chile, invited the Puente Alto team (James, Shayne, Sinmi and me) over for dinner. Alyssa is vegetarian -- it felt so good to eat CHEESE and VEGETABLES. And the bread....my downfall. I love it, but I eat far too much of it. My favourite is this dense disc that looks kind of like a squished hamburger bun with tiny holes poked in the top. It's my breakfast, part of lunch, and dinner.

Breakfast is a quick affair at around 7:45: tea and bread, choices of various jams, marmelade (made with the membrillos in the garden) or butter. Lunch is the big meal. We eat in the school cafeteria. Some kind of beef with rice or mashed potatoes, salad and bread. This happens at 1:30 (in fifteen minutes!), by which time I am so ravished that everything seems delicious. And it's warm, which after 4 hours in a classroom that I swear has some complex system of reverse-insulation, is very appealing. I generally get home from school at about 6:15, and an hour or so after that we sit down to 'once' ('eleven' for the non-hispanophones). Dinner is skipped in the Santiago tradition of big lunches. 'Once' looks a lot like breakfast, tea and more of the devilishly yummy bread. My host family is originally from southern Chile, and they tell me that there people lunch at noon, dine at 5, and have 'once' before bed.

I hear good things about the seafood here, so I'm hoping to get down to the market some time and eat some good Chilean fish. I'm getting treated to various delicacies at home -- last weekend we had cordero asado al palo, literally a rack of lamb on a spit. Will post a photo eventually. This weekend we're making empanadas, undoubtedly with more beef.

I hear the kids screaming and reggaeton has started to pump upstairs, so I think it's lunch time. Off to get my daily shot of iron and empty carbs!!

dia del alumno

Thursday is the eye of the storm at school. There are no classes in the afternoon and the teachers get a few hours to plan, meet, and work. And I get the internet! Which is good, because I am supposed to be teaching a unit on Romeo and Juliet to my 10th grade elective class and I have no idea how to do Shakespeare with ESL beginners.

Back to today. Well, today wasn't an ordinary Thursday. May 11th is celebrated in all of Chile (possibly other places too?) as Students' Day. The kids got chocolates (along with the appropriate hugs and kisses) from teachers as they filed into school this morning. The first three periods were held as usual. At noon, the kids piled into the gym for a special assembly organised by the teachers. There was a speech by the director, a song by some of the teachers -- and then, the surprise act. Seven female teachers, including myself, barged in through the side door, with some horrendous reggaeton tune ('rompe, rompe, rompe...') blaring. We were wearing full uniform (knee-high socks, ugly blue bag-dress with a dress shirt underneath, complete with school tie), with the costumary campus modifications. Obnoxiously high pony-tales with dozens of colorful clips, bright blue eye shadow, pink blush and lollipops (the kids here always seem to have lollipops in their mouths). We did some cheesy reggaeton moves and then ran off, much to the kids' amusement. There were awards for something-or-other, and then more reggaeton. The hit of the event, though, was definately James. As the kids were walking out, James busted his dance moves. It couldn't have taken more than a minute for packs of students to surround him. James dances like a bendy toy on speed. 'Super bien!!' as all the tenth graders who have crushes on him said. Good fun had by all!

I'm going to get back to finding activities for R and J. Maybe I can get away with just teaching them West Side Story instead...

“Profe, me encantó su clase!”

James makes fun of me. I like to play games in my classes, silly games with names like ‘fruitbowl’ and ‘zip zap bop.’ I’m teaching grade eight to eleven – and the older kids get more into the games then the younger ones. Occasionally I worry that one of them in the dark recesses of their soul hates me for making them run around and say nonsense words. But it’s a fleeting flutter of uncertainty – I like playing the games, and I think the kids appreciate not having be talked at for an hour and a half. So far I’ve gotten them to loosen up, piece together some basic sentences in English, and distinguish the “s” sound from the “z” sound (hence the zip zap bop!). I also get teased for my anal-rententive ways – like making all my kids sign my classroom contract. It’s a pretty poster, complete with stick-figure drawings, that details what I will do as their teacher and what I expect from my students. At least this way they know why I’m giving them my Ipek-inspired mother stare. I’ve haven’t had discipline problems yet, although that last grade 9 class was excessively…energetic. The goal of all the running around is to focus all that extra energy into something more productive.

James and I started teaching our own classes this Monday. We split the English classes with the 2 permanent teachers, giving us classes of about 20 kids. We're free to do our own material, although we are supposed to focus on conversation. There have already been a lot of satisfying moments. This morning once of my students, in a tone of rapture unique to grade 10 girls, exclaimed what I have adopted as the title of this entry. I’m in the teachers' lounge now, and another one just dashed in to give me a kiss on her way out. It’s a kissy-kissy culture, that’s for sure. I get kissed by students at the end of class, and if they see me at the end of the day. And yet, it’s not quite like the primary school around the corner where Shayne and Sinmi are working. I dropped by for the first time yesterday. It took a good 15 minutes to make it across the courtyard. Children SWARMED us, and everyone wanted kisses and hugs and hellos from the 'tias'.

I just spent a half hour or so rehearsing some reggaeton choreography with 6 other female teachers for tomorrow’s celebration of ‘dia del alumno’. We’re dressing in school uniforms and imitating the younger teens, who are all obsessed with reggaeton. We're a random group, from the buff PE teacher to the pudgier librarian. It'll be fun though, and I'm sure the kids will appreciate it.

Computer techie man whose name I do not yet know has told me he's about to cut the internet...so I'll leave it at that. More to come!

andes on my mind

I spent most of my life in an excrutiatingly flat city, where experiencing different altitudes meant pressing a button in an elevator. Since our first aerial view of the Andes -- a ragged dark outline against a golden-rod sunrise -- I've been obsessed. It's 24 degrees today, but there are snow-capped mountains in all directions. I get the feeling that Santiago (which, by the way, is GIGANTIC) would have pushed its way to Buenos Aires were its fences less solid. Even though the smog makes them a little blurrier than they should be, I can't help having the Andes on my mind...

The photo is the view from San Cristobal, a hill overlooking Santiago.