Boy has it been a while. Unfortunately, I´ve had a load of some stressful work, and a broken computer. So insted of spending hours in front of my handy dandy MacBook, I spend hours doing more productive things like playing the guitar, buying things that I need, writing, reading, and only occaisonally missing the convencience of a computer. A long time ago, I realized that I greatly dislike computers (and lots of modern technology), but a few weeks ago I realized why. In my experience, if I were my digestive system, my time spent on computers would be like chocolate: immediately satisfying but generally unsubstantial and unproductive. Anyway, here´s an overview of what I´ve done in the last few weeks (or what I remember of it):
About two (two and a half? three?) weeks ago I started working on my essay for Economic Sociology. I hadn´t done as well as I´d liked on the previous essay, so I wanted to make this one a good one. I even stayed in on Halloween (and splurged on some snickers bars) to get some work done. A few days later, my computer freezes, and when I try to turn it back on a blinking question mark pops up - yeah, bad news. So I am forced to work on my essay at the Social Sciences building computer lab (where I am now).
That weekend (last weekend) I went to La Serena and Valle de Elqui with my program from Friday morning to Sunday night. The essay was due the following Monday, but I was still able to enjoy swimming in the - quite rough and salty - pacific ocean; beatiful scenery; and the observatoray where we saw several constellations, Jupiter, and some far away galaxies. It was the type of trip that makes you wonder why one would spend time on essays when we are so small, and insiginificant, and nothing we do really matters. But alas, I choose to participate in our tiny little social world...
Monday morning I wake up with an upset stomach but make the trek to campus to finish my essay in four hours. By 11:00 am (an hour before the essay is supposed to be due) I my stomach feels like it´s being stabbed from the inside. I send an incomplete essay, and try to make it home without passing out. In tears, I attempt to hail several cabs but none stop for me. I take the bus and train home. Three people ask if I am okay, and I nod my head "no" as I try not to fall on the ground and burst into huge sobs. Finally I make it home and sleep for the rest of the day. Turns out 6 students from the program got sick as well.
In the next few days, I spend most of my time in computer room as I have another essay due that Friday. Finally Friday came and it was all over. To celebrate finishing our essays, my friend Mim and I decided to have a little music party at her house the next day. We (well, I) also decided that it would be fun to cut all my hair off.
I arrived at her house on Saturday evening and the party began. It was actually one of my favorite nights here in Santiago. Her brother had just arrived from Australia, and he is also a musician, so we had a little jam session for Mim´s host family. Then we took a trip to the supermarket to buy a comb so that Mim´s haircutting friend could do the job. Back at home, Mim played the violin, her brother played guitar, and I sang, all while several inches of my hair fell to the ground. And now I have a mohawk. We documented the whole night and had a jolly good time.
That´s all for now. I am off to a meeting about an epic trip that 10 of us are taking to Torres Del Paine aka the end of the South American continent.
Peace
Monday, November 16, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Movies and Afterthoughts
Last weekend a bunch of Tufts people (and others) and I went to see a movie called Dawson Isla 10.
Short movie review courtesy of Chilean Embassy:
“Dawson Island” 10 is a film that recounts the experiences of a group of approximately 50 senior officials and close aides to President Salvador Allende who were imprisoned on Dawson Island, a few days after the Pinochet military coup in 1973. Located south of the Strait of Magellan, this island became the southernmost political prison that existed in the world.
ese men, ministers, senators, and deputies, who embodied the dream of Allende, were subjected to forced labor in the frigid inclement weather of southern Chile.
Anyway, at one point in the movie one of the prisoners was talking to the head commander on the island about the military coup. After a quick disagreement about what American presidents were doing, the prisoner exclaimed, "Everyone knows that without the authorization of the United States, the coup would not have happened!"
Oh dear, thought I. Of course I was aware of this information, but what a friendly reminder of the splendid nation that I was born in.
I later began to think about the passing relationships that I've formed here and Chile and how my American identity has affected them. These relationships often occur when I stop to buy earrings, or fruit, or a guitar (yeah, I bought a guitar and I'm learning to play!!). Knowing from my appearance and from my accent that I am not Chilean, vendors will ask me where I am from. It usually takes me a second to answer, as I decide whether to say that I am from Colombia or from the United States. Usually I give the most accurate response, which is that I am from the United States. I say this mainly because I often lack the vocabulary and culture to pull off being 100% Colombian.
But, to be honest, I would much rather say that I am Colombian. Since being here, I've been asked many a time about where I am from, and why my accent is so good, and yadayadayada. These questions have driven me to think more about my national and cultural identity. And I've come to the conclusion that since my American national identity is mostly just a product of human exploitation for economic gain, and my American culture is imperialist and indulgent, I would much rather be associated with Colombia (not that Colombia doesn't have problems as well, but that's a whole other conversation). In reality, I greatly dislike patriotism, but I can't really say that I'm not from anywhere.
So after this friendly reminder from Dawson Isla 10 (oh, and Dead Prez. They always remind me that the US -for lack of a better word- sucks), I am attempting to step away from my American side and embrace my Colombian side (sorry father). This is not an attempt to be something that I am not, but rather an attempt to encourage something that I am. And how privileged I am to have this dual sense of identity. Well, it's a bit of a blessing and a curse, but all's well for now.
Short movie review courtesy of Chilean Embassy:
“Dawson Island” 10 is a film that recounts the experiences of a group of approximately 50 senior officials and close aides to President Salvador Allende who were imprisoned on Dawson Island, a few days after the Pinochet military coup in 1973. Located south of the Strait of Magellan, this island became the southernmost political prison that existed in the world.
ese men, ministers, senators, and deputies, who embodied the dream of Allende, were subjected to forced labor in the frigid inclement weather of southern Chile.
Anyway, at one point in the movie one of the prisoners was talking to the head commander on the island about the military coup. After a quick disagreement about what American presidents were doing, the prisoner exclaimed, "Everyone knows that without the authorization of the United States, the coup would not have happened!"
Oh dear, thought I. Of course I was aware of this information, but what a friendly reminder of the splendid nation that I was born in.
I later began to think about the passing relationships that I've formed here and Chile and how my American identity has affected them. These relationships often occur when I stop to buy earrings, or fruit, or a guitar (yeah, I bought a guitar and I'm learning to play!!). Knowing from my appearance and from my accent that I am not Chilean, vendors will ask me where I am from. It usually takes me a second to answer, as I decide whether to say that I am from Colombia or from the United States. Usually I give the most accurate response, which is that I am from the United States. I say this mainly because I often lack the vocabulary and culture to pull off being 100% Colombian.
But, to be honest, I would much rather say that I am Colombian. Since being here, I've been asked many a time about where I am from, and why my accent is so good, and yadayadayada. These questions have driven me to think more about my national and cultural identity. And I've come to the conclusion that since my American national identity is mostly just a product of human exploitation for economic gain, and my American culture is imperialist and indulgent, I would much rather be associated with Colombia (not that Colombia doesn't have problems as well, but that's a whole other conversation). In reality, I greatly dislike patriotism, but I can't really say that I'm not from anywhere.
So after this friendly reminder from Dawson Isla 10 (oh, and Dead Prez. They always remind me that the US -for lack of a better word- sucks), I am attempting to step away from my American side and embrace my Colombian side (sorry father). This is not an attempt to be something that I am not, but rather an attempt to encourage something that I am. And how privileged I am to have this dual sense of identity. Well, it's a bit of a blessing and a curse, but all's well for now.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
P.S.
Last weekend Ben, Katrina, Christy, Aaron, and I (a.k.a. Tufts-in-Chile people who will be staying for the year) went down south to Temuco and Valdivia. These cities are not super-duper far south, but do check ‘em out on the map.
As I told Katrina earlier today, I was not too excited about this little trip that I did not do any of the planning for (I didn’t know where we were going until a few days before we left). However, I ended up having quite a nice time. Maybe it was because I’d finally had a weekend without having to worry about a paper or a test, or the sitting in McDonald’s at 7am, or the long chats on the overnight bus rides, or the strawberry banana milkshake at the trendy bar, or the sea-lions on the river, or the traditional café’s that serve delicious cake, or the meal that Ben Katrina and Aaron cooked, or the dancing ‘til 3am, or the delicious lunch in the countryside, or the massage train, or the beautiful lakes and mountains, or the company of my lovely friends. It wasn’t such a bad columbus day weekend after all. I would put some pictures up, but Aaron has my camera…facebook?
As I told Katrina earlier today, I was not too excited about this little trip that I did not do any of the planning for (I didn’t know where we were going until a few days before we left). However, I ended up having quite a nice time. Maybe it was because I’d finally had a weekend without having to worry about a paper or a test, or the sitting in McDonald’s at 7am, or the long chats on the overnight bus rides, or the strawberry banana milkshake at the trendy bar, or the sea-lions on the river, or the traditional café’s that serve delicious cake, or the meal that Ben Katrina and Aaron cooked, or the dancing ‘til 3am, or the delicious lunch in the countryside, or the massage train, or the beautiful lakes and mountains, or the company of my lovely friends. It wasn’t such a bad columbus day weekend after all. I would put some pictures up, but Aaron has my camera…facebook?
The Devil Beating His Wife
It rained today. The sky wasn't particularly sunny or cloudy, but the thunder started around 17:30. As I worked intently on my new ceramics project, I heard the muffled sounds of Chilean thunder (or truenos). Several people in class moaned at the sounds of thunder and pittle pattle on the roof, but I continued shaping my clay in an over-tired creative trance, as if nothing were happening.
Unlike every other day in ceramics class, I was the last student to leave. Normally I leave with my Tufts friend, Emily - after the California kids and before the Chilean kids. But today I slowly cleaned up my spot as if to avoid the down pour that was now banging on the roof. As I washed some tools, I smelled the familiar smell of summer rain in Cali, Colombia. That ever so slight whiff of my past awakened the nostalgia that seems (now more than ever) to grow like weeds - like dandelions - in the spaces between cemented thoughts.
And so, led by memories, I said bye the Professor, and headed into the rain. I walked quickly through the almond sized raindrops, and though disappointed by the lack of familiar smells, I noticed that there was an unusual amount of golden light on the sidewalk. The sun was shining. Sun and rain? What a lovely juxtaposition in nature. My father (I think it was my father) once told me that if sun shines while it's raining, "the devil is beating his wife"... or so they say. "They" being those who believe in the devil, and beatings, and wives.
Unlike every other day in ceramics class, I was the last student to leave. Normally I leave with my Tufts friend, Emily - after the California kids and before the Chilean kids. But today I slowly cleaned up my spot as if to avoid the down pour that was now banging on the roof. As I washed some tools, I smelled the familiar smell of summer rain in Cali, Colombia. That ever so slight whiff of my past awakened the nostalgia that seems (now more than ever) to grow like weeds - like dandelions - in the spaces between cemented thoughts.
And so, led by memories, I said bye the Professor, and headed into the rain. I walked quickly through the almond sized raindrops, and though disappointed by the lack of familiar smells, I noticed that there was an unusual amount of golden light on the sidewalk. The sun was shining. Sun and rain? What a lovely juxtaposition in nature. My father (I think it was my father) once told me that if sun shines while it's raining, "the devil is beating his wife"... or so they say. "They" being those who believe in the devil, and beatings, and wives.
Monday, October 5, 2009
The Adventures of Alfie and Me
It was a warm and lovely evening. My fellow exchange student friend from Australia, Mim, and I had just left our Economic Sociology class, and were headed home for the evening. As we walked through the campus gates, we chatted about the cultural priorities (like food and family) associated with Latin Americans.
And that’s when I saw her. She was sitting alone by the kiosk looking rather comfortable. Her tiny silhouette in the sunset was the cutest thing that I’ve seen in a long time. I quickly bent down and picked her up. She couldn’t have been more than six weeks old. And that’s when my Latin heritage immediately kicked in, and all I wanted to do was feed her and make her a part of my family. Thinking that she belonged to someone nearby, I asked the woman who owned the kiosk if it was hers. “No no no!” the woman exclaimed, “llévatelo, llévatelo tú!” I felt a little uncomfortable taking her away from where I’d found her – did she belong to somebody? Was her mother near by? Another girl, who had also been petting our new friend, affirmed that I should take the kitten with me. And so I did.
About two minutes later, I realized that I really couldn’t take this kitten home. Mim suggested that we at least bring it to her house (which was quite near by) and feed it. Upon arriving at Miriam’s house, I was warmly greeted by her host mom and host dog. We quickly put our stuff down and took our friend – our female friend, as we’d discovered after some snooping around – to the supermarket to buy some milk and kitten food. On the way, Mim and I pondered some names. Eventually, Mim came up with the brilliant name of Alfajor. An Alfajor is a layered small cookie-like cake thing with some kind of sugary creamy filling. They’re quite popular here, and quite delicious. And so we named her Alfajor – Alfie for short. I pointed out that Alfajor sounds more like a boy’s name, but Mim reminded me that we could defy gender norms by giving her this seemingly masculine name. Perfect.
As Mim and I wandered through the supermarket looking for food and milk, I kept Alfie in my jacket to keep her warm, but mainly to people from seeing that I brought a stray animal into the supermarket. Thankfully, she was asleep most of the time and the worst thing that happened was that Mim and I got a really dirty look from an old lady whilst picking out a flavor of cat food.
Back at home, Alfie caused lots of chaos. First because the dog, Lua, wanted to play with her, then because she kept running away when we fed her, then because she escaped from the box we’d left her in, then because she’d pooped on Mim’s desk, and then because the Lua kept breaking into the room and scaring Alfie while we tried to have once. Everything finally calmed down, and we had once in peace. We drank tea, and ate homemade bread and apple tart. I very much enjoyed talking to Mim’s host family – they are such warm, intelligent and beautiful people. Something about Mim’s house and family made me feel more at home here in Chile. Perhaps it was the rugged kitchen and patio that reminded me of Colombia, or her host mom’s cooking, or the huge smile on her host sister’s face when she spoke to me. I ended up staying for much longer than I’d planned because I was enjoying everyone’s company so much.
After once, Mim and I had to decide what to do with Alfie. Mim’s family couldn’t keep her, and I was pretty sure that my host mom wouldn’t want a cat. So we decided that I would take Alfie either back to where we found her or leave her somewhere near by. Before leaving I called one of my friends from the Tufts program to see if she would take Alfie, “Well, we already have three cats, but I’ll ask,” she said. Hoping that my friend would call me back with good news, I took Alfie with me on the bus home.
On the walk home, Alfie meowed so loudly that I began to wonder if she knew that I’d taken her away from her home. By the time I got to my house, I hadn’t yet received a call from my friend, so I figured that I would let Alfie sleep outside of our apartment, and hopefully see her the next morning. When I put her down, she followed me through the gates, which made it way too hard to part with her just then. So I took the risk and brought her inside. When I walked in, my host mom didn’t seem to mind that I had a kitten with me. I asked her if she wanted to keep the Alfie, but she said quickly said, "No". So I brought Alfie to my room and played with her for a while. Finally, it was time to put Alfie outside for the night. I left her wrapped in my scarf in the stairway outside of our apartment.
The next morning, I awoke early - What happened to Alfie?! I thought. Then I heard a familiar meow just outside of my window. I opened the curtain and saw tiny little Alfie, sitting in the morning sun on the sidewalk across the street from our apartment. Soon a car stopped, and a woman got out to pet Alfie. I thought she might even take her home, but instead she moved Alfie further away from the road. But Alfie wouldn’t stay still. Worried, I ran outside and brought Alfie back to the safety of my scarf. I quickly showered and got ready to go so that I could take Alfie back to campus where I’d found her - better to abandon her where I'd found her, right? :(
On my way out, however, Alfie wasn’t there. I wondered if someone had taken her in, or if she had just wandered away. I hoped for the best, and began walking towards my friend Katrina’s house. I walked slowly, saddened because I’d lost Alfie.
About a block later, I looked left and right to cross the street, and there she was! – her tiny little self, scurrying across the street too slowly to avoid oncoming traffic. I ran over and picked her up, happy to be holding her, but sad to know that she was still a street cat.
When Alfie and I got to Katrina’s block, we sat down and I fed her some breadcrumbs. Soon Katrina arrived, and despite her indifference towards most animals, Katrina thought that Alfie was very cute.
30 minutes later, Katrina and I were on campus, and it was now time to leave Alfie once and for all. I felt horrible leaving such a tiny creature on its own, but I hoped – I hope – that a student would come and feed her, protect her, or take her home. I said goodbye to Alfie, and began walking toward our class. When I turned around, helpless little Alfie stared at me as I walked away, as if to ask me why I was abandoning her one more time. It was quite sad, but such is life. Worse things have happened. I can only hope that Alfie is safely scampering around campus with a family and a full belly.
And who knows, maybe we’ll run into each other one day.
And that’s when I saw her. She was sitting alone by the kiosk looking rather comfortable. Her tiny silhouette in the sunset was the cutest thing that I’ve seen in a long time. I quickly bent down and picked her up. She couldn’t have been more than six weeks old. And that’s when my Latin heritage immediately kicked in, and all I wanted to do was feed her and make her a part of my family. Thinking that she belonged to someone nearby, I asked the woman who owned the kiosk if it was hers. “No no no!” the woman exclaimed, “llévatelo, llévatelo tú!” I felt a little uncomfortable taking her away from where I’d found her – did she belong to somebody? Was her mother near by? Another girl, who had also been petting our new friend, affirmed that I should take the kitten with me. And so I did.
About two minutes later, I realized that I really couldn’t take this kitten home. Mim suggested that we at least bring it to her house (which was quite near by) and feed it. Upon arriving at Miriam’s house, I was warmly greeted by her host mom and host dog. We quickly put our stuff down and took our friend – our female friend, as we’d discovered after some snooping around – to the supermarket to buy some milk and kitten food. On the way, Mim and I pondered some names. Eventually, Mim came up with the brilliant name of Alfajor. An Alfajor is a layered small cookie-like cake thing with some kind of sugary creamy filling. They’re quite popular here, and quite delicious. And so we named her Alfajor – Alfie for short. I pointed out that Alfajor sounds more like a boy’s name, but Mim reminded me that we could defy gender norms by giving her this seemingly masculine name. Perfect.
As Mim and I wandered through the supermarket looking for food and milk, I kept Alfie in my jacket to keep her warm, but mainly to people from seeing that I brought a stray animal into the supermarket. Thankfully, she was asleep most of the time and the worst thing that happened was that Mim and I got a really dirty look from an old lady whilst picking out a flavor of cat food.
Back at home, Alfie caused lots of chaos. First because the dog, Lua, wanted to play with her, then because she kept running away when we fed her, then because she escaped from the box we’d left her in, then because she’d pooped on Mim’s desk, and then because the Lua kept breaking into the room and scaring Alfie while we tried to have once. Everything finally calmed down, and we had once in peace. We drank tea, and ate homemade bread and apple tart. I very much enjoyed talking to Mim’s host family – they are such warm, intelligent and beautiful people. Something about Mim’s house and family made me feel more at home here in Chile. Perhaps it was the rugged kitchen and patio that reminded me of Colombia, or her host mom’s cooking, or the huge smile on her host sister’s face when she spoke to me. I ended up staying for much longer than I’d planned because I was enjoying everyone’s company so much.
After once, Mim and I had to decide what to do with Alfie. Mim’s family couldn’t keep her, and I was pretty sure that my host mom wouldn’t want a cat. So we decided that I would take Alfie either back to where we found her or leave her somewhere near by. Before leaving I called one of my friends from the Tufts program to see if she would take Alfie, “Well, we already have three cats, but I’ll ask,” she said. Hoping that my friend would call me back with good news, I took Alfie with me on the bus home.
On the walk home, Alfie meowed so loudly that I began to wonder if she knew that I’d taken her away from her home. By the time I got to my house, I hadn’t yet received a call from my friend, so I figured that I would let Alfie sleep outside of our apartment, and hopefully see her the next morning. When I put her down, she followed me through the gates, which made it way too hard to part with her just then. So I took the risk and brought her inside. When I walked in, my host mom didn’t seem to mind that I had a kitten with me. I asked her if she wanted to keep the Alfie, but she said quickly said, "No". So I brought Alfie to my room and played with her for a while. Finally, it was time to put Alfie outside for the night. I left her wrapped in my scarf in the stairway outside of our apartment.
The next morning, I awoke early - What happened to Alfie?! I thought. Then I heard a familiar meow just outside of my window. I opened the curtain and saw tiny little Alfie, sitting in the morning sun on the sidewalk across the street from our apartment. Soon a car stopped, and a woman got out to pet Alfie. I thought she might even take her home, but instead she moved Alfie further away from the road. But Alfie wouldn’t stay still. Worried, I ran outside and brought Alfie back to the safety of my scarf. I quickly showered and got ready to go so that I could take Alfie back to campus where I’d found her - better to abandon her where I'd found her, right? :(
On my way out, however, Alfie wasn’t there. I wondered if someone had taken her in, or if she had just wandered away. I hoped for the best, and began walking towards my friend Katrina’s house. I walked slowly, saddened because I’d lost Alfie.
About a block later, I looked left and right to cross the street, and there she was! – her tiny little self, scurrying across the street too slowly to avoid oncoming traffic. I ran over and picked her up, happy to be holding her, but sad to know that she was still a street cat.
When Alfie and I got to Katrina’s block, we sat down and I fed her some breadcrumbs. Soon Katrina arrived, and despite her indifference towards most animals, Katrina thought that Alfie was very cute.
30 minutes later, Katrina and I were on campus, and it was now time to leave Alfie once and for all. I felt horrible leaving such a tiny creature on its own, but I hoped – I hope – that a student would come and feed her, protect her, or take her home. I said goodbye to Alfie, and began walking toward our class. When I turned around, helpless little Alfie stared at me as I walked away, as if to ask me why I was abandoning her one more time. It was quite sad, but such is life. Worse things have happened. I can only hope that Alfie is safely scampering around campus with a family and a full belly.
And who knows, maybe we’ll run into each other one day.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Dear Reader,
It seems that it has been a while since my last post. Sorry.
Unfortunately, after spring break I was greeted with the task of completing a hefty paper for my Economic Sociology class so I spent most of last week whining about writing six pages in my non-dominant language. By the by, If anyone with a PhD in sociology is interested in clarifying some theories for me, it would be greatly appreciated. Anyhow, I am finally done with the paper, and in the process of getting my proverbial mierda together.
HIGHLIGHTS:
Two weeks ago was spring break down here in the Southern Hemisphere. Most of the Tufts in Chile group traveled up to Peru to see the famous Inca ruins as well as other quite lovely man made and natural attractions. Instead of going north, Aaron, Christy, Katrina, Frank, Ben and I headed east to Argentina. We made three stops. First in Mendoza, the city just over the Andes, known for Malbec wine. Appropriately, we rented some bikes and took a wine tour for our one day in Mendoza. The weather was perfect, and the wine, delicious.
That night, we took an overnight bus to Córdoba, a city north east of Mendoza in the middle of Argentina. In Córdoba, we spent the night at a gringo hostel (Ben and I both noticed that this hostel looked exactly like Prudence’s house from Across the Universe), enjoyed an outdoor barbeque with some backpacking Europeans, went to an art museum, and an artisan market – all in 1.5 days.
Another overnight bus later, we were in Buenos Aires (BA). Buenos Aires was a striking city. The arrogant New Yorker in me says that Buenos Aires is a “real” city as opposed to the large towns that some people like to call cities. We did lots of touring, so I didn’t spend much time absorbing the character of BA, but it felt good to be a part of the rhythm for a couple of days. I had the privilege of staying with my closest friend from Colombia in her cute BA apartment. I often refer to Carmen as my Colombian older sister, as I spent most of my yearly trips to Colombia with her. Despite seeing three Argentine cities, going salsa dancing, drinking great wine, and taking epic 17-hour bus rides, the best part of spring break was spending time with Carmen. Her accent, her presence, and her knowledge of my life experience in South America made me feel so at home.
Crossing the Andes:
Córdoba:
Buenos Aires:
After crossing the beautiful Andes, we arrived back home in Chile on the 18th, just in time for Chilean independence day.
As I made my way back home, I was reminded of the things I see everyday in Santiago. These are the things that I forget about when I travel – the tiny cultural differences that I quickly get accustomed to. Though I imagine I’ll notice more differences when I go back to New York, here are some of the little things that help define my daily life in Santiago:
1. Couples kissing. I see at least two of these per day.
2. Stray dogs. I’m pretty sure that Santiago has gained a serious reputation for stray dogs. I see at least three non-stray dogs per day because they live on my block. I see at least 5 stray dogs per day because they are actually everywhere. They are like the pigeons in New York City. But these dogs are way more interesting than pigeons. They are of all shapes, colors, breeds, and sizes. As my friend pointed out, they also act a lot like humans. They sleep on the street, curled up in little balls, or sprawled out as if they’re dead. I’ve also seen several male dogs try a little too hard to hump female (or male) dogs. It sometimes makes me uncomfortable. Especially when the victim clearly does not want to be humped, or when he/she is clearly sleeping – very human like.
3. People looking at me like I escaped from the circus. This was actually the first thing I noticed when I got back to Santiago.
4. Metro! The public transportation in Santiago works quite well. My only issues with it are that a) every stop looks exactly the same (what happens if you can’t read?!), b) there are TV’s at the stations and in the trains that show commercials (I’d rather not be bombarded with commercialism every minute of my life, thanks), c) it closes at 10:30pm, and d) there aren’t enough metro lines. But other than that, the system is great, and runs a lot more efficiently than the New York City subway.
5. Different pluming. This is common in several South American countries (and even in the US). You are not to put toilet paper in the toilet, or it will get clogged. It seems silly, but it really changes the whole going to the bathroom process when you’re putting toilet paper in a trash can instead of in the toilet.
6. Starch. Because of the peasant culture, lack of any influential immigrant culture (except maybe Peruvians), and American imperialism (or just the influence of the hot dog) most Chilean food is made up of meat and starch (and lots of avocado and mayonnaise). I wouldn’t call it bad, but I wouldn’t call it delicious either. Luckily, my Chilean mom is a good cook, so I’ve got some variety.
Until next time,
KT
P.S. Last weekend we took a field trip to the largest copper mine in the world: El Teniente. From the outside it looks like a giant mountain, but once inside, it's like a little mining city.
Outside the Mine:
Inside!:
Unfortunately, after spring break I was greeted with the task of completing a hefty paper for my Economic Sociology class so I spent most of last week whining about writing six pages in my non-dominant language. By the by, If anyone with a PhD in sociology is interested in clarifying some theories for me, it would be greatly appreciated. Anyhow, I am finally done with the paper, and in the process of getting my proverbial mierda together.
HIGHLIGHTS:
Two weeks ago was spring break down here in the Southern Hemisphere. Most of the Tufts in Chile group traveled up to Peru to see the famous Inca ruins as well as other quite lovely man made and natural attractions. Instead of going north, Aaron, Christy, Katrina, Frank, Ben and I headed east to Argentina. We made three stops. First in Mendoza, the city just over the Andes, known for Malbec wine. Appropriately, we rented some bikes and took a wine tour for our one day in Mendoza. The weather was perfect, and the wine, delicious.
That night, we took an overnight bus to Córdoba, a city north east of Mendoza in the middle of Argentina. In Córdoba, we spent the night at a gringo hostel (Ben and I both noticed that this hostel looked exactly like Prudence’s house from Across the Universe), enjoyed an outdoor barbeque with some backpacking Europeans, went to an art museum, and an artisan market – all in 1.5 days.
Another overnight bus later, we were in Buenos Aires (BA). Buenos Aires was a striking city. The arrogant New Yorker in me says that Buenos Aires is a “real” city as opposed to the large towns that some people like to call cities. We did lots of touring, so I didn’t spend much time absorbing the character of BA, but it felt good to be a part of the rhythm for a couple of days. I had the privilege of staying with my closest friend from Colombia in her cute BA apartment. I often refer to Carmen as my Colombian older sister, as I spent most of my yearly trips to Colombia with her. Despite seeing three Argentine cities, going salsa dancing, drinking great wine, and taking epic 17-hour bus rides, the best part of spring break was spending time with Carmen. Her accent, her presence, and her knowledge of my life experience in South America made me feel so at home.
Crossing the Andes:
Córdoba:
Buenos Aires:
After crossing the beautiful Andes, we arrived back home in Chile on the 18th, just in time for Chilean independence day.
As I made my way back home, I was reminded of the things I see everyday in Santiago. These are the things that I forget about when I travel – the tiny cultural differences that I quickly get accustomed to. Though I imagine I’ll notice more differences when I go back to New York, here are some of the little things that help define my daily life in Santiago:
1. Couples kissing. I see at least two of these per day.
2. Stray dogs. I’m pretty sure that Santiago has gained a serious reputation for stray dogs. I see at least three non-stray dogs per day because they live on my block. I see at least 5 stray dogs per day because they are actually everywhere. They are like the pigeons in New York City. But these dogs are way more interesting than pigeons. They are of all shapes, colors, breeds, and sizes. As my friend pointed out, they also act a lot like humans. They sleep on the street, curled up in little balls, or sprawled out as if they’re dead. I’ve also seen several male dogs try a little too hard to hump female (or male) dogs. It sometimes makes me uncomfortable. Especially when the victim clearly does not want to be humped, or when he/she is clearly sleeping – very human like.
3. People looking at me like I escaped from the circus. This was actually the first thing I noticed when I got back to Santiago.
4. Metro! The public transportation in Santiago works quite well. My only issues with it are that a) every stop looks exactly the same (what happens if you can’t read?!), b) there are TV’s at the stations and in the trains that show commercials (I’d rather not be bombarded with commercialism every minute of my life, thanks), c) it closes at 10:30pm, and d) there aren’t enough metro lines. But other than that, the system is great, and runs a lot more efficiently than the New York City subway.
5. Different pluming. This is common in several South American countries (and even in the US). You are not to put toilet paper in the toilet, or it will get clogged. It seems silly, but it really changes the whole going to the bathroom process when you’re putting toilet paper in a trash can instead of in the toilet.
6. Starch. Because of the peasant culture, lack of any influential immigrant culture (except maybe Peruvians), and American imperialism (or just the influence of the hot dog) most Chilean food is made up of meat and starch (and lots of avocado and mayonnaise). I wouldn’t call it bad, but I wouldn’t call it delicious either. Luckily, my Chilean mom is a good cook, so I’ve got some variety.
Until next time,
KT
P.S. Last weekend we took a field trip to the largest copper mine in the world: El Teniente. From the outside it looks like a giant mountain, but once inside, it's like a little mining city.
Outside the Mine:
Inside!:
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Reasons to Shave My Head
Last weekend, I put my trust in my fellow human being. These things happen when you are not a part of the dominant culture…
About a year ago I decided to commit an act of symbolic violence (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Symbolic_violence) and chemically – and permanently -straighten my hair. I’d like to say that I did it for a change in my look, or to experiment with something new. However, I can’t ignore that I am exposed to - and conditioned by -the societal preferences for Eurocentric beauty. So despite my political beliefs, despite my closest friends and families’ political beliefs (and objections), and despite my knowledge of how unhealthy and dangerous hair relaxer is for the body, I decided to give in to The Man and do the white girl thing…as if I’m not “white” enough already.
So here I am now, in Santiago, where there are very few Afro-Americans, and very few people who look qualified to put such harsh chemicals on and around my scalp. Luckily, I brought the horrible and dangerous hair-straightening products with me to Chile, so the only challenge was finding someone who could help me fry the roots of my hair when they’d grown long enough (about every 6-8 weeks). I considered asking my host mother to help me out. She dyes her own hair, which is a similar process, but not quite as dangerous. I considered doing it myself, but I don’t trust myself to correctly apply relaxer, especially to the back of my head. Finally, I considered asking a random black woman on the street. And so I did.
A few weeks ago, as I walked through the Santiago streets, I saw a young black woman with long braided hair. I got up the courage to ask her who’d done her braids and if that person could relax her as well. She was very nice and gave me both her own number and the number of the woman who’d done her hair. She said that if her hairdresser, Cruz, couldn’t do it for me, that she would do her best to help me out. I was also quite excited when I found out that Mode is from the same city that my grandmother lives in back in Colombia.
That night, I called Cruz and made an appointment.
Last weekend, Cruz met me at the subway stop near her apartment and greeted me with a big hug and kiss. I could tell that she was Colombian by her warmth and her accent. When we arrived at her house, I met her children, and two friends who were also from Colombia. As Cruz combed my hair, I sat in her small living room with her and her family. Although they spoke a fast and vulgar Spanish that I never heard my mom speak, the Colombian accent made me feel at home. When I asked if they liked Chile, they told me that they appreciate Chile for the work and living opportunities, but that they much prefer their own country. I then began to remember the unbearable poverty that I only had to witness on my short trips to Colombia.
It was fascinating to see Chile from a black immigrant perspective, to see Colombia from a working poor perspective, to see the mystified look on their faces when I said I was from the US, and to see myself somewhere in the middle of all of these “identities,” unable to reconcile exactly why they separated us, and why they brought us together. And on top of all that, chemicals were burning through my hair and scalp. For a student of culture, the whole experience was a bit of beautiful chaos.
We continued the rest of the day talking about the great food is in Colombia, American music lyrics, Afro-Colombian and Peruvian immigrants in Chile, family, and more. Mostly, they talked among themselves as I tried to follow. By the end, I’d had lunch with Cruz and her daughters, and I had given Cruz’s daughter some of my hair products (though I cringed to see a little black girl get so excited about putting chemicals in her hair, I certainly understood her desire to “soften” her thick texture. I also had to wonder how her own psyche has been affected by Eurocentric ideals of beauty, for I don’t have the experience to make that judgment). I’d also been officially invited back whenever I wanted.
I think I’ll be back. If not to fry my hair, to be comforted by the loving voices of a people that I’ve never been enough a part of.
About a year ago I decided to commit an act of symbolic violence (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Symbolic_violence) and chemically – and permanently -straighten my hair. I’d like to say that I did it for a change in my look, or to experiment with something new. However, I can’t ignore that I am exposed to - and conditioned by -the societal preferences for Eurocentric beauty. So despite my political beliefs, despite my closest friends and families’ political beliefs (and objections), and despite my knowledge of how unhealthy and dangerous hair relaxer is for the body, I decided to give in to The Man and do the white girl thing…as if I’m not “white” enough already.
So here I am now, in Santiago, where there are very few Afro-Americans, and very few people who look qualified to put such harsh chemicals on and around my scalp. Luckily, I brought the horrible and dangerous hair-straightening products with me to Chile, so the only challenge was finding someone who could help me fry the roots of my hair when they’d grown long enough (about every 6-8 weeks). I considered asking my host mother to help me out. She dyes her own hair, which is a similar process, but not quite as dangerous. I considered doing it myself, but I don’t trust myself to correctly apply relaxer, especially to the back of my head. Finally, I considered asking a random black woman on the street. And so I did.
A few weeks ago, as I walked through the Santiago streets, I saw a young black woman with long braided hair. I got up the courage to ask her who’d done her braids and if that person could relax her as well. She was very nice and gave me both her own number and the number of the woman who’d done her hair. She said that if her hairdresser, Cruz, couldn’t do it for me, that she would do her best to help me out. I was also quite excited when I found out that Mode is from the same city that my grandmother lives in back in Colombia.
That night, I called Cruz and made an appointment.
Last weekend, Cruz met me at the subway stop near her apartment and greeted me with a big hug and kiss. I could tell that she was Colombian by her warmth and her accent. When we arrived at her house, I met her children, and two friends who were also from Colombia. As Cruz combed my hair, I sat in her small living room with her and her family. Although they spoke a fast and vulgar Spanish that I never heard my mom speak, the Colombian accent made me feel at home. When I asked if they liked Chile, they told me that they appreciate Chile for the work and living opportunities, but that they much prefer their own country. I then began to remember the unbearable poverty that I only had to witness on my short trips to Colombia.
It was fascinating to see Chile from a black immigrant perspective, to see Colombia from a working poor perspective, to see the mystified look on their faces when I said I was from the US, and to see myself somewhere in the middle of all of these “identities,” unable to reconcile exactly why they separated us, and why they brought us together. And on top of all that, chemicals were burning through my hair and scalp. For a student of culture, the whole experience was a bit of beautiful chaos.
We continued the rest of the day talking about the great food is in Colombia, American music lyrics, Afro-Colombian and Peruvian immigrants in Chile, family, and more. Mostly, they talked among themselves as I tried to follow. By the end, I’d had lunch with Cruz and her daughters, and I had given Cruz’s daughter some of my hair products (though I cringed to see a little black girl get so excited about putting chemicals in her hair, I certainly understood her desire to “soften” her thick texture. I also had to wonder how her own psyche has been affected by Eurocentric ideals of beauty, for I don’t have the experience to make that judgment). I’d also been officially invited back whenever I wanted.
I think I’ll be back. If not to fry my hair, to be comforted by the loving voices of a people that I’ve never been enough a part of.
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