I've come to notice that this blog has devolved into reflections on events long since past. In fact we must go all the way back to early May to find accounts of my latest Chilean adventure. In many ways this lack of commentary has resulted from a nasty turn of events -- a strike and occupation by the students of Universidad Austral that raged for seven weeks. With neither a job nor the freedom to stray from Valdivia long-term, the well that is bloggable experiences began to dry up.
That's not to say I haven't been busy. Over the course of May and June, I befriended some gringos from Michigan (and a few Chilenos); partook in many nights of booze-fueled karaoke and piscological bar-hopping; made delightful side-trips to Bariloche and La Serena; hugged a magical tree; made shadow puppets by the sea; discovered a reluctant passion for Chile's culinary canvas, the hot dog; learned what kind of stuff Argentines like . com (see facebook album); and alas came to know this beautiful slice of South Americana I've come to call home.
Then came July, a month of Fulbright conferencing, endless (yet luxurious) bus journeys, a prolonged visit by cousin Andrea, and a taking in of the greatest set of waterfalls on Earth. But as a friend once pointed out, the only thing worse than reading a place-by-place, hostel-by-hostel account of backpacking, is listening to someone retell a dream. So I'll try my best to avoid both of these bottom-dwelling methods of storytelling...even though I did have a really neat dream the other night about... forget it.
So now, a reflection on travels to Argentina; a perspective on in-class and out-of-class storytelling; and a woeful recollection of the harsh Valdivian winter.
But first a top 10 ten list.
The top ten things I've spotted in Chile that you probably won't see in the good ole USofA:
10. The McCurry Chicken Sandwich
Without a doubt, one of South America's greatest tragedies is its lack of Brown. Growing up in heavily Hindu Lilburn, playing on the Science Olympiad team at Parkview, and then frequenting Taco Bell in college, I'd become accustomed to playing with Indians on a near daily basis. As an honory Brown, I'd dance the night away at Garba festivals, watch endless hours of ANTP at CurrySqaure, and recreate Bollywood scenes in the Sandy Creek countryside. Most proudly, I was even invited to the Indian ceremony of Swati's wedding... the only non-Indian--make that non-family member--to make the cut.
This lifestyle, one that I had cherished for years, came to a screeching halt in March of 2008. After my first trip to South America turned up only one Indian-- Anureet, a fellow Fellow (who we ran into completely by chance, mind you!), I had come to accept that things wouldn't fare much differently the second time around. A Peruvian man once told me it was his continent's meat-loving reputation that scared Indians away. Surely the cuy-roasting spits of Cusco would make even the most open-minded of vegetarians bristle.
Theories aside, one thing for sure is that I've returned to a diversifying Chile. Compared to just two years ago, the country is home to more Americans, Europeans, Chinese, and even Africans than could have been imagined. Amid the hundreds of new Chileno-Chinese restaurantes and countless Santiago sushi bars, I dreamed of finding that perfect little Indian dive. With the search fruitless and sari-count stalled at zero, I settled in for a painful year of Indian-withdrawal.
Enter Mickey D's. Turns out the only piece of Indian food served in all of Chile can be found at, where else, McDonalds. The McCurry: "El Sabor de India." Tried it, hated it, still miss all things Indian...the food and the folks.
9. Navy men playing the "Dream Factory" like it was "Battleship"
In a naval town like Viña del Mar, midshipmen can be spotted at numerous venues. Therefore, I wasn't surprised when cousin Andrea told me she had seen a group of Chilean Navy men. What was surprising, however, was what she caught them doing: playing the "Dream Factory," or what she called the "Fantasy Machine"...one of those games where you grab the stuffed animal with the joystick-controlled claw. Apparently, the young men put thousands of pesos into the darned thing and pissed away nearly an hour. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think you'd see this at home. Maybe it's just the general love for the arcade down here. A walk down any street in Chile will yield at least one doorway darkened by the pin ball melodies of twenty-somethings trying to win it big.
Side note--I've been told by a fellow Fulbrighter that on LAN Airlines flights to Easter Island, you can play Battleship using the TV at your seat against other passengers. Pretty neat...and a luxury you definitely wouldn't find on an American aircraft.
8. Accessorizing Arab-style
True story: this past year, television cooking sensation Rachel Wray made a fateful fashion faux pas. On a Dunkin' Donuts advertisement she wore...a white and black checkered scarf! Insert shock and disgust. I mean, she was wearing an Arab headdress around her neck! I know, right? Not only is that unpatriotic, it's a legitimate terroristic threat. Exploding donuts, anyone?!
Phewww... good thing Dunkin' Donuts pulled the ad after being pressured by America's powerful anti-all-things-Arab lobby. Unfortunately, this lobby doesn't exist in Chile. Thousands of Chilean youths, ever day, wear these unsightly terrorist scarves. Is it simply the male fashion accessory of the year, or a woolen stamp of approval on what those Middle Easterners have been conjuring up? I wonder every day.
7. Guateros
In Chile, a man who is cold has one of three options. He can either: A) Crank up the central heating; B) Go out into the freezing cold, chop up some firewood, and then try to build a fire inside a wood-burning stove; or C) Fill up his prized guatero. Considering that 'option A' is very much outside the realm of Chilean reality, I always viewed myself as an 'option B' kind of guy...I mean, those stoves make rooms real nice and toasty...and believe it or not, I actually kind of like chopping wood. Besides, guateros are dangerous. I've heard frightful tales of them opening up at night and scalding their victims.
So what is a guatero? Why it's a rubber pouch that you fill with boiling water, of course. You take it, nuzzle it, climb into bed with it, and then cuddle till morn. A remarkable innovation indeed...and one that I've come to reluctantly accept. You see, it turns out making fires with damp wood is really tough. So I guess I'm a guatero man for life.
6. Nudity on E!
Who'da thunk the wholesome network that brought us "E! True Fellowship Story: Jayanthi" and "Keeping up with the Lohans, Kardashians, Ryan Seacrest...whoever" would also bring to the Chilean tube "Naked Wild On." Whatever happened to the wholesomeness of basic cable? And it begs the question...in other countries, do all normal American cable channels turn into nudie-shows after dark? The Food Network?
5. Playgrounds for olds (or olders, at least)
So maybe you've heard of Muscle Beach in L.A...but what about Fitness Beach? I've found it...the next generation of health meets urban planning in Chile's own Viña del Mar. On a recent sunny day, Chile's small but growing population of outdoor exercisers was spotted on a fit trail that runs along the city's beachfront, But they weren't just jogging. They were hopping aboard ellipicticals, rowing machines, and some weird contraption that makes your hips twist...non-electric equipment made of metal and anchored in the sand. It was full-on fun in the sun...an adult twist on the see-saws of youth...and those weird cagey orange swings that you had to pump with your arms. Better yet, it was a sleek update on the aged fit-trails of Mountain Park Park and the IM Fields. Back in the old days, it was: ok, stop jogging and do sit-ups on this wooden slab... or jump from this wooden block to this other one (lame...not to mention splintery). But now, the comforts of your own gym...right on the beach.
I call for instant implementation in cities across the U.S. Better yet, I'll have a talkin' with J. Michael and demand that the doleful cries of spinning overpower playground laughter at every Gwinnettian park.
4. Vertical horseback-riding
This one time I rode a horse up a mountain, in the Valle de Elqui. The trip up to the top was a piece of cake...a nightmare for acrophobes...but with a reasonable incline, dominated by switchbacks. Once we reached the summit, I breathed a sigh of relief and turned to Andie, a study-abroadskateer from Michigan and my roommate at the pension. Together we peered down into the distant village of Pisco Elqui. "Time to go down," exclaimed Jesus, our guide. If you were to draw a straight line from our perch to the town center, it would be the route that our horses took...seriously straight down the mountain...we're talking at least a 45 degree decline here...the horses were like walking on their knees and dragging their hooves in the dirt to slow gravity's pull. It was terrifying.
3. Karaoke gone wrong, or right rather
For my first month in Valdivia, there was one place I dared not enter: a bar called Strike. It was rumored that this was the place where karoake showdowns mingled with sunrise, amateur singing talent went to find an audience, and American pop songs and Spanish melodrama spewed from the vocal cords of drunken Valdivianos. It was the town karaoke bar...in a hip, modern, dare I say American-looking venue.
So here's the thing: I love to sing, but I get nerrrvous doing it in front of people. And my last public singing episode was, let's face it--a disaster: "Make you own kind of music" with the A Capella Fellas at the Parent's Reception...three sopranos and a bass. As bad, if not worse, than the infamous graduation banquet performance of "Hit the road Jack."
One cold May night, the time finally came to let out my repressed vocals. The gringos and I, with assorted Chileans, had gathered at Strike for a night of sushi, pisco...and karaoke. Before we took the plunge, I insisted that we hear out the competition. Song #1: a spot on rendition of "I have nothing" by Whitney Houston, a daring choice for a non-native speaker of English. Then something in Spanish, sung again with vocal virtuosity. I began to feel uneasy. At home, karaoke bars were spotlights for people with no talent, places where drunken boomers could belt out the songs of yore. But in Chile they were proving grounds. These people were good.
A few songs later, and it was gringo time. The song had been selected: a classic crowd pleaser by the name of "Don't Stop Beleavin." Surely we'd rock. And so the four minutes of misery began. Typically when those first famous notes are heard, people will erupt into Journey-loving frenzy...but we sensed no such love. Had they even heard of it? We sang, some notes in tune, others not, but we got through it. Then the moment of truth. Would they cheer? Nothin', save a few faint claps. Turns out Journey is no Chilean crowd favorite...that distinction belongs to Pearl Jam. How were we to know? I was devastated.
It took me weeks to work up the courage to sing again, but eventually I did. The second time around, I went with something I knew I was the bomb on: "Way down yonder on the Chattahoochee" by Alan Jackson. I warned the audience that they were about to hear American country music...a genre viewed with suspicion and hate the world over. But then I got up, danced some country jigs, turned on the accent full force, and fuckin' rocked out. They liked me. They actually liked me.
Too bad we had to almost instantly ruin everything with "One Week" by the Barenaked Ladies.
2. Those silly old sea lions
I remember the first time I ever saw one: two years ago, down by the fish market. I could hardly believe what was flailing before me. A puzzle for all the senses: that size, those sounds, that smell. What was it? Lobo Marino. Sea Wolf.
They lurk along Valdivia's riverfront, barking at passersby, and according to legend, snapping at unattended children. The signs warn: "Lobos marinos no son animales domesticados." But surely a few hand-less fools have reasoned, "but neither are the stray dogs, and they're fun to pet." Personally, I keep my distance, the cruel lessons of Arrested Development still fresh on my mind.
Despite the danger, their allure is nevertheless timeless. I can stand for almost an hour watching the things... writhing in their own filth, fighting with each other, and making the most grotesque grunting sounds ever heard by a man. Considering their appeal, some enterprising gringos and I have even considered making "getting your picture taken with a sea lion" the tourist trap of Valdivia. What Bariloche has done with St. Bernard´s would surely be just as successful here. Just imagine holding a sea lion pup in your arms and saying cheese.
But then I realize that they're value isn't in the tourist buck, but in the lessons they impart. Just as Easter Island is Earth's cautionary tale of overconsumption leading to societal demise, the sea lions of Valdivia are another reminder that excess has consequences. Every once in a while, you'll spot a little fella...so tiny and cute...the way gawd intended these odd aquatic creations to be. How could something so precious become something immobilized by its own fat. A lesson for the ages.
1. Mis-translations
Living abroad can be challenging. The language barriers, cultural isolation, and distance from home can make things unpleasant at times. But it's worth it, if for no other reason than those little discoveries that make you laugh like hell. One thing I can always count on to brighten up the darkest Valdivian day is the ever so common mis-translation.
First, there's movies. It seems every movie released in Latin America has a different name than its American counterpart. Rarely are these direct translations. Sometimes the changes make sense, so as to spell out more clearly an English idiom. "Failure to Launch," for example, becomes "Soltero en Casa" (translation: "Single in House"). Sometimes the attempt to describe rather than name a movie, however, borders on rediculous. My personal favorite: "Mrs. Doubtfire." The name Doubtfire has no meaning in English, so why shouldn't we expect its Spanish name to be "Señora Doubtfire?" Because that would just be too darn simple. What we get instead is priceless. "Papà por Siempre." (translation: "Father Forever"...as in you'll always be my daddy, even when you cross-dress as an auld British nanny).
Then there are the subtitles, a whole different beast. So often they are awful, diluting expressive dialog into simple narration. But as many times as the mistaken translations are just plain bad, they're also hilarious. One of my favorites:
"That's a real drag" -----> "Eso es gay"
And the best one I've seen lately, on that weekly helping of comic genious, 30 Rock.
"How's it going, Liz?" -----> "¿Como estas, Liz?"
"I'm gellin' like Magellin'" -----> "Me siento como Dr. Scholls" (translation: "I feel like Dr. Scholls")
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So go ahead, write me a message, ask me how I'm doing down in Chile. My answer? Feelin' like Dr. Scholls.
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