The other day, I went to the “supermarket.” It is a one-room store with no aisles, the products simply line the four walls. I didn’t even have to look at the hand-written sign that said “empujar,” my auto-pilot led me push the glass door open. Considering many people here make individual trips to the grocery for each meal (and usually something is forgotten so somebody has to run to the corner store to pick up a bottle of juice or a hunk of cheese or a couple of lemons as the table is being set), I’m very accustomed to the routine of: empujar, look to the left where María, the owner, sits behind the counter, … ‘¡Hola María! ¿Cómo estás? ¿Yo? Muy bien tambíen, gracias.’
*Note to reader: Maria is a special woman. With a raspiness in her voice and a firmness in her manner, she is labeled as “pesada” by some. I certainly don’t picture her cooing an infant or playing with a puppy. Once, the day she registered for my English class, she gave me a half hour lecture about how lazy people in Fualeufu are and how no one in town knows how to take advantage of the opportunities they’re offered and how the residents expect everything to be handed to them and don’t want to work for anything.
Ironically, Maria never once came to an English class.
When I asked her what happened, she said it was impossible, that she was too busy with the store, that she couldn’t make time for the classes. For maybe the seven hundredth time since I’ve been in Futaleufu I heard my dad’s voice in my head repeat his favorite saying: “Excuses are like assholes. Everybody’s got one.” Not the most eloquent of sayings, but a valuable one nonetheless. The thing is, people here don’t have just one. Excuse, that is.
As I pushed open the glass door, I saw a small crowd inside and immediately thought to myself, “Wow, it’s busy in here tonight!” There were exactly eight people in the store. This, in Futa, constitutes a crowd. I knew and of course greeted individually every one of them, responding that yes, me ha ido bien and yes, I did end up going bike riding today, and yes, I agree that it’s really cold outside.
Upon approaching the “counter” where Maria made me a hand-written receipt after adding up the prices of my goods on a calculator, I reminded her that I owed her for a can of Nescafe that I had bought the previous week but hadn’t paid for because she didn’t have change for my large bill (comparable to a U$20 dollar bill). “Oh, right Meees!” her scratchy voice declares, and somewhere deep inside me I realize I want to tell her she has no right to call me “Miss” if she’s not my student, if she hasn’t come to any of my classes. But I smile, pay the IOU (for which no written record existed), and walk the two blocks to my house.
A few other things have happened lately to remind me how small this town is and how used to that fact I have become. Today, for example, Eva’s visiting mother (who’s 84 and may have more energy than I do) asked me if Waleska, another teacher, lives far away. I responded that yes, she does live kind of far away. About six blocks, I added. Only upon hearing myself say it out loud did I realize how ridiculous the statement sounded! And to think that six blocks is actually considered far here. All the way on the other side of town! Ironically, once outside of town this standard of measurement changes immediately. A farm house that lies between Futaleufu and Chaiten esta ahi no mas (the general direction west indicated with a pointing of bunched lips).
It also donned on me the other day that not only is there a complete and total lack of traffic lights in Futaleufu, there is no form of traffic sign even existent. Stop signs, who needs ‘em? Maybe in the summer it’s different, but for now there’s not enough traffic to merit posting signs.
Along the same lines of traffic and cars, it also occurred to me the other day that I can match at least 80% of the cars in town with their respective owner. Walking down the street, without even realizing it, I might take note of where certain cars are parked and think, “Hmmm, Javier from the radio is at the bank.” Or, “What could Veronica, the kindergarten teacher, be doing at the municipality? I wonder whose house that is where the family vehicle of my third grade student, Fabiola, is parked?” And this, my friends, is why gossip is so big in towns so small. There’s no escape from the public eye, and the public eye knows you, or at least has the ability to identify you, wherever you go. But the real problem with the public eye is that it’s connected to the public mouth, and there’s the rub.
In keeping with the same topic of automobiles, today I witnessed for probably the six hundredth time the siphoning of gasoline from one car to another via modes of blowing and/ or sucking on a small hose to coax the precious liquid from its resting place. “No es muy agradable, el humo de vencina primera cosa en la mañana,” (It’s not very pleasant, gas fumes first thing in the morning) Fabian said to me after he took his mouth from the yellow hose and quickly placed it in a plastic container that grew heavy with gas siphoned from a friend’s pick-up truck. Maybe it’s not the most pleasant thing, but when the nearest gas station is an hour away and in a different country, you do what you have to.
*Note to reader: Maria is a special woman. With a raspiness in her voice and a firmness in her manner, she is labeled as “pesada” by some. I certainly don’t picture her cooing an infant or playing with a puppy. Once, the day she registered for my English class, she gave me a half hour lecture about how lazy people in Fualeufu are and how no one in town knows how to take advantage of the opportunities they’re offered and how the residents expect everything to be handed to them and don’t want to work for anything.
Ironically, Maria never once came to an English class.
When I asked her what happened, she said it was impossible, that she was too busy with the store, that she couldn’t make time for the classes. For maybe the seven hundredth time since I’ve been in Futaleufu I heard my dad’s voice in my head repeat his favorite saying: “Excuses are like assholes. Everybody’s got one.” Not the most eloquent of sayings, but a valuable one nonetheless. The thing is, people here don’t have just one. Excuse, that is.
As I pushed open the glass door, I saw a small crowd inside and immediately thought to myself, “Wow, it’s busy in here tonight!” There were exactly eight people in the store. This, in Futa, constitutes a crowd. I knew and of course greeted individually every one of them, responding that yes, me ha ido bien and yes, I did end up going bike riding today, and yes, I agree that it’s really cold outside.
Upon approaching the “counter” where Maria made me a hand-written receipt after adding up the prices of my goods on a calculator, I reminded her that I owed her for a can of Nescafe that I had bought the previous week but hadn’t paid for because she didn’t have change for my large bill (comparable to a U$20 dollar bill). “Oh, right Meees!” her scratchy voice declares, and somewhere deep inside me I realize I want to tell her she has no right to call me “Miss” if she’s not my student, if she hasn’t come to any of my classes. But I smile, pay the IOU (for which no written record existed), and walk the two blocks to my house.
A few other things have happened lately to remind me how small this town is and how used to that fact I have become. Today, for example, Eva’s visiting mother (who’s 84 and may have more energy than I do) asked me if Waleska, another teacher, lives far away. I responded that yes, she does live kind of far away. About six blocks, I added. Only upon hearing myself say it out loud did I realize how ridiculous the statement sounded! And to think that six blocks is actually considered far here. All the way on the other side of town! Ironically, once outside of town this standard of measurement changes immediately. A farm house that lies between Futaleufu and Chaiten esta ahi no mas (the general direction west indicated with a pointing of bunched lips).
It also donned on me the other day that not only is there a complete and total lack of traffic lights in Futaleufu, there is no form of traffic sign even existent. Stop signs, who needs ‘em? Maybe in the summer it’s different, but for now there’s not enough traffic to merit posting signs.
Along the same lines of traffic and cars, it also occurred to me the other day that I can match at least 80% of the cars in town with their respective owner. Walking down the street, without even realizing it, I might take note of where certain cars are parked and think, “Hmmm, Javier from the radio is at the bank.” Or, “What could Veronica, the kindergarten teacher, be doing at the municipality? I wonder whose house that is where the family vehicle of my third grade student, Fabiola, is parked?” And this, my friends, is why gossip is so big in towns so small. There’s no escape from the public eye, and the public eye knows you, or at least has the ability to identify you, wherever you go. But the real problem with the public eye is that it’s connected to the public mouth, and there’s the rub.
In keeping with the same topic of automobiles, today I witnessed for probably the six hundredth time the siphoning of gasoline from one car to another via modes of blowing and/ or sucking on a small hose to coax the precious liquid from its resting place. “No es muy agradable, el humo de vencina primera cosa en la mañana,” (It’s not very pleasant, gas fumes first thing in the morning) Fabian said to me after he took his mouth from the yellow hose and quickly placed it in a plastic container that grew heavy with gas siphoned from a friend’s pick-up truck. Maybe it’s not the most pleasant thing, but when the nearest gas station is an hour away and in a different country, you do what you have to.
