Photo journal part 2

Los Alerces
http://www.parquesnacionales.gov.ar/03_ap/21_alerces_PN/21_alerces_PN.htm
On November 10 I went to Parque Nacional Los Alerces, an Argentinian National Park just on the other side of the border. Along with the two visiting gringas, Mary Hunt and Madeline, and other hospital friends (Camilo, psychologist, Rose, physcial therapist, Leonor, doctor, and her huband and kids) I went on several short hikes to enjoy the park's beauty. Time for a little relaxing on one of the lake's beaches...

THANKSGIVING 2007

I'm delighted to say that for the first time in two years I ate stuffing. I'm even more delighted to say that for the first time in my life I was the one to prepare it! Because turkeys are few and far between in Futa, we bought some deli turkey (pictured right) and Maddie and I prepared a few other Thanksgiving dishes: green bean casserole (with ritz crackers substituting fried onions), mashed potatoes, and a homemade apple pie. We invited friends over and shared a lovely evening together.

THE RUNNING CLUB!

Quite possibly one of my favorite pictures, this one was taken from an overlook above town. It captures the joy of students who partook in the visiting pediatrician's running club. Because youngsters here aren't very active (I know, despite their amazing playground) Mary Hunt decided to organize this club to get kids moving. It was a success although many of the kids who came were much more interested in the gringas than actually running.

EIGHTH GRADE CLASS
Today, December 5, was my last class with eighth grade. They were definitely my favorite class, the labeled "problem" class. Carlos, the other English teacher, and I worked together niecely to be able to make the most of a difficult situation. We ended the year with a unit on restaurants (Claudia and Anita are performing a dialogue in the photo to the right "Would you like fish or chicken?"). Now they have their end-of-the-year field trip and then their big graduation ceremony in two more weeks. Things are winding down...




SOY COOKING!
You won't find a soy cooking class in any other 1,600

habitant town in Southern Chile- only in Futaleufú. Pictured here is la Tía María, the teacher of my soy cooking class on Monday nights. We have learned to make soy milk, soy mayonnaise, croquetas de soya, soy jam, pretty much you name it and it's possible with soy. The recipes and some more photos from our classes can be found on our blog: http://www.futacomesano.com/ (which means: Futa eats healthy)

photo journal

Quick summary of what I've been up to in the past month besides teaching classes in Futaleufú:

This photo is of Rodrigo and I when we hiked up a mountain outside of town in the middle of October. It was an amazing trip, complete with glissading on plastic bags on the descent, a condor sighting on the summit, and a beautiful beech tree forest halfway up. I was happy to put my ice axe to use for the first time in Chile!

An small entourage from Patagonia Sur came to visit October 23- Octosber 25. We had various meetings in Fualeufú before heading a few hours south to Valle California where the foundation has property. Here I am with Alvaro during our horseback ride during which I checked out the property for the first time. During this visit it was essentially decided that I will continue working with the foundation at least through May 2008.

And then there was the infamous Futaluefú Olympics 2007. The games were held the weekend of October 26 and 27; community work places participated and, among other activities, nominated a candidate for Queen. At the end of the festivities the points for each team were added and the results announced... the winning team, La Escuela Futaleufú!!! La Reina de Futaleufú 2007... me!

They say that everyone has one moment of fame in his or her life. This was my moment. As the previous queen crowned me on the stage, the section of the audience peopled with school employees chanted my name, I was showered with confetti, I was asked to pose with various people for pictures, including the mayor. Afterwards we formed a caravan of 9 cars and paraded the town, honking and flashing headlights and shouting from windows, "Ed-u-cación!" Only in Futaleufú.

Halloween in Futaleufu!! Apparently five years ago nobody celebrated Halloween here but it has slowly been gaining popularity. Some people are anti-Halloween since it has nothing to do with Chilean culture and they feel it is a direct result of the increasing influence of Western culture consumerism. Others readily welcome any excuse to dress up and do something entertaining and out of the ordinary. These kids, mostly in seventh and eighth grade, are among them.

Parque Pumalin!
After many months of wanting to visit this private conservation park founded by Douglas Thompkins, the weekend of November 2 I was finally able to! With Mary Hunt, a pediatrician from Boston who helped in the hospital in Futaleufú for a month, we went for a day to hike around the park. While there we meandered through the temperate rainforest and saw giant nalca plants (picture 1) whose stalks can be eaten, a plant similar to rhubarb; 3,000 year-old alerce trees (picture 2), and finally ended the day at the beach near Chaitén. The day before we indulged in the hot springs, "Termas Amarillas" also provided by the park. For more info, see http://www.parquepumalin.cl/content/index.htm

Small Town Reminders

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.

The Rodeo Clown

It was during a recent conversation with another gringo who has spent a decent amount of time in Pataonia that I realized just how integrated I've become here...
For example, during the boat rides to and from Espolon I've gotten to know at least half of my students' parents. Most of them have relatives in town who, we inevitably discover through more conversation, are also my students.
On Fridays when I ride the municipality van back to Futa from the rural school El Limite, I learn where many of the students live as they get dropped off down a long driveway where their mom emerges from the house wiping her hands on her apron. It's surprising how quickly I've learned where so many people live, both in town and out.
I get wrapped up in local gossip and try to be passive in this local favorite past time, receiving "news" but not spreading it. This is admittedly difficult when substantial topics like international news and the arts are poorly received over a cup of coffee. "Did you hear that Fujimori returned to Peru?" just doesn't get the same reaction as "Did you hear that Jorge spent the night with María José last week?" (names changed to protect the innocent)
When a travelling gringa, Mary Jane, mentioned yesterday with horror that there's no insulation in any of the houses here, that the curtains inside her room move when the breeze picks up outside, that all of the windows have single-pane glass and often the glass doesn't even adequately fit the wooden frame, leaving cracks for cold air to stream in mercilessly, I just shrug my shoulders and realize I have forgotten that these things aren't standard.
Every once in a while the word "che" slips from my lips after I say, "Hace frio." When did I pick that up? I don't even live in Argentina!
Since when is it not strange to me that yesterday I rode home from Lago Espolon in a van with seven men, all at least 45, all donning ponchos and campo-esque berets or cowbody hats, most missing more than several teeth, and nobody phased by the fact that a gringa sat in their midst with her pink backpack and sky blue parka. A sore thumb, for sure; a rodeo clown among the bullriders. Yet these locals take me seriously; they know I'm in the ring with them. And that, I have realized, is the perk of having spent the winter here. I'm not viewed as a spectator who has come to gawk at and merely learn about their culture... I've been living it, and they respect that. These guys yesterday knew, for example, that I had walked in the rain the five miles to the school in Espolon from where the boat dropped me off because there was no car waiting to take me there (due to a communication problem, it turned out. I actually ended up walking back to the lake as well after my class because the teacher didn't have the gas to get me there, which meant I had to shorten class to allow time for the nearly hour walk I had, still raining!). Since a few of them have kids in the school, they're that much more appreciative of the sacrifice.

Conversations such as this one that I had with the other gringo make me realize that I have adapted very well to my situation, to the southern Chile lifestyle, and to the "hardships" of living in the Patagonia. So well, in fact, that until I discuss these details with others or sit down to write and reflect, many parts of my daily life that are in actuality very odd now seem run-of-the-mill, like the electricity going out 80% of the time when I turn on the microwave, or like eating bread every night for dinner. The term, "odd" couldn't be more relative.

Shooting Hoops for Chickens

The highlight of my first week back in Futaleufu was a basketball championship. Cecilia, the second grade teacher, asked me during a staff meeting if I play basketball. Um, sure. Great, because this weekend there is a campeonato and the teachers and the hospital staff are forming a team. Can you make it? Um, sure. Great, practice tomorrow and games on Thursday and Friday. See you then!
Oh dear, what did I get myself into? The next day I met the other female players at the gym for practice, among them Eva and one of my students from the hospital. We played 3 v 4, talked a little strategy, and mostly just got a good workout and had fun. I had no idea of the seriousness to come.
Thursday was game one. Fabian picked Eva and I up in the infamous '88 Subaru and drove us to the gym. While we waited for a soccer game to finish, I spotted a kindergartener in the bleachers who I hadn’t seen since I’d gotten back. Rather than wave or get up to kiss me on the cheek, she put her hands to her mouth and made an eating motion. She was making the gesture from the song I had taught them about eating apples and bananas! Maybe the cutest thing I’ve ever seen a student do.
Once our game started, the intensity of it was apparent immediately. I was only put in for one quarter, probably because I didn't do a very good job of hiding the facts that I had no idea why the whistle was being blown and behind which line I was supposed to stand and who I was supposed to mark and… un monton de cosas.

The opposition was young, the girls were quick and they were feisty. Our players were strategic and their moves calculated; myself excluded, the ladies all have a lot of experience. That’s a nice way of saying they’re not the youngest chicks in the barn. Puras viejas. In the end, they beat us by 3 points. Not too bad, all things considered.
There are only three teams in the league, so on Friday we played the one remaining team. I, again, was allowed in for one quarter. Menacing looks were exchanged, elbows shoved, the audience up in arms. In fact, one player from my team who shall remain nameless rudely declared to a woman on the opposite team that her husband, who would soon be running for mayor, had one less vote! Things became personal, political, painful, an out-and-out battle. We won by 15 points.
After the game I walked home with Eva, her son who’s visiting for the week, and Cecilia, our most serious playe. As we crossed the plaza, I heard her mention nonchalantly something about the chickens that the winning team receives. “Excuse me??” Eva asked. “Yeah, the first place team receives a prize of TRES POLLOS!”
Tears began to stream down my face I was laughing so hard. Eva shouted, “I’ve been busting my butt for chickens?!” I could barely catch my breath, doubled over with laughter.
In the end, we won second place and are anxiously awaiting news of our prize. We half-joke that it's probably two chickens. I can only hope.

Five-star hotels, corn on the cob, and Arnold Schwarzenegger

“Here’s your ticket for your complimentary pisco sour. The bar is on the eighth floor, the pool on the ninth floor, and if you need anything at all just ring the front desk. Good night, seniorita.” With that the bellman closed the door to my hotel room.
When I was sure he was gone, I let my jaw drop and gawked at the immensity of the room. I don't think I moved for a good five minutes, just stood there in disbelief. Once I finally closed my mouth, I spent what must’ve been another five minutes crossing the room to the opposite wall, walking at a normal pace mind you. The wall I approached was actually a giant ripply curtain and after I rustled through the heavy canvas fabric for a minute I finally found where it parted in the middle. Having thrust the curtains aside, I looked out from my sixth floor window to see how the night settles on Puerto Montt, a city both dirty and striking at the same time. It settles okay, I decided, but I didn’t spend too much time admiring the view because I hadn’t checked out the bathroom yet.
I was en route to Futaleufu again after my three week “winter” vacation in Ohio. It’s a strange concept and took some getting used to, this idea of vacationing in my own country. However, after spending a year and a half in Chile, it no longer feels like I’m vacationing or even traveling when I’m here. For this very reason I was a bit nervous to come back to Chile. I thrive on adventure, new things. Flying into Santiago, returning to Futaleufu wasn’t new. I now realize I was foolish to think that I would be disappointed by my return. Although I haven’t experienced that natural high of new adventure, upon driving into town for the first time after a month, I did experience a feeling of warm familiarity that I’ve come to appreciate, both in the states and here. It felt homey, even, this town I’ve lived in for the last four months. I suppose that process toward homey-ness is accelerated when you’re general living area is twenty blocks big. Or twenty blocks small, rather.
Eva laughed when I told her how great it feels to be back. She said, “Give it a week!” After 20 years here, she’s entitled to make comments like that.
My transition back to this allegedly developing country was made smoother by the fact that while in Santiago I stayed at one of my bosses’ house in Vitacura, a decidedly prosperous sector of the Chilean capital that is more than slightly reminiscent of a U.S. suburb. Patagonia Sur, the foundation that hired me, has an office in the same area, and is neighbored by a Starbucks that I visited with all too much frequency and that has more of a gringo feel than any single place I visited while in Ohio. The staff of Patagonia Sur with whom I met in Santiago is peopled with fantastic characters, all very enthusiastic about the foundation’s conservation and education initiatives in the south and eager to make the idyllic visions a reality.

Back in my hotel room, I spread out on the enormous bed, aware of the fact that this would be the last night for a while that I’d be able to sleep comfortably in a t-shirt and only one pair of pajama pants. I flipped through TV channels until I found something interesting, a Crocodile Hunter wanna-be trying to survive in the desert. As I watched him pee on his shirt and then wrap it on his head to cool him off (my mouth agape for the second time that night), I confirmed to myself that I do not thrive on adventures of that nature. For the time being, I was content with my five-star hotel adventure, discovering how the bidet works and wondering if I could eat the goods in the refrigerator.
I thought back to the taxi ride a few hours prior from the Puerto Montt airport to my hotel. When the taxi driver asked me my destination, I read from an email I had printed the address and name of the hotel. “Ah, el Club Presidente?” he asked me, looking at me as if for the first time in the rear view mirror. Although I had never been to the hotel, I figured Virginia had made me a reservation in a rather nice place and I felt slightly embarrassed to confirm the hotel to the driver. Blame it on my humble upbringing or Chile's extreme classism, whatever the case my feelings caught me by surprise.
As I slept that night, my dreams were filled not with visions of sugar plums but with ears of corn. I dreamt that as I crossed the Argentinean border, the customs officials checked my large backpack to uncover ears of corn, husk and all, stuffed in the side pockets. Sweet corn smuggling. Choclo contraband. Maiz mayhem. When the officials accused me, I woke up.

The next morning I checked out of the hotel (apparently you do have to pay for the items in the refrigerator that you eat and drink) and headed to the bus terminal where my bus departed at 8:15 in the am. About twenty minutes later, a young Chilean fellow boarded in Puerto Varas and sat at my side. A little small talk, what do you study in Bariloche, how long have you been in Chile, I learned a little English in high school, etc. The typical.
The journey continued to a stop in Osorno, the last city before crossing the Argentinean border (where I was praying they wouldn’t find any cobs of corn in my baggage). About that time I decided to pull out the book that I was currently reading. No sooner did I reach a particularly interesting part in the story when I heard the familiar instrumentals of Twentieth Century Fox announce the start of a movie. I prayed that it wouldn’t be "Big Mama's House," the cheesy Eddie Murphy movie that I had seen on two separate occasions on two different buses the previous year during travels in Chile.
No, it wasn’t “Big Mama’s House.” Yes, it did provoke an enthusiastic fist pump and an audible whoop from my neighbor.
"Terminator!!" He exclaimed. Oh dear.
The fist pumps continued throughout the production. I tried to focus on my book and tune out the loud Hollywood sound bites of glass crashing, bullets firing, bones crunching, etc; 108 minutes of pure Schwarzenegger glory.
We crossed the border. The movie ended.
And you'll never believe what happened next.
"Terminator 2" started. Incredible, really. Bariloche couldn't come soon enough.

The Times They are A-changin'

Exciting things I have to come back to in Futa after four weeks in the outside world…
1.) There’s a new produce store! They have broccoli, cauliflower, mushrooms (three things I’ve never seen in town before), raisins in bulk, kiwi, quince… it’s truly amazing.
2.) There’s a new social worker in the hospital… and she’s living with Eva and I! She’s from Valparaiso, a true city girl, high maintenance, and a smoker. I’m slowly getting used to having her around.
3.) A bouldering cave, or small area to do artificial climbing without a rope, is under construction! A psychologist/ stay-at-home dad is working on the project in his garage. I’m obviously very excited about this and have been talking with him about different design ideas.
4.) The public ferry is finally up-and-running on the Lake Espolon where I teach! And it’s only 5 months later than was originally expected.
5. ) The weather is now decent enough that during peak sun hours I can do outdoor activities without being uncomfortably cold and when I go to bed at night I don't have to wear a hat to stay warm.

The Espolon diaries, part I

Here she is- the beautiful rural school of Espolon, Chile, one of the most isolated villages in perhaps the entire country. (First photo is from afar, the second at the entrance.)Currently there is no road that reaches the population of Espolon. It is for this reason that I take a boat (30 minutes to a little over an hour, depending on the number of passengers, the boat, and the wind) across the Lago Espolon, at which point a small jeep awaits to take me the few remaining miles to the school. If it weren't for the boat, the only remaining option for transportation is horseback.

Fortunately for the people of Espolon a small barge funded by the state arrived to the lake this month with the intention of making public trips to Espolon possible (until now only private boats have crossed the lake). Unfortunately for the people of Espolon, the barge, La Esperanza, is not yet up and running.

A brief summary of Espolon in numbers:

Number of cars: 6 (brought over by boat)

Number of residents: 300

Number of students (grades 1-6): 14

Number of teachers: 1

It is because of this extreme isolation that these students have never had English classes like some of the other rural schools. It is for this same reason that these students arrive to board at the school here in Futaleufu in the 7th grade scared out of their minds. They're used to one teacher, 13 classmates, and the ins and outs of life in Espolon. Period. Interaction with outsiders is downright terrifying for many of them. It is for this reason that when I arrived the first day and greeted them with a cheerful, "Hello!" they dared not even look at each other and giggle. The just stared at me. "¿Que me dicen Uds. cuando yo les digo 'Hello'?" I asked them. A few students replied, "¡Hola!" Okay, it was a start. The teacher's wife, Vilma, who also lives at the school and is in charge of the boarding aspect of the operation, joined the class, explaining to me that she and her husband own cabins in town that they rent out in the summer and she would also like to learn English to be able to interact with tourists. Excellent. By the end of the hour and half long class, the students had loosened up and were actively participating in the games and activities I had planned. We were off on the right foot.

That was the first week. The second week we were blessed with an unusually warm and sunny day so I suggested we go outside for part of the class. Next to the school, we formed a large circle and linked hands. "Ready? Right, right, right, right..." We chanted as we marched the circle to the right. "Stop! Left, left, left, left... stop! Up!" Hands over our heads. "Down!" And so we continued for about half an hour repeating such basic commands. But the one that really got them: "Dance!" And we all dropped hands and cut loose, dancing like maniacs, shimmying and shaking about, hands clapping and knees bouncing until I froze and shouted, "Stop!" and they tried to freeze but many were laughing so hard they couldn't help but move. "Dance!" and it started all over again.

Amidst the jiving and the swirling, I took note of the unmistakable innocence of these kids. They're different from the kids in Futaleufu, just as the kids in Futaleufu are different from the kids in Santiago. If we were to draw a physical scale, a horizontal line, ranging from rural to city, these kids would mark the extreme starting point. Interestingly, one might use this same scale to measure contamination, both environmental and social. By social contamination I mean crime, drugs, dishonesty, etc.; things to which these children seem oblivious. If this is the case, that the degree of "ruralness" or "citiness" has a direct correlation to the level of purity or contamination, then these children would also mark the starting point on the scale for innocence. Let it be noted that I am aware of the difference between innocence and ignorance; one could easily argue that these children suffer from lack of exposure and information. Maybe. Let it also be noted that I am aware of high levels of domestic abuse and alcoholism in the region and that it is very possible that this quintessential image of untainted childhood is not a reality at all. On a sunny warm day in the middle of winter, however, anything seems possible, and I will embrace this sensation of purity and innocence while it lasts.

Things I love, hate, and things that just are

Photo 1: My house

Photo 2: The view from my living room window
1. Everyday at noon, without fail, the town siren rings at the fire station. Everyday at noon, without fail, every dog in town howls like crazy at the siren (it just is)
2. Orange peels drying on wood burning stoves, the aroma of citrus (love)
3. frozen toothpaste (hate)
4. New favorite pastime: placing garlic cloves in the tray under the wood burning stove and eating toasted garlic (love)
5. As Eva says, walking around town like Michael Jackson. Why? Because Chileans haven’t learned that all the salt they put on their food would be put to better use on the sheets of ice that cover the sidewalks (hate)
6. Every home has a tea kettle on the wood burning stove, always ready to offer tea or coffee at the first knock on the door. (love)
7. Ironically, despite the above-mentioned fact, very few people actually leave their houses to take advantage of the hospitality. I’ve discovered that while everyone in Futa knows everyone, very few people actually know each other. That would explain all the gossip (hate).
8. My bed is made for me every day (love).
9. The rooster I hear crowing outside right now (love).
10. The Chilean folk music I hear downstairs right now (love).
11. My complete and total lack of interaction with anyone from my country (it just is).
12. The film festival that some people here have organized: Every other week a different movie is shown and then discussed. Friday we saw “Lengua de Marisposa." I highly recommend it. It's lovely to have intellectual stimulation and appreciation for the arts. (love)

13. Boxed red wine warmed by the fire accompanied by Sahne-Nuss, a divine chocolate bar Nestle makes (love)

14. Playing Truco with the few young teachers in town while we drink the boxed red wine and eat the divine chocolate (love)

15. Conducting my first yoga class ever, in Spanish, with three students, a roaring fire, incense, and music to relax even the tensest of souls (love)

16. Feeling like I have been very unkind to my body, not giving it the proper exercise it needs and feeding it loads of coffee, tea, and toast (hate)

17. Leaving for work 10 minutes before my classes start because my commute to school is a 2-block walk (some days I love it, some days I would prefer some new scenery).

18. Hearing that TWO of my good friends in Ohio had healthy babies this week- CONGRATULATIONS JAIME AND MARIE! (I love this, obviously)

19. Having complete freedom to teach whatever I want in my classes at the pace that is convenient for my students (love)

20. The puny, pathetic, pitiful selection of fruits and vegetables in town (hate)

A word on Natives of Futaleufu

This film festival that I mentioned is attended by purely non-Futaleufinos, with one exception. In other words, of the 9 people who generally attend, 8 of them are from other parts of Chile but now live in Futa. I have noticed the same trend in my English classes. Of the 17 adult students who are completing the course, 8 are actually from Futaleufu. The rest are professionals who arrive from other cities and now work in the municipality or the school or the hospital or a tourist lodge. It is a sad phenomenon that the natives of Futa don’t take advantage of such opportunities (many started the English course but stopped attending) and from what I’ve gathered from conversations with people who have lived here long enough to know, there are many different factors.
With the huge success of tourism, many Futaleufinos became accustomed to making easy money without investing much work or time. The result? Complacency.
When they want to improve their tourist business, they ask the government for granted. The result? A mentality of receiving for nothing.
When landowners, whose parents were colonists who crossed the mountains on horseback and worked hard to establish a faming lifestyle with sheep and cows, when these landowners die, their children (also Futaleufinos) are now selling that land for large amounts of money to foreigners who want a vacation home in the Patagonia. Again, quick money.
And so it goes that the generations of Futaleufu are changing rapidly, and the source of that river of change is undoubtedly foreign influence. For better or worse, I have yet to decide. The impact on the locals’ work ethic has certainly not been positive, and in fact I’ve tired of hearing stories that support that notion. However, there are those who use their financial success to promote a better education for their children. Some send their children to board in Argentina for schooling; others make large sacrifices so their children can attend a high-quality school in Puerto Montt. The value placed on education is increasing, and this can be viewed as nothing but positive.
The grand irony in this emphasis on education is that the children in Futa are encouraged to get a good education so they can leave Futa. When Eva says to her students, “See those mountains out there? Think outside those mountains,” she’s encouraging them to expand their thinking horizons. Sadly, this is often mistaken as “You can get out! Education is your ticket out of this small town.” Locals have yet to discover the benefits that could be of getting a good education and bringing that wealth back to Futaleufu. Non-natives, on the other hand, on catching on quickly.

Missing Tooth

Half of my tooth fell out yesterday. Actually, the bonding that had been added to my tooth fell out, revealing my ever-so-tiny natural tooth. I was reminded of how the kids in seventh grade called me turtle because of my chiclet teeth. I laughed and told Fabian I look like white trash, which I don’t think he really understood. I didn’t know how to explain it to him without sounding extremely classist. It’s just a joke, okay? A few hours later, at his house, I huddled over the gas cooking stove on which he had lit all four burners as an attempt to warm the kitchen while he made a fire. Yes, I was warming my hands over open flames on a stove with a huge gap in my teeth. I laughed out loud; white trash indeed!

It is now apparent that this tooth chipping was foreshadowing for the bad day that was in store for me upon waking this morning. It started off just fine, in the arms of Fabian I hit snooze on my digital clock a few times and finally mustered up the bravery to face the cold outside the five layers of blankets that weigh heavily upon us. I’m reminded of Fabian’s invitation to go to sleep the night before: ¿Vamos al sobre? Shall we go to the envelope? Not, of course, before putting boiling water in my Nalgene bottle to lessen the shock of the frigid frigid sheets (yes, so frigid it merits repeating) and firmly positioning my hat over my ears. If nothing else, life in Patagonia in the winter is COLD.

But back to today… as I stepped outside the front door of the cabin, I put some upbeat Clumsy Lovers bluegrass on my MP3 player and crunched through the snow the seven blocks to my house, shielding my eyes from the sun the whole way and focusing on what I was going to do in my class of fifth graders that started in half an hour. It was going to be a good day, I was convinced, because I didn’t have class with the freshman who are my real problem class.
Upon entering the school, the head of the school district (which consists of the school in Futa and four rural schools) asked to speak with me in his office. He there informed me that he had spoken with the mayor and that they can’t pay me for the two weeks that I’ve been working full-time to replace the current English teacher because I’m not licensed in Chile. Rather than begin a long digression about the informalities of Chilean policies yet the ironic strictness with which they follow these loose rules, I will suffice it to say that it is not the lack of being paid that bothers me so much as the manner in which the school dealt with the issue. The director even said to me, “The Foundation pays you for your educational service to the community, correct? Just think of it as part of your role with the Foundation.” No, I replied, I have separate responsibilities to the Foundation that do not correspond with having the school take advantage of my goodwill. Hmph.

After speaking with him I went, late, to my eighth grade class, where I had a time and half with a student who was hiding behind a bookshelf, throwing paper, walking around the room, talking the entire class period while his peers gave presentations, wouldn’t listen to me when I asked him to please sit down, please respect your classmates, please stop throwing paper. Finally I resorted to taking him to the principal’s office, something I’ve never done and don’t like to do because I like to handle discipline problems myself but this was beyond me.
Another student in the same class who I sat next to me during the presentations because he was talking excessively proceeded to tear up small pieces of paper and throw them on the floor. One.after.another. Rather than reprimand him yet again while his classmates were presenting (you have to choose your battles), I waited the fifteen minutes until the bell rang and asked him to stay after and clean up the paper that littered the floor surrounding his desk. He refused to.

He walked over to the window and looked outside at the other students going home for lunch, throwing snowballs, sliding on ice patches, laughing. I tried to make small talk with him as I walked around and straightened desks and chairs, explaining how I used to have a job where I had to clean up after other people and I hated it when my clients were disrespectful and carelessly threw their garbage on the ground. He continued to look out the window with his back to me. Silence. “¿Te gusta la nieve?” I ventured. No response. A longer silence.

I decided to take a different route. I attempted a long explanation of why I was willing to spend my lunch hour waiting there with him, not for the mere fact that I wanted him to pick up the paper but because it’s important to me that he understands that his actions affect other people. I went overboard in inspired teacher mode, started a tangent about how all of our actions, good and bad, his and mine, impact other people with whom we come in contact in our lives, and that we have the power to determine our actions, yadda yadda yadda. He walked slowly to the adjacent wall while I spoke and began staring out a different window. A still longer silence. I thought about how I had told Fabian to meet me at the house at 1:30 for lunch. It was close to 2 now. I had to create a window for him to pick up the paper without feeling like he’d surrendered, without having to swallow his pride.

“Well, I’m going to start picking up this mess and if you’d like to help, I would appreciate it.” I bent over, picked up some scraps, looked over, and caught a glimpse of his face as he walked toward me and then the door. He didn’t look at me, but his cheeks were red with emotion and he looked as if he was trying not to cry. It really gave me pena, I wanted to hug the poor guy. Who knows what was going on in his head, what has gone on his life that he just doesn’t care. I let him leave, not even upset that he didn’t listen to me but sad for him and whatever battle he’s fighting. I finished picking up the paper bits and walked home for lunch. I had forgotten all about the fact that I wasn’t getting paid. Not to mention my dental drama...

Big Friday Night

Today is a big day for two reasons.
1.) It snowed last night for the first time in the streets of Futaleufu. My students were enchanted with the word "snow." They loved repeating it softly. Snowwww.
2.) I have big plans for my Friday evening. Yes, tonight is the Truco tournament. Truco is a card game typical of Patagonia that involves lots of lying, signs, and special chants. The first time I watched it I was completely lost. I've dedicated myself to learning how to play and last week I entered my first real game. With Fabian as my trusty partner (we've got all the signs down) and Eva and Trinidad, two other teachers, on the opposing team, we sat down to a serious game of Truco. Laughs were had, insults thrown, suspcious glances abounded. Best out of three games, and the matches used to keep score showed that we lost the third game by two points. Intense to say the least.
Tonight we meet again to pay off our bet of a bottle of wine and chocolate and to have a rematch. I'm stoked.
I've been extremely busy this week replacing the official English teacher in the district who has sick leave for 2 weeks and it has been... fantastic. Great to see new faces and meet new students, have a change of pace, and even great to feel mildly stressed. I would hate to say the laziness/ slow pace of the south had rubbed off me, but it is slightly contagious. Why rush if no one else is? I mean, the roads aren't even paved and I walk two blocks to work, how stressed can you be?
Yesterday I bought myself a fabulous snowsuit of sorts. I spied it at the "ropa americana" (I actually had been on the hunt for one of these puppies, I see people wearing them all the time here and they look so warm) and it's pastel pink. I seem to have bought it at the perfect time since it snowed last night. Today I donned my new gear and felt a bit like Barbie, but boy was I toasty.
I absolutely love my living situation with Eva. She is a firecracker. In the school she is notorious for being strict; she often complains that the principal doesn't know how to wear pants (a figure of speech, obviously) and that she always has to be the one to lay down the law (she's next in command). At home, however, it's a different story. Her sense of humor is dry, sharp, and ever-present. When Fabian came over after fixing his car, his jacket caked in dirt and his face smeared with grease, she claimed he dirtied himself on purpose so I'd think he actually works. She's learning English, slowly but surely, with our "lessons" in the house that consist of jokingly insulting each other.
The other night the electricity went out (it's been doing that a lot lately, nobody really knows why) and she and I huddled by the woodburning stove and went through some phonetics flash cards I have. One card had 4 words that start with "BR." She asked me what BRAIN means, so I pointed and she eventually guessed that it's cerebro. Not knowing its meaning either, she read the next word out loud: BROOM. "That's the sound your BRAIN makes when it explodes- BROOM!" She hooted in Spanish.
Yesterday I was at my computer and she came in, sat down on the couch, and asked me what my opinion is of men. Here we go I thought. What proceeded was an hour long conversation about fidelity, latinos, temptations, machismo, you name it. That woman sure can talk, and what she has to say drips humbly with wisdom and experience. She is stoic and joyful and I consider myself very lucky to have landed the living situation that I did.

Family Vacation?

“A ver…” Eva started in Spanish. “I (pause…) to like dis fud.” She held up her cookie and beamed, knowing that her sentence was full of errors but proud of having thrown herself in the pool anyway, as they say here. No shame, just go for it and no worries if you’re wrong.
I smiled encouragingly. “Mhhmmm.” Point to her. “You like this cookie?”
“Jes,” she replies from the backseat. The other two Chilean teachers in the backseat join her in laughing. Communication!
The three women, each with children around my age, are teachers in Futaleufu. They are also my English students. And now, for a long weekend, they take on a new role as my traveling companions.
Tito, Veronica’s husband, is driving the large SUV and smiles as though he should also find the situation amusing but honestly doesn’t. In actuality he’s nervous. He’s been noticeably nervous the entire six hours we’ve been in the car together. Having gotten on the road two hours later than originally planned, Tito is concerned that we won’t make the border crossing back into Chile before the customs office closes at 8 p.m. A valid concern, I suppose. With three hours to go, I’m hoping we make it but I’ve learned not to worry.
It’s a surreal event for me, this car trip, mixed with waves of comfort and foreignness. One of those times when you stop and realize you’re more comfortable than you should be in such a foreign situation. It’s the first time I’ve really traveled in Chile by car. It oddly takes away the feeling of travel. The loud motor, curtains, elevated seats, strange faces of a bus all lend to the mysticism of travel, the feeling of being safely removed but curiously inserted into “place.” Now, however, I am curiously part of “place” and this feels safe. As I turn around in my co-pilot seat and take in the beautiful Patagonia landscape, lake after lake to my right and snow-capped mountains to my left, I can easily imagine being in a US National Park, passing through with colleagues in our plush SUV. I’ve become used to hearing Spanish so much that even the language difference holds no shock for me, no feeling of misplacement. It’s like traveling…at home. At home traveling.
This general comfort I feel lends a sort of sneakiness to the cultural differences that do creep up on me. For example, one would think that among the four Chileans in the car aged 45 and over more than one of them would be willing and able to drive. One would be wrong. Veronica, the owner of the vehicle along with husband Tito, apparently drives only in Futaleufu. She gets nervous going high speeds (over 25 mph) and managing curves, this nervousness manifested in a shoulder-to-ear posture and white knuckles at 2 and 11 o clock. Witnessing this, I offered to drive and she gladly pulled over. All passengers resumed breathing.
I requested that a CD I had made the night before on my new laptop be played. Throw some familiar music into the mix, put me behind the wheel, and the situation only becomes more eerily comfortable. As I belted out songs by Jewel, Joni Mitchell, and Tracy Chapman the landscape changed unexpectedly to a desert-like terrain (it had been dark on our way there a few days prior). I confidently kept my foot on the gas, turned on the lights as dusk approached, admired the Monument Valley-esque scenery, and proposed we played “Twenty Questions.” A hit.
So what was the cultural difference that creeped up on me? Upon finishing my shift at the wheel I received a high-five from Eva. “Muy bien hecho!,” she told me, commenting on how impressive it is when a woman can drive well and unafraid. The others all joined in the praise (and I’ve heard several comments since then about what a great driver I am, a fact that anyone who knows me from the States would certainly not attest to) and I’m left wondering if their undeserved lauding stems from the fact that I’m a woman or that I’m young. Whatever the case, their reaction struck me as odd. Actually, it snuck up on me as odd. Odd it may be, but it has earned me a position as chauffeur on at least three potential trips that the women are planning now that they have someone reliable who can drive them. “I to like dreeve!”

Resting by the Fire

She rolls the scrap notebook paper into a long cigar, lighting the end as if to smoke it. Instead, she sticks it inside the wood burning stove, taunts the meticulously placed splinters of wood with its flame. You know you want it…
And the other cigars of notebook paper turn orange with joy.
“Cobíjame,” she thinks and smiles at the use of her new vocabulary word. It’s the little things, really.
Placing trust in the existing orange coals and the licking flame, she adds three logs to the fire, closes the squeaky door and opens the flu. That should do it, warm these frigid bones and relax these shoulders held tight by the cold. She sits on the wooden floor near the stove, thinking for a second that it might dirty her pants but reassured by the fact that the “empleada” had been there that day. The empleada leaves everything spotless. Hell, even rearranges the furniture in her bedroom when she’s not asked to.
She opens the book she’s started to read. A book by Thomas Wolfe, not particularly grabbing thus far but supposedly a classic so she’ll stick to it for a while. At least it could help revive her English vocabulary and advanced sentence structure which, using English only for basic communication lately, has gone to shit.
But rather than dive into the story and forget herself completely as she once did so easily as a child, she “reads” a paragraph, two three paragraphs, and in the middle of the fourth sea of words she stops, no idea what she’s just read. Why is the fire not hotter? How nice it is to have the house to myself, nobody to bother me, time to relax and read…
Ironic?
And why am I still cold?
She looks in the window of the stove and there are no flames. Coals adorned with cold logs. Damn it. Put the book down. Go outside, get smaller wood. Take out the big logs, put in the smaller ones. And she realizes with a smile she had smothered the delicate fire.
Ironic?
Rather than try to resume her absentminded reading, she reflects. Two months she’s been here. She has two authentic friendships in town. She stays busy. She gets enough sleep. She maintains contact with her people from home. Why the sudden imbalance? Why the urge to be alone? Because she hasn’t been able to lose herself in a book, she hasn’t been able to play outside in the sun, and she hasn’t been able to take time solely for herself.
She knows herself and is familiar with these feelings; they come not just because she’s in a foreign land. She recognizes them, lets them have a visit, comforts herself with the knowledge that she can kick them out if they overstay their welcome, not invite them back for a while... At peace now, she replaces the half-charred logs that she took from the stove on the now blazing fire and picks up the book. Where did I leave off?