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.
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.
1 comment:
hola Nan
como tay? te acuerdas de mi?
Aca nosotros estamos super bien, la javi en su escuela, yo terminando en el duoc y miguel como colega tuyo ( de profesor en una universidad)
Espero muy pronto iremos a visitarte a Futa
Cuidate mucho y
Saludos
Marcela Y Familia
PD: mi mail marce3cl@hotmail.com
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