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)