El Planetario

Hola a todos!

I think that this might be the longest I'm gone without posting. This past weekend, the whole June class spent a fantastic weekend in Cajun de Maipu for Jornanda, which is a Reflexion weekend. We talked about our week, each other and our place in Chile. It was overwhelmingly positive for all involved, and judging from the shift in momentum for the past two days, I believe that goods things are coming. A full post about Jornanda, complete with photos, will follow.

Today was a great day, since we were able to take the kiddies to El Planetario (The Planetarium) anbd thanks to many people's coopperation it was gratis. It was especially fun for me, since I haven't seen my own kids in many days, and the rest of the children in the hogares who have been off from school could really use a few hours in a new place. Of course, it didn't hurt that the space show was followed by a dance dance revolution-type laser light show, complete with much clapping and giggling. Since I'm not really allowed to post photos of the kids, you'll just have to take my word for it.

And then there's the dog problem. After jornanda, I arrived home to an excellent surprise: Salchicho was visiting. Here is an awesome photo of him, taken by the fantabulous Rita, and he is officially my new personal mascot.This time, Salchicho brought a friend. An obviously well cared for Cocker Spaniel who, for some reason, was under the impression that he lives in our house. We have an unspoken "don't adpot a street dog rule" but since we let Salchicho in, in came Crazy the Spaniel. We all know that Salchicho typically comes in to our house, pokes around for a few minutes, and leaves. And he did this on Sunday. Crazy.....not so much. Crazy wanted to stay so we put him outside (heartbreaking in and of itself) and hoped he would go back home.

But no. Crazy set up camp on our porch for TWO NIGHTS. Pawing, scatching and crying at the door. It rained, it was cold, and Crazy stayed. Crazy darted into the house everytime the door opened, and we had to put him out again. He followed us down the street when we left, and after being chased by Boris and Fritz, returned. Today was the first day he wasn't waiting for us, I'm hoping this means he figured out where he lives so that we are no longer being held hostage by a delusional canine.

Now, I'm a dog person. I grew up with dogs. This one definitely HAS a home. In a perfect world, we'd love to adopt him and make him our own. But a group of transient gringos simply cannot care for a dog...in all honesty, we can barely do our laundry. The rules are so different in Chile. People just let their dogs out, and they come back. The dogs that are actual street dogs for little cliques and posses and some survive. They have territory and secret meetings and talk about dog things. It is possible that Crazy's owners got sick of him and drove him to Jardin Alto because they couldn't decide what else to do. Perhaps the next stage of the organization should Voluntarios de los Perros...from around the world for the street dogs of Chile.

I've had an overwhelming number of emails asking me "Lauren, what do you do in your free time?" That is absolutely untrue, but I'll tell you anyway. I've taken to reading quite a bit, because to my delight, we have a pretty decent library of books in the house from volunteers past. It is also fairly common to have a seat on the Metro and read if you have a long ride. Not for normal people, mind you, but for gringos who aren't content drawing to attention to themselves just by being there.

Damage

Today is the first day of winter vacation, which means no Ojos, pelotas, stabbings with needles, besitos or 'No, tia' for two whole weeks. I'll miss my little ones, but there is much to do, and a whole city to see.

And many people. As my struggle with Spanish continues, I have (with some help) taken matters into my own hands and accepted the fact that when people say "When you live in a foreign country, its really easy to pick up the language" they are dirty liars. So now I have a language partner, and he is as eager to learn English as I am Spanish, which works out quite well.

Thursday we had another VIM (Very Important Meeting) where we all get together and talk about something very important to our work, so that we can think about what we are doing here and why. Many of us don't know why we're here, just that it feels right. As I'm often reminded, I've only been here for a few weeks, which is not necessarily enough time to shape the meaning of your life. So I find these VIM's (my name for them) useful, if for no other reason than I find out a but more about the other voluntarios.

The article up for discussion was 'When Charity Chokes Justice' by David Hilfiker. I wasn't a huge fan. Great ideas, not much follow through and what seemed like a whole lot of complaining. However, it managed to spark a discussion that was unexpected, and different, and not the usual liberal politically correct nonsense that I tend to use in all discussions about social services.

Being around so many Americans (and Hungarians, etc.) I sometimes forget where I am. Sure my tia talks to me about how Santiago is bad, and I'm learning that Chileans feel like bread is the solution to all problems ("The children are cold! Their teeth are chattering! Someone go buy some pan!), but I haven't gotten to the point where I can have one of those conversations yet...about ideals, and goals and family life of a real Chilean. For whatever reason I'm just not willing to ask the right questions because I'm not sure I want the answers. I talk about helping, but I don't know if I'm ready to face how difficult and different life is here, and in turn confront my own guilt.

There are limits to charity. Charity does not solve problems, but symptoms. Sometimes, treating a symptom too well causes the problems to be overlooked. This is Mr. Hilfiker's argument.

And the discussion: I agree that sometimes we're doing more harm than good. Sometimes helping people gives the world at large the sense that everything is ok. Other times, we can actually damage people by giving them something that they should be able to get themselves (that is, through government programs and the like). If charity is too successful, will the government decide that all is well in the world? Will they forget WHY people need our help in the first place? And most importantly, is it all our fault? Does charity equal damage?

We didn't really decide, but we talked about it. Languages and Escudo flying, passion and ideas with no real answers.

When I got home from the discussion, foremost in my mind was that I'd learned the word damage. For some reason, I thought this would come in very handy in the coming days.

But I didn't know how. Until Saturday. It was supposed to be a repair weekend, a chance for us all to get together and complete a project for a hogar. Except, so whatever reason, no one signed up. Well, no one but me, J and C (the Organizer). Since the project was supposed to just be pulling a few posts out of the ground (rock bar? shovel? AmeriCorps?) in the patio of the hogar, we figured we could just get in done, the three of us. But what happened instead was chaos, Chilean style.

The "posts" were huge column-like structures, supporting a canopy covered in branches. If I had remembered batteries, there would be photos now, and all of this would make more sense. If it wasn't 11:45pm I might even draw you a picture of them. These posts were huge and precarious, and embedded in concrete.

But we had a plan: Remove the branch from the top of the canopy, remove the canopy itself one wooden slat at a time, take out the posts one by one. J brought gloves. There were shovels. We could do this.

We went forward with "The Plan", when suddenly 5 Chilean teens (?) showed up and, seeing that we had gotten to work, started pulling on the top of the canopy, causing all of the delapidated posts/columns to bend and shift and make me incredibly nervous. The three of us stopped working to brace the posts while the Chileans pulled away, seemingly unaware of the danger of what they were doing. We tried to tell them to stop, but it didn't register, until finally the posts (wood wrapped in a very heavy plaster) began to fall. This got their attention.

Time to regroup: We exchanged ideas in broken Spanish and got back to work. Our original plan wouldn't work because a) the canopy/columns were just too unstable and b) the alleged "Branches" were still attached to a tree, which we originally did not notice (have you ever felt so stupid that your head hurts and you want to pay your parents back for college? that was me at 11am on Saturday morning).

The new plan involved a big shove, sending the whole structure crashing to the ground. I'm not sure at what point this registered as a "good" plan with everyone, but we all agreed on the course of action. Uno, dos.....calamity.

The force of the falling canopy caused one of the posts to shoot backwards, shattering a window.
The crash sent the kids (who were in the sala, watching all of this unfold) running towards the glass, because that makes sense, gasping and saying "oooooh, tiiiiaaaaaa." The Americans all froze, taking in that one moment full responsibility for everything that had happened and knowing that we blew it. I could tell that the potential injuries shot threw our minds at the same time, as did the feeling of total failure. Is it worth it to take down a few posts if you break a window? Is it worth the damage?

But no one cared. At a hogar for children who are removed from their homes by the police while their parents battle for custody, or go to jail, or kick drug habits, this was not a tragedy. This was a piece of glass that would soon be replaced. The tios were actually satisfied that the sturcture had come down so quickly and that we could now get to work removing all of the wood, chopping down the tree with its tricky branches, and digging what was left of the posts out of the ground.

No one was hurt. We would be more careful going forward.

Then came the sledgehammers and saws and tools that I could not believe were being so freely passed around, but served to very quickly remove the rest of the structure in such a controlled kind of chaos that I can't really remember it. The kids came in and out of the patio, grabbing crumbling, splintered wood with their bare hands to feel helpful and involved. They begged the Chileans to let them use the tools. They asserted that this hogar, however temporarily, was their home, and that they wanted to be a part of it. C cleaned up the broken window, and no one remembered that anything had happened.

I wish I could end this post with "And we left the patio beautiful and new" but I can't. I don't know what it looks like at this moment, because it isn't my hogar, and renovations aren't always completed in one day. After a while we were given the very unglamorous task of scraping old paint off a window because it just needed to be done. The fumes from the paint thinner made us crazy, and the term 'Manpants' was born, for better or for worse. We worked together: volunteers, tios, kids, Americans, Chileans. We learned that there are many kinds of damage, and all you can do is try to fix one thing at a time.

Salchicho Lives!!

...and just tried to eat my face!

Since we hadn't seen Salchicho in a while, we started to get worried. Was he jealous that another sausage had been born on our block and we were talking about him? Was he angry that we didn't have his back enough after the German Shephard incident? Did he know that we fed the last of the veggie burgers to Bif the mangy mutt?

Apparently not. He came to visit on a random sunny day, and proceeded to make himself at home. We kicked him out after he invaded the bathroom.
As an aside, I have a new email address to accompany the blog: chilelle@gmail.com. I'm using it specifically to receive messages about the blog, so I'll still be checking the hotmail, etc. Apparently if you don't have gmail account here you are utterly worthless, so I hopped on yet another bandwagon. Feel free to send any Salchicho sightings. Paz.

Rain City

I'd like to preface this post by noting that my laptop screen is totally dying. There is no contrast and everything has trails, so its like I'm working on acid. In all likelihood, I will have to send my laptop back to the U.S. to be fixed, which will make me cry a river of tears. If that is the case, I may not be able to post for a while, since in my house I share a computer with about 300 other people who don't share well. Does anybody know how much a laptop screen usually costs? Pobrecita!!

It is winter in Chile. I've been told that Chilean winters are similar to those on the West Coast, where rain is the precipitation of choice and snow is primarily for show on the tops of mountains. This is true here, except for one small detail: On the West Coast, buildings are heated.

I was talking to a friend (ok, a guy I met in a bar) and somehow the phrase "I live in a bubble" came up. I don't really remember the context, and probably would not have remembered at all had I not had to ask someone how to say "bubble" in spanish (the answer is 'burbuja' but it doesn't really translate). The thing is, I meant it. I have been living in a bubble, one where heat and regular hot showers and normal mattresses aren't a luxury. And for all of my talk about wanting to help people and knowing that I was going to be living a simple life, I was still taken by such surprise when I realized that our house can't be heated until its "really cold" and my school doesn't have any heat at all. Ever. The chiquititos bundle themselves up and try to learn, distracted by their chattering teeth and gloveless fingers. In many ways, it feels like you will never be warm again.

But from what I understand, the Chilean people are just used to it - this is life. Life in Chile is paying for cans of gas and hoping they last. Life in Chile is not having a hot shower everyday. Life in Chile is taking a collectivo because they blast the heat for the 15 minute ride home.

Of course, life in Chile is also dancing, and pan, and the family that still sells garlic off of a horse-drawn wagon. Difficult and wonderful, cloaked in a vague brand of tradition.

We had a meeting tonight, and on the ride home noticed that the UniMarc (local supermaket) was dark. I had never seen it like this, as normally it is my beacon, signalling that I will be home soon. Closed at 9 was not a possibility.

We noticed, winding up the hill to Jardin Alto, that all the lights were out - the rain had cut off the power in our little part of La Florida. The lights filtering out of our windows were candles put out by my roomates already at home. They had opened wine, cooked pasta and were ready to discuss the events of the day by candlelight. I talked about my run-in with an angry 8-year-old with a sewing needle. Morgan spoke of her day spent running errands for the babies. Nicole was excited to move into her new apartment. Life in Chile.

At midnight the lights came back on. A few flickers, then full on power. Instead of the cries of delight, all seven of us in la sala said "Turn the lights off. The night is not over." Another night in Rain City.

Another day, another holler

After an entirely strange morning, involving the "jumpy jumpy" room, Papi "Jeck" and a little rain, it becomes clear to me that many people think I am German. After being warned that people in South America can spot an American from a mile away (not true) and automatically hate them (not ALWAYS true), it surprises me how many people, upon hearing me speak Spanish, assume that I'm from the land of great beers and sausages.

I guess it stands to reason, being tall(er than most Chileans) and blonde, that I might be from somewhere other than the U.S. And of course, I only know the assumptions of people who actually come up to me and ask me where I'm from. As for those who stare at me from the other side of the street, or the micro, or from behind the counter while I buy empanadas (which I can totally do in Spanish with no problem...little victories), I assume that they think I'm from Mars.

I don't know what prompted the man at the Parada to talk to me today. I was pretty closed off, buried in Orwell's 1984 (I've never read it...and I'm so freaked out) and not wearing a smile. You can't smile while you read 1984. And generally, the fact that I'm reading a book in English is enough for people to ignore me, which I welcome after working a full morning at the Colegio.

But the wait at the Parada was becoming unbearable and, considering the short distance that I had to travel and the fact that I would have just walked had I not already waited for 45 minutes, I must have looked agitated. Not as agitated, however, as Pepe my new Chilean friend. I noticed him immediately, because he was trying to flag down every collectivo that passed with his crutch, and he was carrying groceries. I thought to myself that the other people waiting had better let him into the first collectivo that comes, because he obviously needs to sit down. When he started pacing and talking to himself, I became pretty certain that he was going to start talking to me. In New York, I would have put my iPod on or walked the other way to avoid having an awkward conversation about how much it sucks to wait for the Micro and how every collectivo is always full. But I need to practice my Spanish, so talking to strangers is actually convenient.

The Chilean people ask me the same questions, in the same order: Are you from Germany? No. Are you from the U.S.? Yes. I've been the the U.S. x times. Which city? New York. Wow, so you were there on September 11th? and so on....

The obsession with September 11th is surprising. It seems so long ago and so close at the same time, and I don't particularly enjoy talking about it. I can't really imagine what it was like for anyone outside of New York to see that happen, or react to it. But it is one of those unavoidable questions, so I've stored my answer (I wasn't in the city at the time. Yes, I knew people who worked there. No, I don't like talking about it.) along with a few others that come in handy on a daily basis:

No, I'm not a student. I graduated in 2002(No soy un estudiante; gradue de universidad en dos mil y dos)

Please let go of my hair. (Suelta mi pelo, porfa)

No, I don't get paid (No tengo us sueldo)

Can I have two Escudos, please (Puedo tener dos Escudos, porfa), which is often followed by "Sure, handsome Chilean man, I'd love to dance" (Si, gibberish).

None of these really did the trick with Pepe who, after the September 11th question, launched into a somewhat inteligible speech about water. I understood about 33% of what he said, which is really low for me. Was it his lack of teeth? Or the fact that he was only 4 feet tall? Is tough to say. However, I'd give anything for a recording of that conversation. These are the details as I remember them:

Number of times I said "I don't understand": 10
Number of times he said "Rain in the streets": 25
Number of minutes it took me to understand that "Rio Hoffson" means "Hudson River": 8.5
Number of times he patted my arm and winked: 27
Number of times I thought he was going to ask me to marry him: 2
Number of times he asked me to come over to his house for dinner: 3
Number of dogs he hit with his cane: 2
Number of dogs that I fed, prompting them to come over to me and get hit by Pepe's cane: 2
Likelihood that a random Chilean man will want to talk about Six Flags Great Adventure: 1 in 1,000,000
Total length of conversation: 55 minutes

Finally, the micro arrives. I'm ecstatic because I get to find out what happens in Room 101, yet I'm sad that I can't talk to Pepe anymore. When we get on the micro he says "This is the right one, do you have enough money?" I do, and he is offered a seat. Minutes later so am I, and we are separated. Oh Pepe, I really want to come over for dinner. I don't think you are creepy.

And then, my favorite moment since I arrived in Santiago happened: The Micro stops halfway up Rojas Magallanes. I hear the doors open, but I'm reading and don't really care. There is a commotion. "Rubia! Rubia! Tu companero!" People are pointing and ttapping and alking to me. "Rubia" almost always means me. I follow their fingers to Pepe who is frantically waving. "Get home safe," he says. "We'll meet again." And I melt.

He's off the micro, standing on the sidewalk and watching me drive away, waving. I wave back, saying goodbye to my first friend in Chile.


Word on the street (thanks Gill!) is that you can't post a comment without being a regular blogger or registering or something...what is with this blogging thing? Have I fallen victim, like so many others, to the delusion that people actually care about all the minutiae of my life? Is it physically possible for everyone in the universe to simultaneously be blogging? I can't think about this anymore. My head is going to explode. I'll stop begging people for comments now.

Ojos!

Eyes are important in Chile. Their color, their size, their shape. When you toast, you must look everyone in the eye or else....well, its a horrible fate. I'm told many other cultures share the tradition. The eyes have it.

My kids don't usually look me in the eye. They are everywhere at once, coloring while looking out the window, closing their eyes all together while eating their colacion. They can't concentrate, and when I look them in the eyes for too long, it makes them nervous. A part of me wants to find out if I can understand what's going on in their little heads...what are they trying to tell me, or anyone for that matter? But they move, constantly. Their eyes, their bodies, their thoughts.

We aren't supposed to have favorites in our instituions, but everyone does. Initially, my favorites out of my small class of seven at School were the ones who couldn't speak and didn't try to punch me. As I got to know them, my favorite became a little boy who hated me, brought knives to school and gave me the finger whenever his tia wasn't looking. But in the past few days, there is one girl who really gets to me. Not because I favor her, but because I find myself trying so hard to understand her. She's Ojos.

We made up this game at School. In fairness, calling it a game is sort of a stretch. But I suppose if on the playground running is a game, this could qualify. What I may lack in game-making-creativity, I make up for in enthusiasm. For whatever reason, I have somehow created something that allows me to communicate with a girl whose disability I cannot understand and who is afraid of bread.

She's adorable...a Chilean beauty, with brown hair and brown eyes. She's tiny, but tough. In a class of mostly boys, she can really hold her own and I admire her for that. At the same time, she makes me unbelievable sad. She is twelve and she can't color inside the lines. She can't write her own name. She likes to say the word manzana.

But the things that she does know, she loves to share. She knows eyes, or ojos, so once, when I covered my eyes (out of exhaustion/frustration) she screamed "Ojos!" and covered hers as well. I started to do it more often...to calm her if she freaks out for whatever reason (if there is bread near her, for example). She starts to whine and - in a flash- my hands go to my eyes.

Then one day: "Ojos!" she screams. We laugh and the others join in.

They're all playing what they believe is a game. But what's next? Surely Tia Lauren must have a plan for the next part.

In that moment, I came to the realization that my kids and I are the same. We are struggling to express ourselves. They can see that I have all of these ideas of what to do and no way to say them. I see their 5 faces staring at me as I search my mind for the right word for nose. I look at them and - they will likely never find their words.

Finally, I remember. "Nariz!" I say. Hands to noses. My kids know the parts of the face. Who knew?

It all comes back to me now. "Boca!" I say, and they tap tap tap their little mouths. "Cabeza! Pelo!" I've now completely exhausted my knowledge of facial features in Spanish. (I've since learned ear/oreja and cheek/mejilla)

But the beautiful, tiny girl with all of the problems and giggles says "Manos, tia, manos." She shakes her hands like a dance. The others follow suit (minus one, who is hopping on one foot singing reggaeton and is worthy of another post altogether) and the game has ended. I have no idea what just happened. Is it over? Was that it? Was that even fun?

They beauty of the game is that everyone can play. If there is a lull in our schoolwork work, its time for Ojos. The kids are proud of what they know, and want to show me. But even better, it forces us, for a few minutes a day, to look at each other. When the kids say "Ojos!" their little hands cover their eyes. After a few seconds they realize that they can't see what I'm going to do next. So they peek through their fingers, each one, and look at me directly. 10 seconds. Right in the eyes.

The Saga of Salchicho

Am I officially obsessed with the street dogs here is Santiago? You be the judge....

The house is located in a heavily residential part of Santiago called La Florida. Here is a photo of our street:

Each house has a gate in front, tall enough so that dogs can't jump over and the bars are close enough together so that (most) dogs can't come in. Of course, whomever designed said gates was not thinking about Salchicho. He lives down the street, and is called Salchicho (or "Sausage") by us gringos because he is, you guessed it, a dachshund.

And he's not a street dog. He definitely has a home, with a gate, and his owners have gone so far as to put netting in front of the gate so that he can't get out. But he does, and can be seen around the neighborhood awkwardly running and wreaking havoc.

On my third day here, I almost killed Salchicho. It was a weird neck-in-fence-Lauren-not-paying-attention fiasco, followed by screaming and serious overcompensation to the dog who "barely escaped death". Needless to say, Salchicho lived on, without a scratch. Of course, I was a tad shaken that I had almost snapped a little dog's neck. For visual purposes, here is the front of our house, gate open:

Two days ago, as Luke, Morgan and I were walking to a meeting of the minds, Salchico joined us, as he often does, jumping and yapping and hoping we'll give him some veggie burgers (which we feed some of the street dogs...we have ALOT of them). We start to worry that Salchicho is going to far from home...I mean, does he think that he can come with us to HBH? I've never tried to bring a dog into a collectivo, but something tells me it wouldn't go over well.

And then, tragedy strikes: Someone has left open their gate revealing not one, but two GIANT German Shepherds who are PISSED that the little sausage has entered their territory. A nagging feeling tells me that that normally Salchicho, free from the confines of his front yard, yaps away at the restricted German Shepherds (whom I will call Boris and Fritz), taunting them will his freedom.

Well its payback, and a chase ensues. I have no idea how Salchicho's little legs are able to carry him to safety (I'm not entirely sure that mine will, for that matter...Boris and Fritz sort of have us trapped), but off he goes around around the corner. We all breathe a sigh of relief.

All is well until Salchicho, much more stupid than what we originally imagined, comes back. I'll never know why, but he runs straight for Boris who nearly takes off his tiny sausage head. We feel compelled to protect Salchicho, but really he's digging his own grave and I'm afraid of Boris and Fritz. Surely the protection part should be Luke's job, anyway. He is much taller than I am and speaks perfect Spanish.

There's no time for any of that, because the dogs are suddenly in the STREET (and I'm fully screeching at the sight) running in circles and freaking us out and then there is a CAR and the little sausage head is once again at death's door.

But Salchicho lives (and if he hadn't, I have no idea how I would have explained it to Rita), and by some miracle disappears around the corner again, this time for good. Boris and Fritz take up watch duty on said corner to make sure that he doesn't come back. As much as we're compelled to wait it out a little longer, we take off in the opposite direction, now running late for our Very Important Meeting.

Makes me glad my family always had mutts. I don't think my heart could take it otherwise.