Elliot in Chile

Potrero Grande

2009-06-03T00:19:00.008-04:00

If you missed the last post, check it out here.

I first met Marcela, the D-Sav therapist, in my first few weeks at Club. She acted extremely giddy upon talking to Carmen and me, very excited to test out her intermediate English knowledge with us. In line with what has become a theme of hospitality towards me in Chile, she invited us both over after only a half hour of talking to me. Beyond the typical dinner/asado invitation that is common for me to receive, she offered to let us stay at her parents country home situated on a raspberry farm about 2 hours by bus from Santiago. It sounded fun, but I figured I should get to know her and her family better, attending a couple family dinners in the coming months at their house close to Club.

Absent at the dinners was her son of similar age to me Manuel, who I wanted to meet since VEGlobal volunteers generally fall into the mid to late-twenties age range. Thus, when Marcela came to Club and invited me to head to the farm to spend a long summer weekend with Manuel and her family, I gladly obliged.

I was soon at the family's house, packed and ready to head to Chile's Seventh Region, but I quickly sensed that the family dynamic wasn't as rosy as I had expected. Marcela and her husband's marriage wasn't in good shape—I was apparently coming into a situation in which the couple was in the midst of separating. I would actually be accompanying Marcela, Manuel, and his preteen sister Consuelo to where they were to remain indefinitely without their respective ex-husband and father. As we packed into the car with the restless family dog, it was uncomfortable to witness Manuel and Consuelo say goodbye to their father, not knowing exactly when they'd see him next.

In the car ride through Chile's agricultural core, the familial relationships really came out. Manuel and Consuelo occasionally bickered with each other, and Marcela would often chastise them while the siblings would unite to defend themselves or just as frequently accuse each other to their Mom. Though it might sound bad, everything was pretty typical. I was happy to finally experience genuine Chilean family life, something I had been lacking since I arrived.

Passing through the small city of Curicó, we eventually made it to Potrero Grande, a sparsely-populated grouping of fruit farms and houses nestled in the Andean foothills. I was instantly hit by the realization of the drastic change in scenery from the mass public transportation and smog of Santiago to the passing horse-drawn cart and crisp blue sky of the countryside. Content to be away from the grind of normal life, I was also worried if my sanity could endure what seemed would be four days of clucking chickens and excruciating boredom.

After meeting Marcela's parents, who were surprisingly unfazed by my gringo presence, I asked permission to do what I had been dying to do since I had first heard about the farm. Like a kid in a candy shop, I scurried out into the endless rows of shoulder-high, raspberry bushes ready for harvest. Dodging thorny stems and buzzing bees, I soon conceded that I couldn't pick as fast as I could eat. In fact I only managed to collect a cup's worth of berries in a half hour. Luckily, Marcela joined me shortly thereafter and added three times as much fruit to my harvest in half the time, allowing me to consume glasses full of ripe raspberries as if they were water.

After gorging myself to the point of needing to lay down to rest, Manuel and I set off to explore the local attractions on a pair of too-small, rusty bikes that had been sitting for years unused next to the farm's chicken coop. We traversed the uneven, unpaved roads, visiting the trickling stream along the side of the mountain where locals would cool off during the day when water didn't flow from the taps because the farms' irrigation used up the whole supply.

On occasion we would run into some of Manuel's acquaintances, but our most significant meeting came late that Friday. Sneaking out of the house in the pitch-black night against Marcela's wishes, we crept away from the farm to where Manuel said his friends would be. Anticipating a house party of some sort, I was surprised to find a group of teens sprawled across a bus stop bench where seemingly no bus would ever pass. After Manuel introduced me, everyone was immediately intrigued by my foreign identity, as they probably had limited encounters with non-Chileans.

Despite the unusual situation, I was enjoying hanging out with Manuel's friends until suddenly, a horse ridden by a man galloped up us, and the girls approached him to converse for a bit. The girls inexplicably left alongside the man, leading an uneducated outsider to suspect that horses are the Chilean countryside equivalent in attractiveness to Corvettes during 1960s American culture.

Once the girls had gone, the conversation plummeted in intellectual level as the guys initiated an impromptu question-and-answer session with their new favorite gringo. The questions they asked were absurd and hilarious, but the sheer quantity made it that months later I can only remember my favorite. With an expression of utter fascination on his face, one of the boys inquired, "How big are the hot dogs in the United States?"

Overtaken by a rattling belly laugh, I mustered up enough composure to stretch my arms the largest they could span. In response, he merely dropped his jaw and gazed wide-eyed into the distance.

In the following days I pedaled around Potrero Grande with Manuel, wading in the refreshing stream, shooting pebbles with slingshots, and, of course, eating gross amounts of raspberries at my every whim. Life in the countryside was relaxing, and I was grateful for the warmth and magnanimity of Marcela's family. Ultimately my time came to return home, but Marcela wouldn't let me go without a goody bag of fruit, eggs, and a freshly-slaughtered hen, all from the farm, to take back with me on the bus to Santiago.

New Year's Eve

2009-05-31T22:53:00.000-04:00

With little time to recover from my epic adventures in Pucón, I was soon off to what many bill "the best fireworks celebration in South America." Having heard that title thrown around many times even before arriving in Chile, I was set on heading to Valparaíso to view the brilliant spectacle for months in advance. Thus, I was eager to support the idea when other volunteers' proposed a trip to the coast for New Year's Eve.

The voyage is usually an easy hour and a half by bus from Santiago, yet since bus tickets were sold out in the lead up to the popular celebration, six of us managed to squeeze into Dennis' car meant to comfortably seat four. Unlucky for tall and lanky Paul, he was crammed and contorted into the leg space in the back seat, trying to avoid the prying eyes of police officers the whole way. But if that weren't bad enough, the trip lasted three times what it should have, slowed to a snail's pace by bumper-to-bumper traffic and an unnecessary number of freeway tolls.

Finally descending into the city from the coastal hills, I was impressed by the unusual landscape. Nestled in Chile's most active port, Valparaíso is a historic, tightly-packed city of steep ridges over-brimming with brightly-painted houses and narrow, winding streets. Public transportation consists of antiquated buses and funiculares, precipitous tracks equipped with rail cars used to haul people up and down the sharp inclines. I was more than content with the intriguing backdrop for what Chileans proudly claim to be the second (and supposedly soon to be first) largest fireworks show in the world.

Image from tripadvisor.com

Meeting up with more gringo and Chilean friends, we bypassed the droves of street vendors selling shiny hats and other party paraphernalia to lodge ourselves into a good spot amongst the crowd in the main plaza. Though we were snugly jammed amongst thousands of spectators, I was expecting a larger space with more people. However, I later realized that the display could be even better witnessed from dozens of other viewpoints throughout the city, which meant there were likely thousands more people spread about the surrounding hills and building rooftops.

In the lead-up to 12 am, I had only one doubt in my mind that could literally cast its shadow upon the coming spectacle. Dense, misty clouds hugged the shore like the infamous "June gloom" that Southern Californians dread during said month every year. I voiced my worries to my friend Carlos who responded in typical Chilean form, "Tranquilo, no pasa nada," indicating it didn't matter. His words were proven true as soon as the first fireworks burst, penetrating the thick shrouds of fog with a brilliant splash of colorful explosions. My senses were soon overwhelmed by the sheer concentration and frequency of the fireworks, reaching levels unrivaled by anything I'd ever experienced neither in the open air nor on television. Clearly the show was a large sense of pride for locals as the crowd broke into chants of "¡Chi-Chi-Chi-Le-Le-Le, Viva Chile!" and "¡Valparaíso, Valparaíso, Valparaíso!"

Image from webshots.com

Finally, the fireworks ended, and all that was left were scattered drunken people, broken champagne bottles, and lots of confetti. We then settled down by some steps in the plaza and found ourselves socializing and joking around with a large extended Chilean family. In line with customary Chilean hospitality, we were shortly thereafter invited to a barbecue at one of the family's houses.

We then decided to pack into cars again to head to the adjoined city of Viña del Mar, which has distinct vibe from that of Valparaíso. Viña is better characterized as a summer beach resort city, one of the best-known in South America, where visitors can sunbathe on the sand, try their luck in the casinos, or dine in gourmet establishments.

Image from etiquetanegra.com.pe

Most of the gringos soon decided to doze off to sleep in cars, but I along with three hardcore Chilean friends were determined not to go to sleep, even if it meant just sitting and talking on the coastal promenade. By around 5 am though, I was too exhausted, and the rhythmic sound of the waves crashing started to lull me to sleep. The wooden bench nearby seemed irresistible, and I was soon curled into a ball with my arms pulled out of my sleeves and scrunched close to my body to stay warm amidst the chilly beach breeze blowing against me.

My defenseless position and drowsy state made me the potential target of an inebriated pair of far-from-altruistic party goers. The two spotted me, helpless and in dreamland, and schemed as to how they could stealthily swipe my authentic Los Angeles Dodgers hat, the only prized semblance of American baseball I had with me in Chile. As they were about to smugly sneak away with one fine piece of sports memorabilia high in sentimental value, my still-awake, Chilean acquaintances came to the rescue. Wise to the plan of these "picáo a choros" (fronting gangsters), my friends insulted the the pair's bravado and scared them off, in the process they themselves ironically becoming"picáo a choros."

The next morning, after notifying me of their earlier heroism, the Chileans and I hopped a bus back to Valparaíso, so I could witness a typical Valparaíso breakfast in the central market. Entering the multi-story, dilapidated concrete building, I quickly judged that in no way would it ever pass a safety or health regulations in any first world country.

Rising above stalls overflowing with fruits and vegetables, is a level seemingly dedicated to one thing—paila marina, a mixed seafood stew. As Carlos explained to me, locals eat the dish for breakfast! This fact announced itself not just in all the restaurants but to my nose too as an intense, fishy odor overcame all my other senses. Utterly repulsed by the thought of eating almost all forms of things that live in water (besides canned tuna), I warned Carlos that I needed a "normal" breakfast or would just go hungry.

Though paila marina was the main attraction, there were many other seafood as well as non-fishy Chilean dishes offered, so I hoped we could encounter at least one place that was mutually satisfying of all our cravings. In our hungry search, waiters from all the restaurants we passed would simultaneously approach us and make aggressive sales pitches extolling the virtues of dining at their various establishments. It was quite overwhelming, but my requirement of a non-seafood, "American-ish" breakfast finally led us to a small eatery in a far corner of the complex.

As soon as the waitor could say "huevos" (eggs), I was sold. Though they eventually broke the news that they had no reasonable equivalent to bacon, sausage, or orange juice, I was dissapointed yet glad to not be force-feeding myself seafood soup to prevent my stomach from consuming itself. My Chilean friends reluctantly gulped down their paila marina, claiming they had better in the past.

As quickly as I could eat my breakfast, I just as seemingly returned home to Santiago. As I slothfully dragged myself out of the car seat to head to bed, I reflected on the most fun New Year's I'd ever had.

The Dirty South... of Chile (Part Two)

2009-05-04T00:56:00.004-04:00

The first part of this post can be found here.

Pucón: Never-ending Adventure (Continued)
While it would be hard to match the adventure factor of jumping out of a plane the day before, we managed to come close with our Saturday activity—whitewater rafting. Like skydiving, it was my first time partaking in such an activity.

Sporting our awesome “Skydive Pucón” hats from the previous afternoon, we boastfully displayed our unfazed attitude towards the less dare-devilish prospect of barreling down Class 3-5 rapids. Though skydiving’s outcome was less dependent on what we did and more on when the instructor pulled the parachute cord, rafting, on the other hand, required much more collaboration on our part and that of untrained strangers. The active role our uncoordinated band of rowers played was both comforting and unsettling in different ways.

While our skydiving instructor cracked his fair share of gags that played on Forbes’ and my nervousness, our rafting guide, little did we know, would have a field day with our group. I sort of couldn’t blame him, sympathizing with the fact that he paddled the same section of river day after day as he became horse-voiced from yelling at out of shape tourists.

After we piled out of our gringo-filled bus and suited up, a mumbling man from New Zealand gave us a brief orientation in both Spanish and English, in neither which language anyone comprehended. Fortunately, he would not be on guide duty for the day, instead manning the fast-moving kayak used to rescue helpless gringos who fall out of their rafts. Once we boarded the raft accompanied by equally-clueless pairs of tourists, our Chilean guide reviewed the series of Spanish commands he would shout in succession in order to navigate us safely down the river over the coming two hours. (Note: I find orders screamed at me in Spanish to be much more likely to spring me into proper life-saving action than their English equivalents.)

Having warmed up our ligaments and eardrums on some smooth parts of the river, we were ready for our first rapid. Despite the flurry of commands and subsequent rushed paddling, I witnessed a few other rafts traverse the small downward drop and was frankly unimpressed. After a couple more rapids, it appeared our team was in good shape compared to some other groups as no one on our raft managed to fall overboard. I soon realized that the theme for the expedition would be making our own fun.

After successfully crossing a larger rapid, our instructor gave us the perplexing command to turn around. He then told the most petite female member of our group to kneel at the front of the raft. Having seen many of the other rafts pass us while we patiently waited on a bank of the river, he then ordered us to paddle full-steam ahead into the face of the rapid. Paddling to numbness in our arms, the front of the raft plunged under the breakwater, inundating the tiny woman kneeling into the torrent of frigid water. Though confused at first, the guide’s repeated instruction to do this over and over again made everyone laugh through quick breaths.

Farther downstream, our leader described a game we were going to play, which involved one of the guys standing on the edge of the boat. Willingly standing up, the chosen man awaited more instruction, but suddenly we were jolted as though we had struck a jagged rock. Too surprised by the bump, we hadn’t noticed our fearless crew member had fallen into the icy water. Lodged into the other side of our boat was one very smug Kiwi in the rescue kayak, cackling in unison with our guide—so much for saving drowning gringos. We all took everything in good humor and hauled the soaking guy back into our raft.

Not quite trusting our prankster guide, I was reluctant to do so when he told us all to jump in the water. Even though rain was spattering our faces and both the water as well as the air was cold, I didn’t mind the refreshment of it all being that we were in insulated wetsuits.

Finally, everyone pulled their rafts into a cove, docked, and changed out of our gear. Back where we began everyone was greeted by a spread of beer and wafer crackers, which enticed some German men all too much to not waste the time to change out of their speedos. We watched a slide show of all the action pictures but opted out of the spending an exorbitant amount on the CD, justifying it by reminding ourselves of the footage we had of much more death-defying endeavors from the day before.

The following day, we took in some sun on the beach of Lake Villarrica, recovering from our adventures. While there were uncomfortable, small, volcanic rocks instead of sand under our feet, I still managed to take a long walk away from the troves of tourists in order to get an unobstructed view of the always-active, smoking Villarrica Volcano. With the beautiful landscape, I reflected upon one of the more enjoyable and eventful vacations I'd ever been on.

The Dirty South ... of Chile (Part One)

2009-04-05T23:14:00.033-04:00

Until December I hadn't ventured more than an hour outside of Santiago's smoggy confines, and I was beginning to get the itch to see the rest of the country, acclaimed for its breathtaking and diversified landscapes. Because of its geographically anorexic profile, seeing even the major sites of Chile in one trip would be daunting. The longitudinal difference might start to take their toll.

A Horrid Journey, Puerto Montt, and Chiloé
I thus came to the swift conclusion that I would travel South of Santiago, but not as far south as to where summer's warmth had yet to thaw frozen pampas. That meant I would be heading about three-quarters of the way down the country to the majestic Lakes District and the mysterious island of Chiloé. While traveling alone wasn't out of the question, I figured I'd spare my parents the apprehension. Luckily, the December Class of volunteers had just arrived, and I found an eager travel companion in Forbes.

After vague planning and shoving definitely unfolded and possibly unwashed clothes into my suitcase, I was ready to go. We met up at Santiago's main bus terminal, expecting to hop onto a comfortable, 14-hour, overnight bus ride, which would take us swiftly to our desired destination of Puerto Montt. Everything was going as planned while Forbes and I chatted, waiting beside the bus to load our baggage into the cargo. Yet suddenly, Forbes found himself victim to a disgruntled man audibly and physically taking out some unclear grievance upon him. In hindsight this man wasn't a passenger. Even worse, neither was his female accomplice who was swiping Forbes' wallet from his right side as the man shoved him on his left side.

It took Forbes about a minute to realize he had been pick pocketed within his first few weeks in Chile. Without credit cards and pesos, he was rightfully upset despite my best efforts to put things in perspective and reassure him that I'd cover his trip expenses until he had access to money. With the sting of the unfortunate beginning to our trip fresh in his mind, you could imagine how difficult it might be to sleep on that marathon of a bus trip. Our prospects of sleeping were made even more unfavorable by the fact that we were seated in the last row next to the bathroom. Even though we could recline our seats to a greater angle than anyone else, doing so only brought us closer the pungent lavatory fumes, which wafted in from the air conditioning vent that was seemingly connected to the bathroom.

Though we thought we would be going directly to Puerto Montt, we soon learned that almost all multi-hour bus journeys make many stops, often at little sheds in uninhabited places. However, the only ray of hope we experienced during those 14 painful hours was when a Jesus-looking man across the aisle struck up conversation and invited us to stay with his family in Chiloé. While logistics prevented us from taking him up on his kind gesture, it was a perfect example of Southern (Chilean) Hospitality, a concept one might be hard-pressed to find on Santiago's bustling streets.

Once we finally debarked from our hellish bus ride, we had a few hours to explore the modestly attractive, port city of Puerto Montt. With a 150,000-plus population, it's about as large of a concentration of people that can be encountered that far south in the country. Its size and setting in a sheltered, Pacific bay make it that section of Chile's hub for transport, commerce, and the likes.

From there, we made or way via bus and ferry to the tranquil island of Chiloé, where I was drawn due to magnificent reports I'd heard from friends and travel guides alike. Besides its renowned landscapes, Chiloé's geographic isolation from the mainland has facilitated the formation of a distinct cultural identity over hundreds of years after colonization.

Staying in the main town of Castro, we strolled along the shore to get a closer look at the well-known palafitos, brightly-colored fishing shacks on wooden stilts that jut out into the water. Supposedly they were built in such a precarious manner so that owners only had to purchase the small slivers of land upon which the structures are supported.

Another of the island's characteristics are its wooden churches, of which Castro's is a prime example. Though I was not very impressed by its interior, the placard describing the building's history made me laugh. Since its construction in the 17th century, the church has burnt down nine times only to be reconstructed again and again with wood. I would imagine that after the fourth time the clergy might begin to wonder about investing in less flammable building materials, regardless of the abundance of lumber on the island.

When night fell, we began to get hungry only to realize that virtually nothing was open on Christmas Eve in a small town in a heavily-Catholic country. After stumbling upon a ritzy hotel that offered us a 70 dollar per person dinner, we opted to starve instead of incurring overdraw fees from maxing out my checking account, which was supporting both of us. Yet just like in a Holiday movie, we experienced our own Christmas miracle in the form of another, much cheaper, hotel restaurant willing to feed us, and just us, because we were the last ones there. Euphoria combined with stomach pangs caused us, much to the dismay of the staff, to order at least six dishes between the two of us. At 12:30 am our request to pack up much of the food to take back with us was met by disapproving looks from our server.

The next day we ventured to the small town of Chonchi, which our travel guide claimed is the island's most picturesque location. Upon stepping off the bus, we realized we had made a bad decision. It was Christmas Day, and everything was dead. We walked a block, and then walked back to the bus station to purchase the earliest ticket back to Castro. Besides a small, purple, and yellow church, there was nothing to do or see.

Chiloé overall was pretty and peaceful; it reminded me of the San Juan Islands off the coast of Seattle, Washington. However, we were looking for something a bit faster-paced, so we set off north on the next leg of our journey.

Pucón: Never-ending Adventure
After another far-from-direct bus trip that zigzagged the Lakes District, we finally arrived in Pucón, situated at the foot of Lake Villarrica and a soaring volcano of the same name. Normally, after a long trip, one might typically check into lodging to rest for a few hours, but we had the exact opposite planned. Right at the terminal we were met by Peter, our skydiving instructor for the day.

Wait, What?! Relax. Take a breath. Allow me to explain. Before leaving Santiago, Forbes had one requirement for our trip. He wanted to jump out of a plane, thus being able to check off one more entry on his "Things to Do Before I Die" list. Though I hadn't thought much previously about the idea, there was no way I was just going to be a bystander and not participate myself. Furthermore, it added special meaning to the act that both of our grandfathers were paratroopers in the 101st Airborne Division during World War II and had both jumped in D-Day. Maybe they knew each other?

Side Note: That same Grandpa Herbert (for whose name I was given my middle name) broke his leg and was hospitalized for months after his 13th jump resulted in a freak accident by which his emergency parachute became entangled in his normal parachute. He was technically the last American soldier to die of WWII-related injuries.

Regardless of the fact that Peter spoke perfect English, I wasn't at all reassured by the fact that when he showed off the tiny Cesna to us before takeoff, the co-pilot's steering wheel was still in its normal place. Sounds fine, right? Actually it's not. He pulled it out of its socket and calmly explained that if a scared jumper were to have pulled on the control wheel in order to get his balance before jumping, for instance, then the plane would've stalled and crashed. That was not a very comforting fact as I was squeezing into my harness. Moreover, his nonchalant attitude and breezing through the safety instructions didn't exactly quell the butterflies in my stomach.

Forbes was brave enough to go first. He took off in the shaky little plane and within 15 minutes, I was watching a zooming dot in the sky quickly become a floating open parachute. He landed absolutely exhilarated and soon went off in search of beer to calm his nerves and celebrate the achievement.

Then it was my turn, and to be honest I was nervous for none of the normal reasons, such as the nearly two-mile altitude, jumping out of a moving plane, or the parachute not opening. My heart was racing because of a weird, psychological condition that I am convinced only affects me. In the face of wind over maybe 40 miles per hour, I simply can't breathe. I gasp for air even if I stick my head out of a moving car's window. Now imagine my difficulty breathing during free fall at 120 mph with a large, mustached man tightly strapped to my back.

Anyways, I awkwardly sat with my back inclined against the pilot's seat as Peter notified me that we would be jumping regardless of my response at 9,000 feet to his inaudible question, "Ready to jump?" Even though Peter was casually snapping one-handed photos of the landscape at an arms length outside of the plane during takeoff, we managed to get some beautiful aerial shots of the breathtaking landscape.

When the scenic ride had reached its end, and it was time to get to business, Peter shouted various incomprehensible instructions at me as we uncomfortably shuffled and turned to get the open side of plane. Peter's bulk and force would have pushed us out into the blue yonder in spite of how much I could've resisted. Hence, I wasn't surprised care when he kicked my right leg out of the plane, so I could get traction on the small step below. My pulse really jumped in that moment as my leg dangled limply, being pushed off the step by the powerful gusts along the side of the plane. Before I could even begin to ponder the possibility of not being able to breathe once I had actually jumped, I had already plummeted out into the open. I suddenly became an unwilling variable in every physics equation I had ever grudgingly worked my way through in high school.

In a matter of a couple of seconds, I was no longer accelerating but rather stagnant in weightlessness. Arching my body as I had remembered to do, I witnessed ever-growing mountains, glaciers, rivers, lakes, forests, and snow-capped volcanoes in all directions. In that instant there was unrivaled tranquility in spite of the constant gusts enveloping me. I was living my childhood dream of flying for a few glorious seconds.

Unfortunately, I had gotten what I paid for, and little did I realize I was only a fraction of the way into my eternal half minute of free fall. Maybe I had forgotten to breathe at first, but now I surely couldn't. Blood was coursing through my veins in my futile attempts to suck in air. I felt desperate and began to fear fainting, for the first time in my life, yet before I could get to that point, I felt a queasiness in my stomach and sudden deceleration. The parachute opened, and I was floating serenely as Peter let me steer us with the right-left directional chords.

After a few minutes of taking in my surroundings from a much lower altitude, I finally glided in for my landing right where I had started 20 minutes before. I was shaking for the next few hours, but I got an awesome "Skydive Pucón" hat to sport for my courage.

I will detail our other thrilling tales in Pucón in the next post. Stay tuned.

Christmas in La Granja

2009-03-27T03:34:00.004-04:00

With all of the connections Olga has fostered over the years as the director of D-Sav, I’ve become accustomed to seeing hordes of unknown people pass through Club’s doors. They come to eat, to visit, and often to interact with the kids. One example was a band of student musicians from an elite local high school who put on a painfully bad show for the children. Another involved a group of elderly women donors tour the classrooms, pose for pictures with the kids during homework time, and butcher all of the kids’ names in futile attempts at speaking Spanish.

In every case, it seems like outsiders come with pure intentions but with little idea of how to communicate with the children and execute what they planned to accomplish. Either way, the kids always smile for the cameras and accept whatever’s given to them despite being terribly confused about the strange people breezing in and out of Club.

These strange visits culminated in the days leading up to Christmas. There had to have been at least four events within a few days time thrown by outsiders for the kids. I soon caught on to the routine—overly-dressed people from a corporation organize some type of activity, which is soon followed by a feast of sugary treats (as if the kids were starved for candy) and then gift distribution.

Don’t get me wrong, the concept of providing the children with some Holiday joy is a noble idea. However, the execution was poor in that every event always seemed to devolve into a scene similar to that of a humanitarian aide truck pulling up to a war-torn refugee camp. Ultimately, the kids had become so conditioned to receiving sweets and presents that Mami Olga would sit them down as a group after the events to scold them for taking advantage of the organizers of the festivities.

Yet, the grand finale came in the form of the D-Sav Christmas Dinner, an annual tradition that dates back to the early 80s when D-Sav was a tiny, struggling, group home during the Pinochet regime. In those times, Olga scrapped together what she could, so that the kids could have a respectable Christmas celebration, but now she does things on a much greater scale. This celebration was the largest it had ever been, incorporating about 60 children, not only the kids from Club but all those who are supported by D-Sav’s community foundation.

Compared to the Exposition a few weeks earlier, there wasn’t nearly as much preparation involved. However, Carmen had the awesome idea of bringing the gringo Christmas tradition of gingerbread-house-making to Chile. That sounds pretty straight-forward and simple, but in practice, making 15 houses with 15 kids ages five to eight proved to be a challenge. The kids had a blast, yet I severely underestimated the engineering and architecture that goes into creating a gingerbread house. Ironically enough, the preparation and construction process is not child’s play. I much prefer the raw dough and icing, yet vague warnings of salmonella and childhood obesity hindered my efforts to save a lot of time as well as money spent on oven gas.

Unfortunately, I ended up making a lot of children cry upon them seeing their tasty houses come crashing down after I had held the walls in place until the frosting had dried. Finally, Carmen and I discovered the perfect combination of sugar, egg whites, and water after much trial and error. Despite the unsanitary decoration process involving too many saliva-covered hands being used to adorn gingerbread roofs and walls with colorful candies and sprinkles, the kids ended up with some cute and tasty gingerbread houses to display at the Christmas dinner.

Finally, on the Sunday before the holiday itself, dozens of familiar and unfamiliar faces shuffled through Club’s doors, looking as pretty and handsome as they could afford upon Mami Olga’s request. Everything seemed pretty typical for Christmas with one marked difference—it was an 85 degree summer day. Sometimes I forget about the Southern Hemisphere and its reverse seasons, but it tends to make for snowy July's and blistering January's.

In spite of the heat, Carmen and I sat down in too-tiny chairs at a table with a few kids while Olga led the kids in grace and remarked upon the tragic, unfolding situation involving two girls’ families. While for me, at least, the magic of the evening was overshadowed by the previous days’ events, most of the children appeared to be unfazed as they ate a delicious meal and sang Christmas carols. However, no Christmas fiesta would be complete without a visit from El Viejito Pascuero (Santa Claus), in this case one of the kid’s dad dressed up pushing a shopping cart brimming over with presents. Best of all, it was truly heartwarming to see the younger kids squeal with anticipation as their faces lit up upon hearing, “¡Jo, jo, jo!” in the distance.

Note: There are pictures from the Christmas celeration here, taken from D-Sav's blog.

The Domingo Savio Exposition: A Circus of Chaos at its Finest

2009-03-07T17:36:00.003-03:00

I've been so bad at keeping up to date that I basically have three months of living in Chile to discuss and limited time to do it. Allow me to begin the process by taking you way back to the end of 2008.

Every year the works of the past months at Club culminate into one monster of an event filled with music, plays, and art. The many weeks of preparation for ExpoClub 2008 wreaked its toll not only upon Carmen and me, but also upon Tío Jorge, the master event planner extraordinaire. Though he claims to be a casual cigarette smoker, I spotted him lighting up while draped listlessly over a chair in the office much more frequently than usual. Furthermore, I think I most dreaded going to Club during this period because it seemed like we were always being reprimanded for our shortcomings as a result of his dwindling patience.

The lead-up to the Expo called for near daily rehearsals, which the kids detested. They were less like play practice and more like military drills. I can't recall elementary school performance rehearsals ever being that brutal. The kids sat in fear of Jorge lashing out at them for minor mistakes. His most commonly yelled threat was to take out of the act those who didn't play their parts well. Yet worst of all, he actually followed through on his promise in many cases. It was sort of traumatic for me to merely observe him do so to such young children in front of an audience of their peers.

During actual rehearsals, Carmen and I did virtually nothing. In fact, I can't imagine us doing anything significant in preparation of any of the acts since Jorge ran the show and every aspect of it was closely guarded in the depths of his mind. Most of the time I resorted to joking around with the kids sitting in the back rows while simultaneously trying not to get any of us in trouble.

After days of extended hours and a final night spent nearly passing out while blowing up balloons, the day of the event finally arrived with great relief. However, there was still much to be done in those few hours beforehand in order to invoke ExpoClub's theme—the circus. The irony in that is unrivaled since I can classify everything involved with the Exposition, and even my months at D-Sav, as a circus of sorts.

Besides the labor that went into transforming the classrooms that displayed the kids’ crafts into lion and monkey cages, Daniel and I had one very notable task. In the most haphazard way possible, we rigged a massive, cloth sack filled with balloons to open onto the crowd upon the show's finale. The sheer ridiculousness of this idea could only be dreamed up by Jorge's flamboyant imagination.

Once the back patio had filled with an expected 150 people sitting in a scattered array of borrowed chairs and benches, the program consisted of a distinctly-Jorge selection of performances. One example was the youngest kids performing a dubbed, politically incorrect reenactment of something involving tigers and a boy decked out in blackface. Another was the oldest kids exhibiting a "dance:" slow, synchronized movement of colored paper lanterns matched with a sleep-inducing Enya track. My personal favorite involved all 40-something kids jumping up and down on the shoddily-assembled stage to the tune of a Christian pop song with such lyrics as, “Praise Jesus for all he's done for me." I think one could even construct a mediocre argument that ultimately the show extolled certain positive values and traits for the children.

I, on the other hand, had the supreme privilege of staying backstage with Jorge to work the poorly equipped sound system. Being that I had only practiced briefly the day before, it turned out that Jorge merely resorted to frantically whispering to me when to press the play and pause buttons. Sometimes he would just end up doing it himself. Since their was so much noise and movement behind the curtains while the kids were in the wings waiting to go on, my job came to be hushing them and keeping them in line. Despite my efforts, I couldn’t prevent the kids from peeking through the curtains or just causing general chaos.

In the end, Daniel pulled the string to drop the balloons, the kids flailed around to Jesus Pop, and the families applauded. That, my friends, constitutes a grand success. Yet, sarcasm aside, everyone really did put a lot of effort into the event, and I was genuinely proud to see my kids dancing, singing, and acting with confidence in front of so many people.

Random Acts of Blog-ness

2009-01-20T13:02:00.001-03:00

First off, I want to wish everyone a Happy New Year (Feliz Año Nuevo)! Things at D-Sav have come to a close as the kids take their summer vacation, but the end of 2008 was jam-packed with activity. I hope you enjoy the following post about two rather miscellaneous subjects. Don't worry, I'll be following this post up shortly with a wrap-up of the past couple months' events.

Spank Your Children Only So Hard That They Don't Renounce You to Child Services

When I first saw Patito's Mom, I thought she was his grandmother. Stout, wrinkly, and sloth-like in her movements, she can often be seen sucking on cigarette, which is quite possibly a cause or result of her aforementioned qualities. There's seemingly none of her DNA in her five-year-old son. Quick, wrestless, and spikey-haired, he has no fear of playing with those thrice his size.

Thus it surprised me as she described the active parenting role she takes, out of character with what appeared to be a lax child-raising style. Active, just not necessarily in the good sense of the word.

While I guarded the gate, moms and dads passed by with nothing more than an "Hola," dropping off their kids for a Saturday afternoon Christmas activity. Patito's Mom rounded the corner at a snail's pace, released her son to wreak havoc on the play yard, yet failed to waddle back home as all of the other parents had. I took a firm position against the gate, knowing it was time for her to regale me with the mundanities of mothering her children.

Recounting what Patito left on his plate for lunch, she jumped to the subject of discipline. She made it clear that the liberal, phsychologist-endorsed view of corporal punishment is not in high standing in La Granja. If she were speaking in English, I'd expect many sentences to begin with, "Kids these days..." As the mom of a teenager, she believes herself to have perfected the strategy of "correcting" children's behavior up to the point of pain that doesn't cause their kids to report them to child protective services. She claimed that even youung children used this as a threat, stifling their parents desire to inforce good behavior. But really, what harm has the occasional, nice, crisp spanking done to a child?

"¡Vivan los Yankees! (Wait, who?)"
A hemisphere away from the fabled streets of the Bronx, I'm not surprised when I hear someone confuse the Great American Pastime for a more characteristically Canadian sport rife with poor dental hygiene. However, it is surprising (at least at first) that everyone and their abuelito would appear to be a New York Yankees fan. Sorry, I mean, "Los Yanquis de Nueva York." You're seemingly uncommon in Santiago if you aren't the proud owner of a heavily-adorned, unauthentic, Chinese-manufactured, Yankees hat. It's so bad that after any given trip on the metro, I typically have the letters "N" and "Y" etched into my retina for the next couple hours. I wouldn't be so offended if people at least knew who Babe Ruth was, for example, but unfortunately globalization has left its mark upon the superficial consumer preferences of a First/Third World country's adolescent male population.

As an obnoxious gringo, I feel a deeply-ingrained instinct to protect the integrity of game played long before your great-great-great-grandmother was churning ox butter on a farm in Czechoslovakia. Admittedly, my disposition leads me to loudly heckle people in English as a reaction to the logo emblazoned on their hats. For all those unfamiliar with my team preferences, allow me to state for the record that they lie far from the stomping grounds of Mickey Mantel and Alex "Madonna's Boy Toy" Rodriguez. Hence, it is rare that I grunt words of praise to befuddled passersby. To get an idea of the likelihood of me getting sucker-punched by an irritable, Chilean, Yankees aficionado, glance at the highly empirical table below listing the number of pedestrians I've spotted equipped with memorabilia from a select few, esteemed, MLB institutions.

New York Yankees- 3.4 x 10^7
Los Angeles Dodgers- 7
Atlanta Braves- 5
Boston Red Sox
San Francisco Giants- 2
Philadelphia Phillies- 2
New York Mets- 2
Tampa Bay Rays- 1

P.S.
Become a fan of Elliot in Chile on Facebook: http://www.new.facebook.com/home.php#/business/dashboard/?ref=sb

Blood Spilled in La Granja

2008-12-22T01:04:00.007-03:00

Advisory: While the main facts of the following account are almost certainly true, the less significant details may be embellished or even false by no fault of my own.

In La Granja, everyone knows, or at least knows of, each other. If you reside in one of the ubiquitous, tightly packed, wood and metal shacks, then it's likely that your family, friends, and enemies all live no more than a few blocks away.

There's no better time to see everyone from the neighborhood clustered together in a buying frenzy than the semi-weekly feria, a flee market stretching across one of the main interior streets. Last night was the special Christmas-themed version, the feria of all ferias. Yet, the Holiday Spirit couldn't have been more abruptly shattered than it was yesterday evening.

Some things are worth fighting for, but a discounted hat is not one of them. However, that is exactly what sparked the confrontation last night, between the relatives of two girls who attend Club. The fight over the hat between Francisca's* 20-year-old, criminal step-dad and Daniela's* brother escalated to the point that both were hitting each other with planks. The brutal scene played out before the eyes of Tania's* mom behind her booth at the feria. The confrontation ceased, and one would have hoped that what should've been a tranquil night had reached its maximum point of public violence.

However, feuds don't typically end unsettled in this sector of Santiago. Such was that Francisca's step-dad returned home and retrieved a pistol, which he brought back with him to the feria. Once together with Francisca's young mother, they encountered Daniela's brother. Upon the mom's screeching, "¡Mátalo!," ("Kill him!") he fired multiple times, wounding his target and a nearby, uninvolved woman. It's not unlikely that of the three involved, at least one was under the influence of marijuana, pasta base (a crack-like drug), and/or cocaine.

As of last report, the two victims are in the hospital and the shooter is in police custody. Francisca's mom fled, and her location is unknown. Francisca is staying with her step-father's parents, who are known as decent people.

I saw both girls tonight at D-Sav's Christmas dinner, and while I didn't spend much time talking to either of them, they appeared to be coping with the situation oppositely, probably because of their age difference. Though Francisca, six year old, seemed completely unaffected, Daniela, 13 years old, was visibly upset. I'm especially worried about Daniela since just yesterday she told me she has depression. The circumstances are very complex, and all I can do is closely watch the girls and hope for the best.

*Names changed for security purposes

Not Dead, Just Busy (Part Two)

2008-12-11T03:50:00.002-03:00

Rest in Peace, Terminator (?-November 2nd, 2008)

I hated him. He barked. He growled. He dripped spit from his mouth as he came inches away from sinking his razor-sharp jaws into my flesh. I jokingly reasoned that it was Anti-Semitism. After all, they called him Terminator. Terminator.... Arnold Schwarzenegger... Austria... Germany... Hitler. It all makes sense, right?

Well, I wasn't the only one didn't get along with Terminator. As he was a stray dog (extremely common in Santiago), he would roam the neighborhood streets molesting pedestrians and cars alike. He would get into heated brawls with the other local dogs, often late into the night. While some of the neighbors were compassionate enough to feed "Negro" (as they called him, for his jet black coat), it seemed like the majority hated him as much as I did.

Yet there came a point when Terminator ceased to pursue me as if I were a T-bone steak; he would just lie on the grass and calmly acknowledge my existence with the perking up of one ear. My housemates began to really take a liking to him, tossing him our dinner scraps and letting him into our front yard. Soon he was inching his head inside the front door little by little, begging for a hot dog or some left-over pasta. By virtue of the fact that he slept, ate, and played inside our fence, everyone in the neighborhood began to recognize him as our pet. For someone who never had anything more significant than a turtle, his big puppy presence was a welcome element of my experience living in the volunteer house.

Terminator Relaxing in Our Weed-Ridden Front Yard

However, a few weeks ago, everything changed for us and Terminator. There were rumors that some of the neighbors were so fed up with him that they planned to have the municipality come to remove him and put him to sleep. This prompted me to throw around ideas of bringing Terminator somewhere far away from the cruel streets of La Florida. In reality, any plans to rescue him were impractical, so thus he stayed.

The night after Halloween, his imminent fate struck him. He was far from his normal state as he dizzily stumbled around the front of our house, throwing up the contents of his stomach. Eva, my Spanish housemate who had the strongest bond with Terminator placed a blanket over "Termi," as she called him, in hopes he would get better.

That very night, Eva spotted the silhouette of the neighbor across the street in the second-story window. What was suspicious was that Eva noticed her multiple times menacingly peering into our front yard through a gap in the curtains.

When I awoke the next morning, Eva greeted me with one of those good news/bad news combinations in which the bad news almost always tends to outweigh good news. The good was that Terminator's health was miraculously restored as was evident by the usual poking of his head through our open front door.

The bad made my stomach drop. Eva believed that Terminator had been poisoned by those same suspicious neighbors. All of the symptoms he exhibited pointed to just that. The lightness in my gut turned to a burning sensation in my chest as I asked myself in disbelief who could've poisoned a puppy that was literally all bark and no bite? It was a shameless act. Yet, at the very least I was relieved that a much graver event was avoided, or so I thought.

Jump a few hours to the eerily quiet, shadow-laden late afternoon. As I sat in my bedroom, screams of desperation echoed in the street, penetrating a mask of tear-drenched heaving. The gate squealed as Eva rushed outside to console our shaking, 20ish, next-door neighbor, Natalia.

I quickly followed and was met below with two words, "Terminator's dead." No response was good, so I merely joined Eva and Natalia in procession accompanied by Natalia's kid brother whose plastic tricycle wheels meshed against the pavement in constant rhythm. We moved briskly down the street, a slice of cookie-cutter, new-American suburbia seemingly dropped from the sky amongst a mass of tin shacks.

There he stood, petrified, in a pool of his own fluid, surrounded by unaffected men ready to stuff him in a black, garbage bag and haul him in a truck away to wherever dead, stray dogs go. Apparently, he had been poisoned again, which was later confirmed by the veterinarian who examined his carcass.

I wish that the people who murdered him feel guilty, but like with many things in Chile, that would require a major culture shift.

The Whore on the Bus Goes Beep, Beep, Beep
Since months before my arrival in Chile, I'd heard a lot about a fabled man named Steve Reifenberg and his novel, Santiago's Children. The book chronicles his experience volunteering in Domingo Savio, when it used to be a children's home, during the early 80s and Pinochet's regime. Steve is now the head of Harvard’s David Rockefeller Center for Latin American Studies regional office in Santiago, and he also maintains active roles in Domingo Savio and VEGlobal.

He recently launched his book, for which half the proceeds will be donated to Domingo Savio, and Carmen and I were given a special task for the inaugural Chilean event. We were asked to teach a few of the kids an English song to perform in front of all the guests. Children's songs should be simple by any measure, but never before was one this difficult. After much searching and deliberation, we settled on "The Wheels on the Bus," of which the Chilean-accented lyrics will be forever singed into my brain as if they were an unsightly tattoo on a senior citizen.

I would've wanted more say in the process of electing our singers, but like many things at D-Sav, what Tío Jorge says, goes. That meant that we ended up with the kids who were "best at English" and not best at behaving themselves. Frankly, the quality of English instruction that the kids receive in school is so poor that "best at English" was of little significance.

It felt weird to have to corral the five kids, ranging in age from six to ten, for song practice when they were engrossed in other activities, such as working on their homework or doing crafts. Yet, once the door was closed in the little library, our rehearsal space, a teacher's worst nightmare began to unfold. To an innocent bystander, the scene would've resembled a coup d'etat of loud, angry midgets overcoming a fragile government headed by Queen Carmen and King Elliot, whose sole mission was to impose their foreign language through cheerful song upon their subjects.

In all seriousness, it was disastrous. At any given moment, the kids' physical positioning ran the gamut from slithering on the floor, to perching on the television set, to springing through the air from desk to desk. A sensible parent would've provided protective headgear. Overall, I would estimate that at most 20% of our time was spent actually singing. But luckily, we were given ample time to teach the kids seven highly repetitive verses and their corresponding, expressive, hand movements.

Amidst the frustration of our daily practice sessions, what never ceased to make me laugh was the kids’ inability to pronounce “horn,” which always sounded like “whore.” I did my best to correct this, initiating 10-minute, impromptu pronunciation workshops on just that word, but the tricky “r”-“n” combination continuously failed to leave the kids’ mouths. I finally gave up, hoping the largely gringo audience would suppress their laughter.

After many song rehearsals and much mental preparation, we made the trip from D-Sav to Las Condes, where the kids got up in front of all the gringos and sung their song. I have to hand it to them since everything went off without a hitch. I was very proud as was Daniel, who even managed to shed a few tears. It was great to see them smiling and confident about what they were doing in front of so many people.

Kids and Tíos at Santiago's Children Event

Miscellany
- I tried to balance in the plastic stool that was sufficient for only one butt cheek as I helped the kids cut out words from magazines. Reforzamiento can be a wild hour of the day, especially with the youngest children, but what particularly struck me one day a couple of few ago was not typical behavioral problems. I noticed Cristian's chin and upper lip were covered in scabs. My mind began to wander as to the cause of the abrasions. I asked myself everything from, "Did he literally fall on his face?" to, "Were these signs of abuse?" I had to find out.

With a grin that stretched the scabs on his six-year-old face, he announced "Es que tío me afeité." (Tío, I shaved myself.) Relief. Laughter. It brought back great memories from my early childhood in which I did the same in my best imitation of adult male behavior. While the cuts were not enjoyable, the resulting feeling I got from licking the microscopic, peach fuzz stubble on my upper lip was a great, elementary school conversation starter.

- As is standard practice at D-Sav, when there's nothing better to do, the kids go to the park. Normally we go to the huge, pretty park about 15 minutes away, but a couple of Fridays ago, Tía Carola and I took Grupo uno (the youngest children) to closer park that's about 100 times smaller and much less pretty, but on the upside it has a merry go-round. The kids spun around to their hearts content and got out all of their post-once, sugar-induced energy.

What was abnormal was that there was a group of young mothers sitting on a park bench, caring for their children while simultaneously... smoking marijuana. It would've been funny had our kids recognized the smell of marijuana being that they have weekly drug prevention classes, which would've led them to stampede the mothers in an anti-drug rage. Interestingly enough, one of the kids vomited and many others complained of headaches while we were in the park. I think this time the merry-go-round was only partially to blame.

Said Drug Crimes Offenders

- The summer heat means that the house is being bombarded by ants and other bichos. The consensus attitude amongst the housemates regarding the situation is general apathy. This has at best resulted in half-hearted conversations about household solutions found on the internet and at worst resulted in me flicking each ant crawling on my desk into oblivion.

- A puppy got on the bus by the metro stop, found a seat, and stayed on even after I had gotten off. It was about to get off at my stop, but the driver made the air blowing sound with the bus doors, the precursor to their closing, causing the puppy to promptly jump, squeak, and go back to its seat.

- Chilean sushi tastes surprisingly good. Oddly enough, it's frequently filled with cream cheese.

Not Dead, Just Busy (Part One)

2008-11-02T01:11:00.000-03:00

I'm sorry. I've been getting a lot of complaints lately from readers that I haven't updated the blog in a month. A potent combination of lots of work, fun, and procrastination is what's to blame. "Part One" will soon be followed by "Part Two" due to time constraints, but without further ado, I present the fifth installation of Elliot in Chile.

Improvise
In a D-Sav team meeting a few weeks ago, Tío Jorge attempted to prepare us for the possibility of the sudden absence of a tía in which case Carmen and I would be in charge of group of around 15 kids. He assigned us an improvisation exercise in which we had to create an activity using nothing but five cardboard boxes, box cutters, and glue. Though I had managed to improvise a two-dimensional "boat" and Carmen "Jenga" out of the provided supplies, I was skeptical of our ability to lead a class of kids without much advance warning. Our skills were soon tested within the following days as Tío Jorge notified us that Tía Carola was sick, meaning Carmen and I were given the task of teaching and entertaining Grupo uno, the youngest kids, for over an hour.

We had under a half hour to prepare our lesson, which was to be various informal English activities, while the children played on the yard. We called Grupo uno together to form a circle, so we could teach them to play Duck, Duck, Goose. Though I didn't know the word for "goose," the kids still got the idea, and it seemed they had played a rendition of the game in the past. The first apparent problem was that Patito was far more interested in messing with a deflated soccer ball than participating, and his distractions only made the group lose interest in the game.

We then ushered the kids into the classroom where I had set up a game in which they were to hold up color flashcards to match the color I said to them in English. I had played the game with them before, and it went over fairly well, so I figured I'd try it again to reinforce what they had learned. However, upon seeing the flashcards on the tables, Carlos moaned, "¡Este juego es fome!" (This game is lame!) That was when things really started going downhill.

Before I could yell "green," there were already a few kids who had decided they weren't going to participate. I told them they could sit out if they didn't want to play. Once the game began, it was clear that Cony was the best as she almost always matched the color square to the color I announced. Since Lissett couldn't conceive of anyone else winning anything besides her, she quickly accused Cony of cheating, a claim that Cony fiercely protested. I did my best to calm them and assured them that my new rule of covering the color card they chose, instead of holding it in the air, would prevent cheating.

Though I thought the new system to be fool-proof against six-year-olds' dishonesty, the cheating persisted as more and more kids left the tables because they decided they had better things to do. The two tables of about ten children quickly shrunk to one table of three kids.

I was truly helpless, and my suspicion that I had virtually no authority over the kids was confirmed. I was completely unprepared to handle this situation. It was one thing to kick a soccer ball around on the yard with the kids, but to get a group of kids to learn something, as simple as it was, in a formal classroom environment without the tíos and tías' assistance was extremely challenging. I think a lot of students underestimate their teachers and don't realize how difficult their jobs are. Yet, in that moment, I felt a profound respect for teachers. It must be especially hard to work with young children for whom classroom management is a prerequisite to effective teaching.

Meanwhile, as Carmen began her activity with the kids, I noticed all of the abstainers gathered in one corner of the room, messily using all of the available art supplies. What was funny, at least in retrospect, was that they tried to be covert about what they were doing by coloring and painting under a table. I even heard them hushing each other and scurrying to cover their work every time my eyes wandered in their direction.

When there was a knock on the door, the room resembled more the aftermath of an anarchist revolution than an orderly teaching environment. In came a fuming Jorge surrounded by a group of kids who stood no higher than his waist. They were the ones who I had let go to the "bathroom" but who really had just gone to play on the yard. Luckily, Jorge chastised the kids and not Carmen and me.

I told Jorge about everything afterward, and it seemed like he had completely expected the outcome we experienced. I think it was sort of a test to see that we wouldn't crack under pressure. It could even be considered a mild success because we neither let our frustrations show nor allowed any of the kids to seriously injure each other.

Chile vs. Argentina, Announcer Nearly Jinxes Victory
As it is with all of its neighbors, Chile is bitter rivals with Argentina. While this has led to various wars and conflicts in the past, there is no better place for letting out nationalistic aggression than on the soccer field. Argentina is historically known as a soccer powerhouse while Chile on the other hand is not so much. To demonstrate this, Argentina has never lost to Chile in World Cup Qualifying matches... well, not until recently.

My Peruvian housemate Dennis had moved the clunky TV to kitchen table, so he could watch the game as he cooked dinner for the house. He claimed to have no stake in the game since Peru was not playing, even though his family now lives in Santiago. Yet the events of the night made it seem like his veins pumped Chilean blood. I personally was disinterested as I was shut up in my room watching the Dodgers lose to the Phillies on ESPN Gamecast.

Midway through the game, the unspeakable happened—Chile scored a goal. I heard Dennis scream, which was instantly followed by a chorus of yells from what seemed to be the entire country. It was quite audible despite that my door and window were closed. However, the noise was shortlived because it was a near certainty that Argentina, a two-time World Cup winner, wouldn't let the goal go unanswered with half the game remaining.

Yet, what had to make Chileans squirm on their couches the most was that the TV commentator began soon after to emotively fantasize about the possibility of Chile beating Argentina for the first time in history. He used flowery language to describe the pain and humiliation the Argentinians had to have been feeling. In the final minutes he broke into exaggerated, feverish bursts of commentary on the huge significance of the match. I would have fired him on the spot if I were his boss on grounds of jinxing the game. Yet, at last Chile won by a grand score of 1-0, defeating Argentina for the first time ever in World Cup Qualifiers.

While this was of no more statistical importance than any of the other matches Chile played, it made the country proud like no other. Argentina was indeed embarrassed so much so that their coach resigned. Either way, this merits a special, "¡Chi-Chi-Chi-Le-Le-Le-Viva-Chile!"

Elections and Anti-Elections
While everyone back home is preoccupied with Obama-McCain election drama, Chile recently had it's own day at the polls to elect mayors and council members in municipalities throughout the country. While a similar event in the U.S. might bring about scattered signs on lawns, candidates went all out here on getting the word out about themselves. Every wall, poll, and billboard was pasted over in campaign paraphernalia.

While I'm not sure how this might affect the concentration of campaign materials, all Chileans who are registered to vote must go to the polls in every election or face a fine. Voters may elect candidates from a variety of well-represented political parties, unlike the Democratic-Republican domination in the American system. The one caveat to this is that voters can choose not to vote for any candidate. In watching the election results on TV, this seemed like a popular option.

While walking to work two weeks ago, I smelled a pungent aroma that was unlike that of nearby street vendors preparing batches of delicious sopaipillas (Chilean fried flatbread). Passing a plume of smoke rising from the charred face of a campaign poster, I figured that extremely competitive candidates had sent their minions out to deface others' posters. Although, I began to suspect this wasn't the case as a procession of honking cars with loudspeakers blared past me. I was soon amidst a 100-person strong protest outside the fence of the La Granja municipality (a city hall of sorts). I stood on the curb, doing my best to remain a spectator and not a participant in a demonstration I knew nothing about.

Before I knew it, I had a leaflet in my hand, and by means of trying to pass through to go to work was I taking part in an anti-election protest. The protesters were so jaded by the political system that they believed the way to achieve change was to boycott the elections. The pamphlet advised people to destroy campaign materials, expand the base of supporters, and finally it provided a list of anti-election phrases to graffiti.

The real fun started when the crowd chanted, "¡Ferriantes unidos jamás serán vencidos!" (Street vendors united will never be defeated!") Maybe the street vendors and anti-election people are associated? Anyways, that was soon followed by the much less relevant, "¡Él que no salta es maricón!" (Whoever doesn't jump is a fag!) People immediately began to jump up and down like it was a rap concert. Even though I don't advocate this blatant example of homophobia, I began jumping in order to not stand out as an opponent of the cause. There was even a police presence there, so I figured I'd avoid the apparent possibility of violence.

While I have no idea how successful the anti-election cause was, at least in La Florida, everyone was surprised by the mayoral victory of the socialist candidate Jorge Gajardo. (Socialism here has a much different connotation than in the States.) He is known in Chile for having a comedy variety show a few years back, which Dennis claims was far from funny.

Miscellaneous Observations
- While buying food in Líder, the Chilean equivalent of Wal-Mart, for an asado (barbeque) I noticed something similar on every single female wearing a sleeveless top whom I passed. They all had less-than-a-centimeter wide indentations on the top of one of their arms. I had noticed this before but just assumed these skin irregularities to be birthmarks. I asked Dennis about this phenomenon, and after an awkward pause, he explained that everyone here gets a tuberculosis vaccination in their childhood for which they are injected with something much larger than your average needle. In a strange way, it sort of adds to their national identity. To feel united, Chileans could all walk around sleeveless and think, "Hey, we're all the same regardless of gender, race, age, class, etc."

- I wouldn't have expected it, but I'm apparently a great person to ask for directions or anything of the sort. In one day, during the time I spent waiting for micros and metros, three different individuals approached me to ramble off a question about where so-and-so bus goes or what the best way to get to such-and-such park is. Often times, the answers to their questions are literally posted on large signs in front of their faces. I always do my best to help these people, who always appear to be native Chileans, but I wonder what prevents them from looking straight ahead of them. In a few cases, these people could have been blind or illiterate, yet I still can't understand why would they go out of their way to ask, out of everyone on the subway platform, the half-awake, gringo-looking kid with the backwards Dodgers hat. Maybe I just look friendly? So, to prevent these questions from being asked, I've resolved to look more angry when on public transportation. Maybe then I'll blend in better.

- I was warned about people's willingness to publicly express affection for their significant others before I came to Chile. This has indeed proved to be the case since public parks, plazas, and malls will commonly turn into clothed orgies as soon as the mercury makes it past 20 degrees Celsius. These lovefests will even go all the way home with you on public transportation, following you up to your doorstep.

However, the less pleasant aspects of romantic relationships can be publicly displayed as well. It seems as though it's perfectly acceptable to tell your baby's mama, while riding a packed rush hour bus, that you've been having an affair with her twin sister. This immediately sends her into a bout tears as I get jammed against Mr. Unfaithful every time we go over a speed bump. "Awkward" and "inappropriate" don't do justice to these situations.

Note: In the sidebar I added links of various friends' gap year and Chile blogs. My classmates are doing everything from helping with the Obama campaign to traveling the world. Check them out!

Tales from D-Sav and Beyond

2008-10-04T01:56:00.021-04:00

In the past two weeks a lot has happened. I've gotten into the routine of working at D-Sav (as the volunteers refer to Club Domingo Savio), attending organizational meetings, and moving about Santiago. After over a month here, Chile has now become the foreign country I have visited the longest (just recently eclipsing Argentina, where I spent July 2007.)

The Kicked in the "Pelotitas" Incident
Recently I've begun to relive my AYSO glory days by partaking in impromptu soccer games with the kids at recess. I like to refer to myself as a modern Maradona, but my teammates don't necessarily agree. Last week, we were playing a complicated game called "Veinticinco," that's rules I don't fully understand. However, I discerned the point is to keep the ball in the air and score on the goalie without letting the ball touch the ground.

Simply put, one of the kids kicked a ball at my family jewels, which prompted me to grab myself and exclaim, "¡Ayyy, me duelen las pelotitas!" This immediately caused all of the children in the vicinity to collapse to the ground in a belly laugh that stopped play for minutes. They made me repeat the sentence over and over to their delight. Since then I've gotten multiple requests every day for the famous "pelotitas" line. It was funny at first, but apparently the concept of killing a joke doesn't exist here.

Translating for Food
Since I am the one at D-Sav with greatest combined knowledge of Spanish and English, Tía Anita asked me to translate applications to get a Canadian Christian organization to sponsor various kids at Club. Anita went to each of the children's homes to survey their living conditions and family situations to include on the sponsorship applications. This for me has been the only way I've gotten to know about the children outside of Club. All of their circumstances were incredibly heartbreaking. They faced problems including fatherless homes, physical and emotional abuse, drug-addict parents, and squalid, overcrowded housing.

Fortunately, Anita suspects that all of the children who applied will be sponsored and thus receive about 40,000 pesos (approximately 75 dollars) every three months, which will help to provide food, clothing, and medical care for the kids. Yet in many cases, the donations are given directly to D-Sav because some of the families can't be trusted to put the money to good use. Nevertheless, it's weird to now see some of the children and know what they're experiencing at home while they think I'm still uninformed about it all.

Yerko Needs Help
Last Wednesday Tía Carola had the great idea of letting the youngest kids escape from the concrete play yard at D-Sav to spend the afternoon at the nearby park. Though you would think two adults supervising ten children would make for a safe ratio, these kids, on a perpetual sugar high, were still hard to control. Our trip to the park would make any overprotective parent cringe. Children were running far ahead and sometimes darting out into the street with a reckless abandon for traffic. Although my efforts to keep the kids in one group were in vain, I managed to strike up what seemed to be an innocent conversation with a boy named Yerko. I began to realize why Yerko is so ostracized by his peers at Club when I asked him, "What do you like to do at home?"

Yerko likes to play video games. Extremely violent videogames. His favorite is "El padrino," which translates to The Godfather, making it the video game version of Francis Ford Coppola's classic 1972 film. Yerko's father will not let him watch the movie, but he has nevertheless played the game for hours on end. He described the violence of the supposedly "rated for seven year-olds" game in extremely graphic detail. He gleefully recounted such scenes as shoving dynamite into character's mouths and watching their heads explode. Yet what was most disturbing was that whenever he mentioned the word for blood, "sangre," his skip would gain a little more bounce and his grin would stretch a little wider. I wasn't sure if I should change the subject or let him continue. Either way it was hard to get a word in edgewise as he rattled off a list of every weapon in the game.

When we got to the park, I mentioned to Tía Carola that I was very concerned about my conversation with Yerko. Unfazed, she informed me that Yerko has "problems" and that his parents just leave him to play video games all the time. This is evidenced by his poor behavior at Club and lack of social skills. Though he has a very active imagination, he only uses it to enter a trance every recess in which he twirls a broomstick to apparently reenact fighting scenes alone in a corner on the yard.

Though he rarely disturbs anyone during this daily ritual, a few days ago he supposedly hit another child with his stick, which prompted a group of kids to confiscate it and hide it. This sent him into a fit of crying so severe that I found him standing still, eyes glazed over, tears streaming down his cheeks, and chest heaving. I worked out a deal with the other kids that would return the stick to him if he promised not to bother anyone. Even after I patted his back and assured him he could play with his stick, he remained in this state of whimpering and gasping for air minutes longer. I tried everything I could to cheer him up, but the only thing that worked was getting him to give me a very gory update me about his progress on the fourth level of "El padrino."

Wash Your Children Regularly
In front of a mandatory monthly meeting of the children's parents, Jorge introduced Carmen and me, the new tíos, to a round of applause. It was interesting to get to see the parents all at once in one place, but it's important to note that many of them are not actually the children's parents but rather their aunts, grandmothers, etc. One thing I immediately noticed was that those in attendance were overwhelmingly female. I counted 21 women and three men, which makes sense based on my aforementioned translation of the children's sponsorship applications.

This meeting was unlike any parent-teacher conference one would expect to occur in the US. Tío Jorge ran the show and spent over an hour going over a list of issues with the parents. Basically, he used the time to admonish the parents for, well, being bad parents. Typically, the only time the parents talked was to give excuses for such faults as their kids arriving late to Club and for not bathing their children. Frankly, it was pretty pathetic.

Jorge constantly harked on the principle that the Club and the parents share equal responsibility for the kids. He was intent that the parents weren't holding up their end of the agreement. For example, lice are a big problem in D-Sav, and supposedly the parents don't normally check their children for lice, which Jorge stressed is necessary. If I understood correctly, the tíos are so fed up with this that they are going to check all the kids for lice tomorrow and send those who have lice back home. After hearing this, I will be sure to wear my Dodger hat tightly over my head not just in support of my home team's recent success.

WorldTeach
This past Friday, three representatives from the Chilean branch of WorldTeach, a non-profit organization that primarily teaches English in developing countries, came to the VE office to give a presentation to all ten of the new volunteers about how to teach English workshops in our institutions. We spent about six hours learning about such topics as how to create lesson plans, manage classroom problems, and correct students errors. What interested me most was Dr. Charles Gardner's theory of Multiple Intelligences, which claims there are eight different kinds of smartness that span far beyond quantitative and qualitative abilities. WorldTeach stresses that in order to teach effectively, activities must cater to students' different intelligences.

I'm still not sure what workshop I want to teach in D-Sav as I am debating between English and computing. I'm leaning towards computing since I think technological proficiency will be more likely than skills in a second language to improve the kids' overall quality of life. Even if I don't end up formally teaching English, I learned teaching skills from WorldTeach that have a wide array of applications.

I Understand, "Cachai?"
Walking back from the metro stop after finishing my day, I noticed things no longer seemed foreign. The people, the cars, and even the abundant mayoral campaign signs posted on everything thin and tall had all taken on a familiar form. Yet it wasn't until my packed, rush hour, bus ride home that something snapped into place in my brain.

After having been lucky enough to find a seat, two men seemingly ran into each other on the bus and began to update each other on their lives. Based on the crowded circumstances, I was forced to listen to their conversation as words drifted back and forth above my head. Topics of conversation ranged from going out and getting drunk to traveling to the country to feel at one with nature. Despite an unnecessary "cachai" that trailed each phrase, for the first time in Chile, I actually understood everything that was discussed. It wasn't as though I had never achieved complete comprehension in a Spanish-speaking country before, but this was unlike previous experiences. As the bus turned from Avenida Walker Martínez to Jardín Alto, I could have even closed my eyes and known where to get off.

While making my way down the quaint suburban street to my house, Terminator, the fierce, black, neighborhood stray dog didn't bark at me as usual. He just calmly sat curled up on a neighbor's front lawn and let me pass with little regard for my trespassing on his territory. Though I would typically enter my house and begin complaining about the Nazi dog outside that only tried to attack me out of antisemitic sentiment, I instead greeted my housemates and walked upstairs. It seemed just like scaling the stairs of my house in LA. I was finally content; I felt at home.

Las fiestas patrias (Continued)

2008-09-20T23:37:00.028-04:00

After days of celebration until the break of dawn, I declare Las fiestas patrias officially over. (They could easily continue through Sunday because Chileans will gladly extend the drinking, eating, and dancing for as long as possible.) Let me sum up everything that has happened since the last update.

I arrived Wednesday at Club Domingo Savio dressed as I thought I was told to be dressed. The tíos and tías (proper address for every adult working there), like the children, dressed in typical Chilean outfits, and I was expected to follow suit. However, Tío Jorge was quick to point out everything I was wearing was all wrong except for my pants, which were decent at best. Tío Jorge, as the do-it-all Renaissance Man that he is, assured me everything would be okay, stormed off, and came back with almost all of the necessary provisions for my outfit. It was as though he knew I'd be unprepared. I wasn't surprised though, because this guy can do anything. For instance, once I was talking him, my attention was diverted for a couple of minutes, and then I returned to ask him something, only to find that he had built a small staircase in the meantime.

There was one element missing: black leather shoes. He had two pairs for me to try on, but they were both too small. Tío Jorge could not be defeated. Shortly thereafter he brought me outside where there were a pair of brown leather shoes, a chair, and small white tube. I looked at the shoes, and asked something along the lines of, "¿Pero no son negros?" He promptly opened the tube and rubbed it on one of the shoes. It was black leather paint. He was letting me permanently alter a pair of his good leather shoes just for this celebration. Below is a picture of Carmen, Daniel, and my outfits after all was said and done:

After packing kettle corn into small paper bags, we sat down with the tíos and tías for an empanada lunch during which we toasted to a successful day. Clearly this day was a pretty big deal since it required dressing up and a toast. Soon the kids and their families started arriving to be met by a sea of red, white, and blue (Chilean flag colors), blaring cueca music, traditional food, and carnival games. Yet, the one thing that put a damper on the good spirit of the day for me was that all the families had to pay an entrance fee of 1000 pesos (about 2 USD) and purchase their own food and beverages. While the proceeds (if there were any) went to the institution, in my mind it's wrong to charge these families, many of whom live in shacks and can't afford to send their kids to school.

Carmen and I were soon stationed at the clown game (which we had painted), the point of which was to throw a ball through a hole in the clown's nose in order to win a pack of cookies as a prize. For a 100 peso ticket, you would get three chances. I think I collected about eight tickets all day, but that didn't mean only eight kids tried the game. Almost all of the children wanted to play "sin premio" (not for a prize), so I reluctantly let them. The game soon devolved into mayhem as ten kids at once were throwing balls for free less at the clown and more at me. It was good fun though.

Once everyone was seated at the school desks made to be cafe tables, I glanced around the patio expecting to see unkempt, stereotypically poor families. Instead, everyone was dressed casually, but nicely, and looked like any of the people I would see walking the crowded, downtown city streets. Dare I say they even appeared middle-class. Daniel, VEGlobal's volunteer coordinator and volunteer of one year at Domingo Savio, told me that, for these families appearance is of utmost importance, which means feigning financial and social stability. That explains why many of the kids wore impressive, traditional Chilean costumes and listened to flashy MP3 players but, at least in one case, would go home that day to a crumbling, one-room house where Mom, Dad, and two kids share a bed in which Dad sleeps next to his daughter and sexually molests her at night.

Yet the adverse situations these kids face were left at the door once the music started and the dance performances began. The dancing improved tremendously since the last time the children had practiced. The little boy in pascuense outfit even sort of managed to raise his stick to the beat and do his Charleston-like leg movements in sync with the music. One of the dances that sought to showcase the various cultures of Chile and presented a large flag to the audience at the end was particularly well done. I wish I could post pictures and videos of the kids, but I need permission from the institution first. Last, the tíos and tías danced cueca, and Tío Jorge and Tía Vicky performed a courtship skit/dance. (Cueca is modeled after the courtship between a chicken and a hen.) The traditional skit involved them each trying to court the other but with interspersed rejections of each other's advances. Finally it ended with acceptance of the man's courtship and dancing together. It's hard to explain, but the whole dance was actually really funny and well-performed. We cleaned up and went home to get rest for Thursday, the official Chilean Independence Day.

On Thursday night, a few other volunteers, Daniel's two roommates, and I went to celebrate Las fiestas patrias and Daniel's birthday at La Gran Fonda de Santiago, one of many huge festivals with food, drinks, live music, and dancing. The headliners were Los Jaivas, which I was told are Chile's equivalent of the Grateful Dead. Although, it wasn't my type of music, it was still good for what it was. All in all, it was great to spend the 18th in the presence of thousands of Chileans.

When Friday came it was 2 pm. It turned out that four of my other housemates left to go to some city in the South without telling me, so the house was left to just my Spanish housemate Quique and I. We engaged in serious male bonding for a while, and then watched a Chilean movie called "Mi mejor enemigo" about the Beagle Conflict between Chile and Argentina in 1978. The movie shows the ridiculous nature of war and the overall similarities between Chileans and Argentineans, and people in general. I recommend the film to anyone interested in foreign cinema.

That night I realized I had nothing but condiments to my name, so I took the "micro" (the bus) to go to the grocery store. I bought a lot, but only as much as I could carry all the way back to the bus stop. As I hunched over on the bus bench after the exhausting walk to the bus stop, I maintained my grip on the five bags I had in each hand, so I could quickly board the bus when it arrived. A micro came barreling around the corner, and I half-assumed that it was the E03, the one I always take. After a few minutes, the bus turned, and I knew something was wrong because the bus never turns that early. My intuition told me to get off the bus, but my reluctance to deal with the situation at hand kept me on a few stops more. I finally got off just before the bus went in the opposite direction of where I needed to go, which was lucky. What was unlucky was that I was carrying 60 pounds of groceries, and I had not the slightest clue of where I was.

I began to walk in the direction that my internal compass told me to, but I later realized my internal compass must have lost its bearings once I entered the Southern Hemisphere. La Florida, where I live, is not a good neighborhood by any stretch of the imagination. I didn't feel safe, and I didn't feel my arms. I stopped every ten feet to kneel down, so my arms could rest. After many blocks of getting barked at by hungry street dogs that could clearly sense I was a gringo in distress with packages of fresh meat in flimsy plastic bags, I finally encountered an approachable man on the street. He said I was going in the wrong direction, and that I needed to go to he bus stop called Walker Martinez. In retrospect, the way he said "Walker Martinez" was really funny; I generally find combinations of Spanish and non-Spanish names funny, but I wasn't in the mood for funny. With determination and Spanish expletives uttered every time I stopped to kneel on the pavement, I finally made it to a bus stop for the E03. After boarding the micro, I nearly crashed through the windshield because I wasn't holding onto anything amidst the driver's erratic driving. All the bus drivers here drive with a reckless abandon for safety. From now on, I'm using two hands to hold on when I take the micro. I expected the driver to stop at my stop per usual, but since it wasn't rush hour he passed my stop because I didn't press the little stop button. I had to walk even farther back to my house, this time dealing with the plastic bags ripping. Ultimately, I made it back to my house two and a half hours after I left, and Quique and his girlfriend Anita laughed hysterically when I told them I got lost. I drank a liter of liquid yogurt out of hunger from only eating chicken broth for lunch. I felt a strange sense of victory, and then I went to sleep.

Today Julia, another volunteer, took me to the house of one of the tías from the institution where she works. There was more cueca dancing and good food. One of the guests there asked me a question that I have been asked many times in Chile: "What is the national dance of the United States?" It's a reasonable question being that most all Latin American countries have a national dance; Chile's is cueca, Argentina's is tango, etc. As much as I was tempted to tell her Soulja Boy's "Crank That" was our national dance, I explained that as a nation of immigrants, we don't have such a thing. Considering how fun cueca is, I think we should have one though, so I'm all in favor of diverting some NASA funding to an Exploratory National Dance Committee. Anyways, here's a video sample of cueca from today's festivities. Felipe, the man shown, was dead serious about dancing in between smoking and drinking breaks.

That's all for now, but we have an asado (barbeque) at the house tomorrow, and this week will be the first, full, routine week I'll have at Domingo Savio. I'll keep everyone updated.

Las fiestas patrias

2008-09-17T00:14:00.008-04:00

The time of Chilean Independence Day (September 18th) is upon us, which means, among other things, every single building and vehicle dons one if not 12 Chileans flags. If the number of flags displayed is an indicator of patriotism, then Chile is way more patriotic than the U.S. on our respective Independence Days. Honestly, this even puts diehard Southern Confederates to shame.

Club Domingo Savio, where I volunteer, has been busy preparing for an Independence Day celebration tomorrow, to which all of the kids' families are invited. There will be food, carnival games, and dance performances. The children have been practicing various traditional dances, which they will perform tomorrow in full traditional dress. The better known style of dance is Cueca, the national dance of Chile, which is very folk-sounding and looking. The other is Pascuense, from La Isla de Pascua (Easter Island), and it appears very similar to Hawaiian Hula. It's really funny to watch the kids practice since, despite weeks of preparation, many of them don't have the slightest clue what they're doing. They sort of try to glance at each other to figure out what they're supposed to be doing, but they just end up very out of sync. For one Pascuense dance, there's one little boy at the front with a big stick who just has to hit it against the ground to the beat of the music, but he still manages to have trouble every time. He reminds me of myself in elementary school when I had to perform group dances in front of audiences for holiday celebrations.

I've just been doing manual labor in preparation for tomorrow. Yesterday another volunteer and I painted a large clown for a carnival game. Many of the kids gathered around, and watched in awe as we painted. They kept asking us questions and commenting about the colors we were using. Some wanted to paint, but out of fairness we didn't let them. We then left to let the picture dry, but we were summoned back by a frantic kid who guided us to the picture where there were three other kids standing above a badly smeared clown. I inquired as to who messed up the picture, and they all told me "Diego did it." I know maybe five out of 45 of the children's names, so I didn't bother to go find and chastize a certain Diego. We ended up spending about a half hour repainting the clown. Here's how it turned out:

Today my main task was to cut 15 fish out of half-inch-think wood for another carnival game. Tío Jorge, the one in charge of the festivities, asked me if I was up to the task. I eventually said yes with hesitation and was promptly handed an electric jigsaw with a broken hatch and no safety equipment. The saw's cord hung precariously from the ceiling outlet over the work area. Two hours later I had a stack of 15 rough-looking wooden fish and all 10 of my fingers. I was proud. I would have shed a tear, but my tear ducks were clogged with saw dust. Here are some of the fish after painting them and also a picture of the patio where the celebration will be held:

"Dude, you're not going to college?!"

2008-09-08T01:45:00.001-04:00

My response to the above is something similar to, "No, dude, I'm going to college... just not immediately. I'm taking a gap year to go to Chile." I get into these exchanges a lot, especially with people who aren't close to me. Friends, family, and strangers alike are often perplexed to hear that I want to postpone the tsunami of beer and marathon of sex that are college life. This blog will be successful if I can justify delaying those things. Now, of course, you're probably wondering about the "Who's, What's, Where's, When's, and Why's" of my gap year. Let me explain.

I'll be volunteering for the next nine months in Santiago, Chile with a non-profit organization called VEGlobal, which was founded in 2004 by a then-recent Harvard graduate. VE serves Santiago's marginalized children by placing volunteers from all over the world in its partner institutions. I'll be working with local kids at an after-school program known as Club Domingo Savio in a lower-class municipality called La Granja.

What people are most curious about is why I'm taking a year off and delaying what some would call "the best four [or five if you're having a good time] years of your life?" First of all, I'm worn out from an intense prep school experience and really just from classroom learning in general. I've spent my high school career reading dense text books and fretting over how to get into a top university. I don't think a summer spent working would have been sufficient time off to energize me for college.

Furthermore, I hope to use this time constructively. I don't have high expectations along the lines of curing AIDS in Africa, but I hope to do some good for a few kids in need of help. I can't really provide you with concrete goals for my volunteer work since I know very little in the experiential sense about these children and the adverse situations they face.

Ultimately, I hope to leave Chile more independent, socially aware, and with a greater understanding of what I want to do with my life. I believe that my gap year will give me a renewed desire to learn and a better sense of direction.