Week 16-18: Saddling up my Backpack

30 Sec. Update: With only a couple day left in Los Alamos, I'm trying to soak up as much of life here as I can. A fishing trip with my host-father, an excursion to the campo to collect firewood, long walks through town, a late-night barbecue with some of my Chilean friends, and lots of conversation around the kitchen table. The strikes finally came to an end last Friday after having lost over a month of my time teaching. I have come to accept that striking is just part of life in Chile as frustrating as it is that I lost so much time with my students. Looking ahead to the next couple of months, I have been making travel plans, working on my grad school applications, and trying to decide when I am going to return to the United States. My next blog post will be coming to you from Southern Patagonia...

Calling Chile my Home: I have been struggling to write this blog post. How do I draw conclusions from my last four months in Chile? How can I ever wrap-up my time here? Reading through some journal entries that I wrote before leaving, I realize that I never could have guessed what my time here would be like. What did I know about Chile before? I knew about the dictatorship, its unique geography, and Pablo Neruda. What do I know now? This blog only contains a sample of all that I have learned about this country. Despite my frustrations with the strikes, my fierce love for this country and its people remains intact.

When I recently traveling with some other Americans in Argentina, I noticed that I was the only one of us that introduced myself as being from Chile. At first glance, I thought that it was just a technicality. I wanted to identity myself with my Chilean family and my work here, while the others still considered themselves foreigners. After some more thought, I realized that part of me identifies now as being Chilean. In the United States, I straddle between my life in California and my life in Rhode Island without firm roots in either. Whereas in Chile, with a house, with a job, and with a family I feel at home. While I am leaving this home for now, I have promised myself (and my Chilean family) that I will someday return.

It has been challenging to write my “Statement of Purpose” for grad school in Chile. Living in the United States seems like a long time ago now even though I was there only four months ago. How has my time here changed my interests, my aspirations, and my values? Trying to remember my life before Chile and weaving it together with my life here is more challenging than I realized. Before I left, teaching English in Chile seemed like a logical extension of my growth as a teacher and I thought it would affirm my decision to become a teacher in the United States. But after living here for the last four months, I wonder if I even want to go to grad school at all? Maybe being cut off from everything just gives me a certain distance from it and a chance to view everything as an outsider rather than from within. Whatever the case, I am grateful to have this time to just think and I know that I will leave my time here with more clarity and conviction than I had when I arrived.

Only in the "Skinny One" (Being Azn in Chile): My time in Chile has also given me a lot to think about being Asian. At Brown, I was a multiracial of Japanese descent (a hapa) and in Chile, I am just a chino (a Chinaman). While I should feel offended that my hard-won ethnic identity is being trivialized into a racial slur, my Asianess has become one of my chief identifying characteristics here in Los Alamos.

My conversations about being Asian usually go something like this:

Curious Chilean: Where are you from?

Me: I am from the United States.

Curious Chilean: [Looks at me confused]

Me: I am from the United States, but my mom is Japanese.

Curious Chilean: Oh [sounding relieved], I thought so. I could tell by your eyes [demonstrating with her own eyes].

Curious Chilean: Do you do Karate?

Me: No

Curious Chilean: That's too bad. I love movies with Jackie Chan.

Curious Chilean: I have something embarrassing to ask you.

Me: What's that?

Curious Chilean: Is it true that they really eat dog in China?

Me: I don't really know, but I have heard that. It's not really that different from eating fried Guinea Pig in Peru.

Curious Chilean: [Ignoring what I just said and looking shocked] I could never eat my dog. Do you know how to eat with chopsticks?

Me: Yes [demonstrating using two pencils as substitutes]

Curious Chilean: Look! Look! The Chinaman is using sticks to eat.

Chileans clearly have a fascination with Asians. Several of my Chilean students who appear slightly Asian go by the nicknames “Chino” or “China.” TV shows like Dragon Ball Z, Yu-Gi-Oh, Pokemon, and other anime are wildly popular amongst my students. There are cliques of Chilean youth that dress like Japanese anime characters (the “Otakus” and the “Pokemones”). Peru, Chile's Northern neighbor even had a Japanese president (Alberto Fujimori) for ten years from 1990-2000. Maybe what feels like discrimination to me is just a little bit of hero worship.

Finding Davis in South America: A few weeks ago, I finally crossed the border into Argentinean Patagonia (I also got the gratification of seeing the same border guard who refused to let me cross two months earlier). My first stops were San Martin de los Andes and Bariloche which are vacation destinations for Argentina's rich and famous. After living in working-class rural Chile for the last four months, it was a shock to know that such opulence even existed alongside places like Los Alamos. While it was alluring to again be in such a beautiful and wealthy environmental, I would not trade anything for my backyard asados in Los Alamos.

The highlight of the trip for me was going to El Bolsón, a hippy town located in a valley surrounded by snow-capped Andes. Full of outdoor artwork, large grassy parks, and locally-owned organic restaurants, the town reminded me of a similar hippy town 5,000 miles away—Davis, California. The focus of my visit to El Bolsón was an outdoor crafts fair which seem eerily similar to Davis' annual Whole Earth Festival. Vendor after vendor sold hand-made knit hats, wooden kitchenware, colorful puppets, organic food, and musical instruments. Walking through the crafts fair with the sun shining down on me, I couldn't help but smile. Even in a place where I least would least expect it, a small Andean town just across the Argentine border, I was surrounded by reminders of home.

Ready to Hit the Road: Having completed my teaching term in Chile, it is time to embark on my travels. My first destination is Southern Patagonia. I am backpacking in Torres del Paine National Park for a week, camping another week in Los Glaciares National Park, and then making my way down to Tierra del Fuego at the southern tip of South America. After Patagonia, I will be celebrating Christmas with my Davis family in Valparaiso and then we are making a quick visit to my host-family, stopping back through the Chilean wine country.

After the visit from my family I am heading North towards Bolivia to see the drier parts of Chile. I am going to La Serena to sample pisco, see penguins, and admire the stars. Then I will be spending a couple days in San Pedro de Atacama to sandboard, visit the salt flats, and enjoy the beauty of the dessert. A Jeep trip will take me across the border into Bolivia and then I will be visiting more exotic landscapes in Bolivia's altiplano and central highlands. Finally arriving at La Paz, the highest capital city in the world, at over 12,000 feet above sea level, just in time for its world-famous Alasitas Fair.

My current plans stop in La Paz. From that juncture I might head South East towards Salta, Buenos Aires, and Iguazu Falls or continue North to Peru, Ecuador, and finally Columbia. I have made up my mind not to extend my teaching in Chile, but other volunteer work (farm-work, orphanages, and post-earthquake recovery) in lesser-developed areas is my latest plan. There is a virgin beauty here that much of the United States has lost in its urban cement jungles. Four months here in Chile whetted my appetite to explore South America, but I think I am ready to move on from the “Skinny One."

Week 14-15: Waiting for Strikes to End

30 Sec. Update: This past week was melancholy. Teachers nationwide have been on strike for the last eight days, so I have been trying to find other ways to fill the time when I'm normally teaching. With only three weeks of teaching remaining, I hope that the strikes will end soon because they are cutting into my plans to wrap-up my classes. Last weekend, with the pending strikes on the horizon, I took a long trip to Pucón with some of the other English teachers. Pucón is Chile's extreme sports mecca. Over four days, I made two trips to hot springs, visited five waterfalls, hiked eight hours in Parque Nacional Huerquehue, and climbed 4,000 feet up Volcán Villarica. Despite all of last weekend's adrenaline, I have been missing Davis. I recently realized that I haven't been in California for more than two weeks at a time the last two and half years. For a while I have been telling people that I am going to extend my time here, but with this recent epiphany and others, I feel ready to come home.

Only in the “Skinny One” (Damas and Naipes): With rainy weather and more free time on my hands from the strikes, I spent a lot of time this week playing games to pass the time. Two of my new Chilean favorites are Damas and Naipes neither of which I have seen in the United States.

In my high school Spanish classes I learned that “Damas” was the word for Checkers, but at least here in Chile, Damas is a more complex affair. I will try my best to explain the details in words, but it is the type of game that is better learned by playing. The basic movements are the same as the checkers I played when I was a kid, but there a few extra rules. First, you are obligated to take your opponents pieces if you have the opportunity, which means you constantly sacrifice your own pieces to bait your opponent. Second, when your piece gets “kinged,” it now has the movement of a bishop in Chess and can change directions mid-movement to do a double jump. These pieces are super powerful, so the entire game you are figuring out how to gain access to your opponent's back alley. The key to winning is forcing your opponent into a position where they are double jumped and getting “kinged” before they do. Despite knowing this, I have played over a dozen games of Damas with my host-father and have lost every single one.

My other favorite way to past time in Chile is “Naipes.” On a first look, the cards appear similar to a normal deck of playing cards. There are four suites (gold coins, swords, clubs, and chalices). Each suite has numbered cards and facecards. The big differences are the images that appear on the cards (they look more like Tarot cards) and the deck only contains forty cards rather than fifty two (ten for each suite; # 1-7, jack, queen, and king). There are a number of games you can play with these cards, but the only one that I know is called “Escoba” or “Quince,” which is a cross between Spades and Gin. As suggested by the name, the goal is to collect as many cards as you can by making combinations of 15. Each round points are awarded to the player who collects the most cards overall, the most “gold” cards, the 7 of “gold,” and the highest card of each suite. This game is fairly straightforward, but it is complicated by the fact that a jack is worth 8, queen is 9, and king is 10 testing your basic mental math. My favorite parts of the game are the colorful cards and the idea of collecting gold to win.

Volcan Villarica (2,847 m): Climbing the volcano was my chief reason for traveling to Pucon last weekend, but because the foul weather, I didn't have a window to attempt a summit until my last day there. The wait was more than worth it though. The views during the ascent were spectacular. I could see hundreds of miles of the snow-capped Andes, high altitude lakes, and pristine forests from Chile to Argentina. The return of high-speed winds and white out conditions prevented me from reaching the crater, but glissading down the volcano in the middle of blizzard was all the more exhilarating.

This was about the point when we decided that we wouldn't be able to summit.

Dulces y Travesura: Halloween is a recent export from America to the “skinny one.” While there is a long history of “Día de Los Muertos” (the 1^st of November), only in the last ten years have they started observing “All hallows eve.” After thrity years of watching American horror movies and seeing Halloween episodes of the Simpsons, Chileans have become fascinated with this American tradition. Still in its infancy in Chile, Halloween is mainly celebrated in the larger more cosmopolitan cities. In small towns like Los Alamos, it is a dinner-table debate topic and is used by the Evangelical churches to rile up their followers during protests and all-night sermons. In order to investigate how Chileans celebrate my favorite childhood holiday, I decided to travel two hours to the biggest nearby city, Concepcion in search of Halloween.

One of my first stops was in the city's plaza and there I hit the jackpot. Hundreds of people were attending an Evangelical anti-Halloween concert. I was wearing a plastic bandit mask that I had bought from one of the street vendors, but I was advised to take it off to avoid a confrontation. On stage as a band played Christian rock, I watched several actors dressed in Halloween costumes attack a white-robed Christ figure and he fought them back to the cheers of the crowd. Afterwards every in the crowd started chanting “Cristo vive! Cristo vive!” The night before my Chilean aunt and cousin talked over whether they should let my younger cousin dress up. Both of them Christians felt torn between letting my younger cousin be a kid and the anti-Halloween statements espoused by their minister. Celebrating Halloween is clearly a contentious issue in Chile.

As I continued walking around the city, I noticed little signs of Halloween here and there, but I could tell that it was still a fringe holiday. On street corners, a couple vendors sold plastic masks and plastic pumpkins. In the grocery store, there was a display of candy which said “Dulces o Travesura?” (the Spanish equivalent of “Trick or Treat”). On the sidewalk, I saw a little boy wearing plastic red devil horns and a matching pitchfork. This didn't feel like the Halloween I knew when I was a child. For me the weirdest thing was to be celebrating Halloween in the spring time. So many of my memories of Halloween have to do with the fall: visits to the pumpkin patch, corn mazes, bobbing for apples, and of course, carving pumpkins. I had come to Concepcion to see a Chilean Halloween, but instead I found myself missing an American one.

Missing America: I never thought that I say this but I earnestly miss America. I guess it takes some time outside of our country to appreciate everything that we have going for us. My latest bout of missing home was brought on by a list of the 100 must-try American foods. It was the geographic and ethnic diversity of the foods that reminded me of how good we have it. I'm tired of mono-cultural Chile. Living in a place where there is a such a strong shared culture is fascinating but I want my Chinese food, I want to see people of different skin colors, I want to listen to different kinds of music, and I want the comforts of being in Davis and in Providence.

This week my pendulum has firmly swung in the opposite direction about extending. My infatuation with Chile is starting to wear off and I want to be home. It is also the realization that it has been so long since I actually felt at home in Davis. I haven't lived there for more than two weeks at a time over the last three years. I haven't felt like I actually lived in Davis for the last four and half years.

The more I think about this decision, the more it feels right for what I need right now. I don't want to get back from Chile and go straight into grad school without spending a long time with the people I love. I took this year off for a number of reasons and while one of those reasons was for the self-exploration that I had in Chile, one of the biggest reasons was to spend time at home with friends and family. I'm excited to continue my travels after I'm done with teaching but by that time I will feel ready to come home.

Week 12 & 13: Reminders of Why I'm in Chile

30 Sec. Update: I woke up this morning and looked at my calendar to realize that five weeks from today I will be boarding a bus to go to Santiago for the Ministry's closing program. I'm scratching my head trying to figure out how I will teach everything that I want to in the remaining six weeks. The Chilean school system hasn't made it any easier for me either. Last Tuesday teachers nationwide went on strike demanding that the government make payments it promised over a decade ago. It looks like more strikes are coming this week too. On a lighter note, I just finished reading “Three Cups of Tea” by Greg Mortenson, a former-mountaineer who has dedicated his life to building schools in rural Pakistan and Afghanistan. As a fellow educator in a developing country, his story deeply resonated with me and my own commitment to education. With the good weather I have been spending as much time outside as I can. Weekly fishing trips with my host-father, long rides on my recently acquired bicycle, and day-trips to some of the neighboring towns in our province.

Only in the “Skinny One” (Día del Profesor): Every October on the Friday after Columbus Day is National Day of the Teacher in Chile. A full day of food, drinks, ceremonies, and speeches to celebrate Chile's teachers. In the morning there was a full program of student dance performances and speeches, all of the teachers at my school went out to lunch at the nicest restaurant in town, the mayor and city council hosted a cocktail party which featured an opera singer, and a group of teachers spent the rest of the day at a nearby lake. From start to finish, I had never felt so appreciated to be a teacher.

All throughout the day, I explained to my colleagues that nothing like this exists in the United States and I was stuck trying to find an explanation as to why. People always lament in the US that teachers are underpaid and under appreciated, so why isn't there a day dedicated to the hard work of teachers. I'm not suggesting that such a day would solve the problems of high teacher turnover or make up for their low salaries but maybe an annual nationwide celebration of the sacrifices made by teachers might provide a self-esteem boost and send a different message from our government commitment to education. Start writing your congressmen...

During the morning ceremony at my host-school, all of the professors were called up in groups of five or six to be given a gift by the principal and recognized for their dedication. After my name was called, I stood up to join my colleagues. As I stepped onto the stage, every one of the over 200 students in the room starting chanting “Tio Kevin, Tio Kevin!” Smiling on that stage in front of the entire school and listening to my students call my name was my greatest moment so far in Chile. In that moment I was reminded of all the reasons why I am here and any of my doubts about my impact on my students were chased away by their shouts of praise.

Another Monday in Lebu: Two weeks ago I made a trip to Lebu to run an errand. Lebu is a large coastal town of 30,000 about thirty minutes by bus from my home. By 11 AM I had finished my errand and I decided to explore a bit. In the town's tourist kiosk I inquired about its sights and I was told about a hilltop overlook, a collection of caves along the coast, and a waterfall that was a three mile walk from the plaza. Deciding that I needed to see all three before I left Lebu that evening, I set out for another memorable adventure in Chile.

There was no well-marked route to my first destination, so I simply started walking in the direction of the hill. Following narrow cement paths between the houses that stacked up the hillside, I made my way towards the overlook. It reminded me the paths going up to Coit Tower in San Francisco. Many of the houses didn't have driveways or access to the street and I could imagine entire families walking up the same stairs returning from work and school. I made quick work up the hill and within a half hour I made it to the top to be greeted by a beautiful view of the town and the coastline. More importantly, I could see my next destination, the beach leading to the caves, which was about two miles away across a river so I set out off in that direction.

Given it was a Monday morning in the beginning of the spring, the beach was deserted. On the entire mile and a half stretch of beach, I only saw one other person and a dog. By this time it was around 1:30 PM and I was starting to get hungry, but I hadn't seen anywhere I could buy food for the last half hour. My breakfast had only been a roll of bread and a cup of coffee. Wanting to see the caves before lunch I decided to suppress my hunger and press on for the time being. A decision I knew that I would regret but I could see the caves off in the distance.

A Divine Gift: The caves were an artifact leftover from when Lebu was a mining town. Blasted open in search of coal, the web of caves go straight through the seaside cliffs. Walking for hundreds of wet dimly-lit feet I made it to the other side of the caves to find another beach. On a whim, I decided to head to the top of the cliffs above the caves in order to catch another view of the town and the coastline. Crisscrossing up the cliff on a trail that didn't exist at times I made my way to the top where I discovered another breathtaking view of crashing waves and a suspicious looking grocery bag.

I have many memories as child of stumbling upon an empty soda can or candy wrapper thinking that I was about to be rewarded with a treat only to be disappointed. When I saw the grocery bag full of beer cans, I kicked it fully expecting them to be empty but I was surprised to find that there were four unopened cans of beer. Upon further investigation I discovered several pieces of fresh bread and cheese in the bag with the beer. It was 3 PM at this point, my stomach was grumbling, and here was the clearest divine signal that I have ever received. What would Jesus do? I wolfed down a piece of bread and cracked open a can of beer; I decided to pass on the cheese in case this bag had been here longer than I thought it had. As I walked away I had some qualms about whether or not I had just eaten the dinner of a homeless man or a run-away, so I tucked $1000 Chilean Pesos (about $2) into the bag and went on my way.

My next stop was the waterfall. Having satisfied my hunger, I was no longer in any rush so I took my time getting down from the cliffs hopping some barbwire fences and wandering into some nearby pasture. From the top of a small hill in the pasture, I could see the road which headed out of town and led to where I hoped to find the waterfall.

Backyard Waterfall: Not marked on any maps I received at the tourist office and going off nothing but a photo I had seen on the town's brochure, I started on walking the three miles to the waterfall. After I had been walking for about five minutes, a rusty truck with a flatbed came rumbling in my direction. I experimentally stuck my hand out to flag a ride and to my surprise the driver slowed down. I ran up to the cab and hopped in. An older man was behind the wheel and his face was kind and wrinkly so I felt comfortable placing my life in the hands of man who reminded me of my grandfather. After some introductions, I told him that I was headed to the waterfall and the man nodded as if he knew where I was going.

We had driven for about ten minutes when he began slowing down the truck indicating that I had arrived. Never having been to the waterfall before I hopped out the truck and thanked the man for the ride. It wasn't until the truck started to drive away that I was able fully take stock of my new surroundings. I was standing at a bend in the road in a wide forested valley. I could hear the sound of water, however there was no signs marking a path to the waterfall. I checked my cell phone to see if I had any service: “No Signal.”

A lone house stood on the side of the road but several barking dogs stood behind a locked gate, so I decided not to test my luck any further. I continued down the road thinking that I would find something marking the location of the waterfall. A long empty stretch of pavement was around the bend, so stumped I turned back around. For being on the cover of the town's tourist brochure, this waterfall certainly wasn't well marked. Noticing a small break in a barbwire fence, I decided to get off the road. Maybe I would catch a view of the waterfall and at least have a better idea of how to get to it.

I walked away through an empty forested pasture making sure that I walked in a straight line to prevent getting lost. The pasture rolled down into the valley, so maybe if I was to follow it downwards to the river then I could reach the waterfall. The sound of the water was getting stronger, but I still had yet to catch a glimpse of the waterfall. No longer keeping my straight path I continued down towards the valley floor. Eventually the forest got so thick and the valley so steep that I couldn't go any further. Feeling pretty tired and frustrated at this point, I decided to end this goose chase and head back to the road. Then all of sudden, through a break in the trees I made out the waterfall all the way on the other side of the valley. I had picked the wrong side of the valley.

Invigorated by this glimpse of my goal but not quite satisfied enough to go home, I headed all the walk back to the road and began scheming a new path to the waterfall. On the road again, I noticed a cement irrigation ditch which headed in the direction of the waterfall. Walking along the irrigation ditch I eventually found a well worn path which I followed all the way to the base of the waterfall. The top of the sixty foot waterfall was literally in the backyard of the lone house I had seen back at the round. Feeling content now having found the waterfall, I snapped a few pictures and started walking back towards the road leading back to the bus station. So ended another Monday in Lebu.

Week 10 & 11: Highs and Lows

30 Sec. Update: How time flies! I have huge backlog of things to write on my blog yet it feels that I barely find the moments to write at all. Fiestas Patrias which were back in mid-September can't go without mentioning. Imagine 4^th of July on steroids. An entire week of non-stop parades, barbecues, parties, and visits to the beach. It was a great time to be in Chile. I am posting more teaching videos this week. They are from a lesson on the weather complete with students dressing up in a tie and sunglasses to give the weekly weather forecast. Speaking of the weather, it is finally turning for the better in Chile. Sunshine is now the norm and I have been spending more and more time outdoors. Last weekend I visited the Parque Nacional Nahuelbuta to see the enormous thousand year old Arucaria which seem to belong to a prehistoric age. There is just too much to do and nowhere nearly enough time to do it all!

4^th of July on Steroids: The 18^th of September is Chile's official independence day, but give Chileans some extra time off from work and a chance to party, and they will turn one day of celebrations into an entire week. Chileans don't even call it independence day, they more appropriately call the week of festivities Fiestas Patrias. Never before have I consumed so much steak, empanadas, and wine. Everywhere I went for the entire week of September 14^th I was surrounded by good drink and good eats.

At the center of all the festivities is “el asado,” a.k.a. the barbecue. For weeks on the evening news, reporters offered tips on where to buy the best meat and which time-honored techniques ensured the perfect steak. My host father however didn't need any advice though, he should have been the one giving it. Many hours of my Fiestas Patrias were spent silently watching him prepare the coals to just the right temperature, trim & season the meat, and then carefully guide the steaks to the perfect level of temperature and tenderness. I have never tasted steak so good. After a week of late nights of dancing, mid-day hangovers, firework shows, trips to the beach, and eating my fill of rich food, I was ready to catch my breath and enter a deep sleep before I began another week of life in Chile.

Only in the Skinny One (“La Cueca”): Every week-long independence celebration has to have a national dance to go along with it. In Chile that dance is “La Cueca.” Combine Chilean folk-music and square dancing and you more or less have the Cueca. The dance celebrates Chile's rural roots in “el campo” and is a courtship between a Huaso (a Chilean cowboy) and a maiden. As early as pre-school Chilean children began learning to dance the Cueca in their classes and they continue learning it up through high school.

The Cueca is much more than America's version of the line dance. In the weeks prior to Fiestas Patrias Chile is gripped with Cueca fever. All across the country there are competitions on the communal, provincial, and regional level culminating in the national competition in Santiago. Overnight children became national celebrities based on their ability to dance Cueca.

I had been hearing the music and seeing the dance practiced at my school since the day I arrived in Los Alamos and my host-teacher and a group of my students made it their mission to teach me to dance the Cueca. Two days a week leading up to Fiestas Patrias, my students came to my class at the end of the day to coach me through the Cueca. It was a surprisingly difficult dance to learn despite its simple appearance. Each time I learned a new step, I found that there was much more attention to detail than I initially though. Nevertheless, I was a good student and after four classes I was dancing a basic version of La Cueca.

My failed quest for Cuenta RUT: Most of my posts have been overwhelmingly positive up until this point, so it is overdue to express some of my frustrations.

The Ministry of Education requires that their volunteers open Cuenta RUT (a basic checking account) in order to receive our stipends. A process that would seem relatively easy on the surface but has actually provided me with a first-hand look into all of the bureaucracy that engulfs the Chilean government. As a foreigner, a recent immigrant, and a resident in a rural town, this seemingly easy task has taken entire days of my time and I was left to figure out this entire process by myself.

Upon going to my local bank (Banco Estado) back in August to inquire about opening a Cuenta RUT, I was told that I would first need a government-issued ID card. Another seemingly simple process, but alas! After discussing this my host-family, I went to my town's registrar to apply for a ID card. BUT apparently in order to get an ID card for a foreigner, I would need to travel thirty minutes by bus to another town (Lebu) because my town's registrar was not equipped to issue ID cards to foreigners. A trip that I would have to wait another two weeks for because I that Lebu's registrar is only open 10 AM to 2 PM Monday through Friday.

Fast-forward two weeks, I arrived in Lebu ready to apply for my ID card. I went to the registrar's office to find out that before I can apply for my ID card, I needed to get my visa certified by the Policia de Investigaciones (Chile's FBI). At the PDI station, the sole person in charge of certifying visas was not in the office yet and I was told to return in two hours. Two hours later, I was sitting in an office filling out forms to get my Visa certified. After 45 minutes of this, I finally got the signatures I needed to proceed to the registrar. Another hour of filling out more forms, getting my fingerprints taken, getting asked about my organ-donor status, and paying $10, I received a small slip of paper saying that my ID card would be ready to be picked up in three weeks at my town's registrar.

Fast-forward three more weeks. Thankfully, my ID card arrived on the date promised and that same day I went to the bank to open my Cuenta RUT. Having been in Chile for 6 weeks at this point in time, I could have really used my stipend money. I go to the bank, wait in line, fill out more forms and was told that my Cuenta RUT card and number will arrive at the post-office in 15-20 days. Man this was taking a long time.

Fast-forward 15-20 days. For three weeks straight I religiously went to the post office to inquire about the arrival of my Cuenta RUT. Everyday the same disappointment: no Cuenta RUT. The municipal post office which receives all the mail in our town is only open M-F 10 AM to 2 PM and I have classes during this time Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Day 20 came and went, still without any Cuenta RUT.

Fast-forward to today (28 days after I applied for my Cuenta RUT). I found out this morning when I went to the post office that you only have 4 days to pick up your Cuenta RUT card from the post office. My fourth day was yesterday. The post office sent back my Cuenta RUT to the bank, voiding my account. The bank never told me any of this when I applied for my Cuenta RUT.

Yesterday, instead of picking up my Cuenta RUT at the post-office I was back at the registrar's office in Lebu applying for a new ID Card because I lost my original (this is the same ID card that prevented me from crossing the border into Argentina). So now if I have to wait another 3 weeks for my ID card to arrive, reapply for my Cuenta RUT, and then wait another 4 weeks for my Cuenta RUT to arrive. And by that time, I will no longer be in Los Alamos. This is a ridiculous system. Here I am at the beginning of October without any sign of a Cuenta RUT.

Tio Kevin, Tio Kevin: These videos were shot during a class that I taught last week on "What's the weather like?"

Week 8 and 9: Traveling to Tenaun

30 Sec. Update: The last two weeks have been two of the busiest and eventful weeks during my time in Chile and I have been struggling to find time to write. Last week I traveled south thirteen hours by bus to Chiloe, an archipelago in Northern Pagagonia that is only accessible by ferry. Because of its physical separation from Chile, for hundreds of years the island remained culturally isolated developing its own distinctive food and traditions. For three days days, I explored the archipelago sampling its unique seafood dishes and wooden architecture. Traveling to Chiloe made me acutely aware that my time in Chile is half-way over and my uncertainty about I'm going to extend my stay. I have a lot of thinking to do before my next post.

Only in the “Skinny One” (Border Hold-Up): My original plan this weekend was NOT to go to Chiloe. I had planned to go to Bariloche a beautiful lakefront town high up in the Andes on the border between Chile and Argentina, but fate had a different plan for me. At the end of a 10 hour bus journey to the border, I was pleasantly surprised to find out that having a US Passport and Chilean Visa was not enough to cross the border, but in fact I needed a Chilean government-issued ID card.

Maybe I should have just offered a bribe, but after pleading for any possible alternative and making desperate phone calls to my host-family and field director, I was abandoned at the border by the bus company. Stuck within 100 yards of Argentina gave me lots of time to think about the artificiality of national borders and who holds the right to cross them. Before this moment, I had so easily crossed borders without thinking of the privileges embodied in a passport. Yet here I held a US passport, permission and an endorsement from the wealthiest and most-powerful country in the world, and I still could not cross the border into Argentina. Eventually, I decided that larger forces were at work and I was not supposed to leave Chile yet. After another 4 hour bus ride away from the nearest bus hub, I regrouped and decided to head further south to Chiloe.

Chasing Chiloe: Despite being first colonized by Spain in 1567, due to the channel of water separating the island from the mainland and its heavy rainfall year-round, Chiloe has maintained a distinctive wood-inspired architectural style, an active folklore of witches and demons, and a lush green landscape. In modernity, the Chilean government has constructed an elaborate series of ferries and roads connecting the islands to the mainland and bringing with rapid development of the islands and tourism.

Traveling to Chiloe in early-September (at the end of Chile's winter) is the island's low-season. This was apparent everywhere I went. I only saw a half-dozen other foreigners the entire time I was traversing the islands. Every bus I rode was full of only Chilotes (the people of Chiloe) and I was often the only person staying at my hostals. I ate in world-famous restaurants and I would be the sole patron (in case you were wondering, the service still moved at a snail's pace). Traveling off-peak was a unique opportunity to see the day-to-day life in Chile before the flood of tourists in the summer months.

Most of Chiloe's food is inspired by the oceans that surrounds the islands. The most popular dish is Curanto, a seafood and meat stew that is prepared in a pit of coals in dug into the ground. I sampled Curanto at several of the towns that I visited. When served, it greets the eye as a mountain of oysters, clams, chicken, lamb, and beef with sides of potato cakes and gravy. Finishing an entire plate of Curanto is no small feat, it is customary to start eating the terrestrial meat first and then move on to the shellfish. The gravy serves as way to “re-heat” any of the meat that starts to get cold as you devour the piles of meat. Not exactly vegetarian fare.

Chiloe is most-famous for its distinctive churches with their tall narrow towers, brilliant colors, and unique wood construction techniques which utilizes wooden pegs instead of nails. Inspired by the pictures of the churches I saw in my guidebooks, my mission during my time in Chiloe was to see as many of the churches as I could. Over the course of the three days I traveled to 6 towns in 72 hours.

Tenaun, My El Dorado: Tenaun was my El Dorado during my travels to Chiloe. Having seen pictures of Tenaun's striking blue church in guidebooks, Tenaun was the place that first captured my imagination and drew me to Chiloe. A beach town of less than 500 people, Tenaun is located in a remote region of the island so naturally I had to find a way to see its iconic church.

Getting to Tenaun was a journey in itself. Despite consulting a bus driver who repeatedly assured me that the bus I was boarding was going to Tenaun, I later found out that the bus I had been riding on was in fact NOT going to Tenaun. Dropped off at a desolate intersection with nothing but my backpack, I was pointed in the direction of Tenaun by the bus driver and started walking. Standing at the intersection, I noticed a car coming down the road headed in the same direction so I hitched a ride. After about ten minutes, I was dropped off in a small landlocked town that couldn't have had more than a hundred people with no brilliant blue church in sight (i.e. NOT Tenaun).

The sun was shining and the sky was clear, so I figured that I would laugh off my situation and I continued walking towards where I hoped I would find Tenaun. Eventually after twenty minutes of walking a dusty bus came rambling down the road with a sign labeled Tenaun. This was the bus that I was supposed to catch back at the bus station. I hopped on board and completed my final leg of my journey. It had taken me two buses, a short hike, and hitched ride to get to Tenaun, but somehow I made it. The last stretch of road to Tenaun was a bumpy steep dirt pitch that came down out of the hills and I was rewarded with a stunning view of the church that I traveled so far to see.

The adventure didn't end upon my arrival though. Finding a place to stay or even a place to eat in a town of 500 people during the off-season is no easy task. After I snapped a few pictures of the church I began the walk down town's “main street” and found that all of the restaurants and hostals were closed for the season. A small corner market was open so I asked if there was any place to eat and I was given the address down the street of a residence that sometimes serves food. I knocked on the door and was promptly told that they didn't have any food to serve. After I pleaded a bit (I had practice from my experience at the Argentinian border), I was told that I could eat lunch with the family. The family seemed to like me and was interested to hear my stories about life in the United States, so I decided to push my luck a little further to ask if they had an extra bed for the night. And that is how I ended up living for a day with a family in Tenaun.

Epiphanies while Traveling: Maybe it was being abandoned by a bus driver in the middle of an intersection in rural Chiloe or views of snow-capped volcanoes driving down the Pan-American highway or maybe it is simply my growing love for an awkward looking country that I used to know nothing about, but at some moment during my recent travels I realized that I'm not ready to leave Chile any time soon. I realized that I need this country as much as much as I've lead myself to believe that my students need me.

I have approval from the Chilean government to stay a semester through the end of June but I still have a lot of thinking to do before I sign the dotted line. Would I move to another part of Chile, such as the arid Northern-most desserts or the isolated Southern-Patagonian colonies? Or would I stick with the community and the family that I love so dearly? Or maybe by November I will be ready to return to my actual family and the life waiting for me back in California? This past weekend marked the half-way point of my time in Chile and I am not quite ready to break-up with the country that I am so enamored with.

Week 7: “Camaron, Camaron!”

30 Sec. Update: I keep checking the calendar to make sure that I have really been in Chile for a month and half. This week was the fastest yet, but continued to be full of small and big adventures. This weekend was spent at home which very relaxing. I stayed up late Friday night drinking pisco and playing “Uno” and “Liar's Dice” with one of the teacher's from my school. Slept in late Saturday and in the afternoon I went for a long run out into the countryside. Saturday night I went to a folklore show with my host-teacher and danced to some great guitar solos. On Sunday, the time had once again arrived for another adventure out in the countryside: “sacando camarones” or pumping crawdads out of the ground. This process is best described through video, so see below. In the end we caught about two dozen, which was our Sunday night dinner. With tomorrow being September 1st concluding the first third of my stay in Chile, the end of November already feels like it is drawing close.


Only in the “Skinny One” (Onces): My favorite time of my day is after I get home from a long day of work and share “onces” with my family. Onces are a large late night snack (Chileans don't really do dinner) that happens around 8 or 9 PM. Two things are guaranteed to be on the table for onces: a hot beverage and bread. While that may seem like nothing to get excited about, one of the reasons why I love “onces” is getting to choose the hot beverage and the toppings for bread. The options for hot drinks are: Milo (a powdered milk that is served warm), Tea, Coffee (always Nescafe—the Chilean version of Folgers), and my personal favorite Ecco (a coffee-like cereal drink). The options for the home-made bread are: Manjar (a sweet carmel-colored spread that is made by boiling down condensed milk), butter, home-made cherry preserves, my favorite Pate (a rich meat flavored spread), and occasionally cheese or deli meat. The possible combinations are limitless.


The time of day is also what makes Onces so special. It's the only time that everyone is around the table, no one is in a rush to go to school/work, and it's last thing we do before bed. The conversation always builds as the meal progresses. At first no one is talking because everyone is famished not having eaten anything in the last six hours. Eventually as everyone sips on their hot cup of Nescafe and eats some bread fresh out of the oven, the conversation gradually builds and often errupts into debates about who is the best soccer team, impromptu Spanish and English lessons, and discussions about the telenovelas or TV news. Onces will last anywhere between 1 hour to 3 hours. After several cups of Ecco, I usually toasty warm and ready to slip into bed until the next morning.

“Sacando Camarones” (Pumping Out Crawdads): Walking through a street fair on my first morning in Los Alamos my host-father had pointed out a bucket full of crawdads and called them “camarones,” the word that I had learned as shrimp in my Spanish classes. Clearly camarones meant something different in Chile and that morning my host-father promised to take me out sometime to “sacar camarones,” which up until this weekend I could guess the meaning.

On Sunday afternoon, equipped with a plastic grocery bag, a box full of rubber booties, and two hand pumps (a.k.a. “bombos” which look something like bazookas), we all piled into the truck to go in search of camarones. After a 20-minute ride outside of Los Alamos, we parked at the side of cow pasture and suited up. Now wearing the rubber booties and with our pants hiked up our legs, we gingerly slipped through the barbwire fence and began the hunt. Our query lived in water filled tunnels under the pasture. Armed with the bombos, we would searched for the entrances to the tunnels and began to pump. In order to create the suction, you need to stuff the tip of your boots into one of the entrances and began pumping from the other.



We only found camarones in about a quarter of the holes that we pumped, but after a hour and half of work, we had about two dozen in our plastic bag. I failed to actually pump out one myself (it's much harder than it sounds), but I did assist the capture of several by stuffing my boots into holes.

Back at home a hot boiling pot of water was prepared to cook our hard-earned meal. The camarones were delicious, although a lot of work for a little meat (especially divided amongst eight people). It would be tough making a living off camarones, but somehow people do it (a man came to the door our house the week before last selling camarones). Fortunately we had other seafood to eat along with our camarones, but either way it was another unforgettable experience from my time in Chile.

Feeling Useless: Maybe this is just a reaction to the fact that I spent the last four years of my expensive “liberal education” in books and in front of my computer, but I can't help feeling useless while I'm here in Chile. I am continually impressed with the number of useful skills of both my host-parents here. In my short time living in Los Alamos, I have seen my host-father do the work of an electrician, construction worker, butcher, fisherman, auto mechanic, and play the piano & guitar all on top of his “real” 9 to 5 job as the high school inspector who, to the best of my understanding, resolves all of the disciplinary problems in the school.

When I graduated this past May I felt like I had the world at my fingertips and I was capable of doing anything, but every day here I realize how I still lack useful skills. If I wasn't born in an English speaking country, I would be just taking up space living here. Being able to write a thirty-five page paper comparing the development of nuclear energy in France to the United States doesn't help when my host-father is asking for my help replace auto parts in his truck. I'm not saying that my four years of college were a waste, I'm just realizing that college prepared me with a very specific set of cerebral skills which won't help me rewire the lighting in my room or carve up a cow into steaks. I'm grateful that I can serve some purpose while I'm living here, but this experience has highlighted some major gaps in my education and skill set. I might be able to excel in a student-oriented academic college environment, but transplant me into the real-world and I am grateful to help with the most menial tasks.

Videos from English Class: These videos were shot during a class that I taught last week on "Where are you from?" and "How old you are?"

Week 6: Men Only in "la Bodega"

30 Sec. Update: The last week flew by. I feel like I was just writing my last blog post. It has been raining a lot in Los Alamos; there has been some rain every day for the last week and a half. My spirits are as high as ever though. Classes again were a success. I had some students skipping their other classes (with their teacher's permission) to attend my class for a second time. This weekend I did some traveling to both Concepcion, the regional capital/urban center, and Lota, a dying mining town on the coastline. In Lota, I guided by an ex-miner crawling around the former mines for a hour and half. Afterwards I spent a long time walking along the beach watching as the waves crash over the rocks. Looking forward to the spring time with warmer days and less rain.

Only in the “Skinny One (“Colectivos”): My host-school is located in Cerro Alto which is a ten minute drive from my home. In order to get to school every morning I commute on a colectivo, which have quickly become one of my favorite things in Chile. A colectivo is a taxi cab which runs a specified route and you can hop on or hop off at any point along the route. For relatively short distances, colectivos are faster, cheaper (a fare is only $0.60), and more comfortable than the buses. The fare is cheap because you share the cab with anyone and everyone along the way. I have ridden in colectivos with as many seven people (the driver, two mothers with their two children, myself and another passenger) packed into a four door sedan.

Sometimes my rides in colectivos are in complete silence and other times I try to strike up conversations with the drivers or other passengers. We talk a lot about the weather and the day to day events in the towns. I have begun to recognize some of the colectivo drivers and I'm hoping that I can learn their names. For now though, I just content being a passenger on this hybrid form of public transportation.

Day Trip to Lota: On Saturday a group of teachers and I went to Lota, a costal mining town which is a ninety minute bus ride north of Los Alamos. Like many mining towns in the United States, the wealth and prosperity brought to Lota by coal in its heyday have dried up after the mining stopped in the 1990's. A city of 50,000, Lota is now one of the poorest cities in Chile. In an attempt to revitalize the city, Lota's mines have since been turned into a tourist attraction in which former miners will take you down into the mine's tunnels and tell you anecdotes from its history.

The mine tour lasted about ninety minutes and was lead by an animated guide who was a living encyclopedia about the mine. The tour started with a descent on a mining shaft elevator several hundred feet underground. Equipped with mining helmets and lanterns, a group of ten of us began our trek through the mines stopping periodically to hear about the conditions down in the mine, the lifestyle of a miner, and random tidbits about the mine's history. I was shocked to hear that kids as young as eight worked in these mines just decades ago. The highlight of the tour was when we were deep in the pitch black mine and we turned off all lights to just listen in silence to the noises of the mine.

After the mine tour, our group of teachers spent several hours hiking around on the beach and the surrounding cliffs. It was too cold to swim but it was peaceful just watching the waves crash along the rocky shore. The day ended in the private gardens of the mine's former owners. The stark contrast between the opulence of the gardens and the poverty that was apparent everywhere in the city was stunning. The thirty five acres of gardens contained plant species from all over the world alongside marble statues and fountains imported from Europe and Asia. Walking through the carefully manicured park I felt like I was in one of the royal gardens in Europe. It was just a glimpse into the fabulous wealth of Lota's mine owners. Overall a great day trip and I highly recommend it to other travelers in Chile.

Quick Profile of my Students: My students are all junior high students between the grades of 5th and 8th. From what I have gathered from them, they range in ages from 9 to 16 years-old. Most of them are from either Los Alamos or Cerro Alto, but a significant number of them are also from the countryside and live at the school as borders. My school, Escuela 798 Claudio Flores Soto, is a municipal (public) primary school. In Chile there are three types of schools: municipal, semi-private, and private schools. For this reason most of my students are also lower-income by Chilean standards.

My students are very friendly and affectionate. If my students see me around town or on the bus they are always animated and eager to talk to me. One of my students even ran across the street to say hello to me before I got onto a bus. When I walk through the hallway, they are eager to get my attention and offer to carry my things for me. They are also typical teenagers. They love listening to music (esp. the Jonas Brothers, Hannah Montana, and of course Michael Jackson), they love to dance, they don't like school, they like junk food, and they love soccer.

The Butcher in “la Bodega:” In my house there are three rooms which are shared by everyone: the living room, the kitchen, and la bodega. This week I spent a lot of my down time in la bodega. La bodega is a small shack which is outside behind my house and is used as a covered work space and tool shed. La bodega is also the “men only” space of the house. A place to work with your hands, a place to share drinks, and a place to hang out.

Previously, I wrote about our search for the perfect cow to slaughter for the wedding. The story continues...After the wedding we were left with over a hundred pounds of cow meat hanging from the ceiling of la bodega. Over the course of several days my host father cut the meat into usable pieces and sold them to his neighbors. I watched alongside my host father as all of this happened. I could never imagine this happening in the United States. All of the meat that I have ever purchased has come prepared on a shrink-wrapped foam tray. With amazing skill my host father worked with a kitchen knife and a handsaw to cut through all of the flesh and bone saving pieces of fat and gristle to give to the dogs. When I asked how he learned to prepare meat like this, he told me that he has done it since he was young kid. Several times a year around important events (Easter, Christmas, Independence Day, and weddings) he will go out to the campo, buy a cow to slaughter, and prepare all of the meat to eat and sell.

While I stood there and watched as my host father work to prepare the meat that we would eat that night for dinner, my thoughts wandered to my environmental science classes. In college, we often talked about how most people have no real idea of where their food comes from. This disconnect between the farm and dinner plate was the source of poor land management, overuse of fertilizers and antibiotics, mistreatment of animals, and the myriad of health problems that come from our diets. Juxtapose that with my host father who met the farmer who owned his cow, walked out into the grassy pasture where the cow lived to select it, watched as the cow was slaughtered, and used his own hands to carve up the meat he would eat. I'm not trying to overly romanticize this lifestyle, but it's hard not feel like I am really living here.

Wrap-Up: Life in Los Alamos is not full of flashy diversions and creature comforts to distract you from the daily events and people all around you. My days are marked by long meals around the kitchen table, exhausting work days at the school, homemade food, reading in front of the fireplace, and deep nights of sleep. Life here moves at a slower pace and is a welcome reprieve from the non-stop pace of college. My challenge during the rest of my time will be figuring out how to bring this lifestyle and what I have learned from this experience back with me to the United States.

Week 5: Feeling at Home

30 Sec. Update: First week of classes went smoothly. I met 150+ students over the course of three days and I'm struggling to remember names. All of the students seemed excited to be in my class and by the end of the 45 min. period I had all of them introducing themselves in English. Friday was the wedding which literally lasted all night. The ceremony started at 8 PM and we danced the night away until 6 AM. I woke up at 3 PM Saturday afternoon. The rest of the weekend was spent recovering from the wedding. On Sunday I went for a nice hike to a suspended bridge outside of Los Alamos. My one month anniversary was Saturday and I looked at the calendar to realize that there are only 100 more days in Chile. I'm already wishing that I had more time here.


Only in the “Skinny One” (Bring Your Own TP): After being in Chile for a couple of days I quickly realized that I shouldn't go anywhere without a roll of toilet paper and some hand sanitizer. Even the staff bathroom at my school lacks both of these necessities. I have never gotten an explanation on why this is so. Is it the cost? Does the TP just run out? Are Chileans just afraid to use toilet paper that is not their own? Or do Chileans just not use toilet paper? [cringe] Whatever the reason, after a few uncomfortable trips to the bathroom I never leave the house without a roll.


Actually using the toilet paper adds an additional challenge because the plumbing in Chile is not strong enough flush down the TP. For this reason, all of the bathrooms in Chile have a small trash can next to the the toilet to dispose of the used toilet paper. It has taken a while to get used to this. My trips to the bathroom are often filled with cursing after I realize that I once again forgot to dispose of the TP in the trash can. After this happens, I'm always afraid that the toilet will clog and my host-family will grumble “Where's the plunger? The gringo did it again!”

Every time I go to the bathroom now, I go through the mental checklist: Did I bring the TP? Check! Did I bring the hand sanitizer? Check! Did I remember to put the toilet paper in the trash? Fuck! I'm sure that I will suffer from reverse culture shock once again back to the US and my mom will be confused why there is always dirty TP in the trash can.


My Four Months of Fame: After 2 weeks in Los Alamos, I have begun to sympathize with Britney Spears. Just in case it hasn't reached the United States, I have achieved celebrity status here in Chile. I walk through hallways of my school to the screams of high school girls, I have given out my autograph on several occasions, and some of my students even shout “I love you” as I pass in the halls. I frequently get asked if I know Hannah Montana, the Jonas Brothers, or Madonna. It has quickly become clear to me that the main reason why my students are interested in English is pop culture. I'm sure that once they realize that I don't actually know any movie stars and that in the US I'm only a mild-mannered college student my celebritydom will end. But for now, my self-esteem has never been higher.

Classes week one went really well. My program director called the first weeks of teaching in Chile “the honeymoon period.” The students were excited to be in classes with the gringo and for a change of pace from their regular classes. The purpose of my time here is to work on their verbal fluency and expose them to a native speaker. With that mission in mind, I have been given a lot of flexibility with how I teach my classes. I try to organize them around a question that would come up in conversation such as, “how many siblings do you have?” or “where are you from?” with interactive games and improv always being a key component.


English Only: My classes are taught entirely in English which adds lots of extra challenges. I have to be very deliberate in how I deliver the instruction by using lots of repetition, cognates (words that sound similar in both Spanish and English), and acting out everything I say. This methodology is the same idea that underlies studying abroad and full immersion language programs. It is frustrating at times for both me and the students but I think in the long-run it will maximize their exposure to native English and (hopefully) their retention. Or at least that is the theory; I'll write back with how much I agree with this theory in 4 months.

“Weddings in Chile go until 6 AM:” A wedding in Chile is a whole-weekend affair. Friday was the wedding, Saturday was spent cleaning and recovering, and Sunday was the leftovers. I was told by a few Chileans beforehand that wedding in Chile go until 6 AM, but I didn't truly believe it until this weekend. The ceremony started at 8 PM, dinner was served at midnight, the cake came around 3 AM, and the dancing stopped at 6 AM. The day after I slept until 3 PM.

The Ceremony: The whole event from start to finish was beautiful and memorable in its own special Chilean way. The ceremony was held at a Pentecostal church which ensured a fiery sermon at the beginning of the ceremony full of “hallelujah's” and “praise the Lord's” (or at least that's what I think they were saying in Spanish). After that, the ceremony was pretty similar to a wedding ceremony in the US: exchanging the vows, the reading of the marriage certificate, and the sharing the wedding rings. At the end of the ceremony, the newly wedded went on a vuelta (a mini-trip) in their decorated car throughout the town. Everyone else rushed to the location of the reception (a local high school cafeteria) to wait for the newly wedded to arrive and perform the waltz.


It was a low-budge wedding in every sense. The reception was held in the high school cafeteria, my host brother was the DJ, my host mother baked the wedding cake, the decorations were homemade, the silverware was mismatched, and the plates were chipped. But anything it lacked in a material sense was made up for by the outpouring of love that was apparent in everyone and everything in that room.

The rest of the night passed quickly. The music was a mix of Salsa, Cumbia, and Reggaton. All the dancing was done in lines with the men on one side and the women on the other. I'm sure that I represented my country poorly on the dance floor but at least the wedding guests got some good laughs. The dancing was only interrupted by the retrieving of the garder, throwing of the bouquet, and the cutting of the wedding cake. It was an unlikely marriage. High school sweethearts who had a child when they were only fifteen-years-old. Five years had passed since their son was born. To have reached this point took the support of a lot of people and it was surely something to celebrate.


Wrap-up: These first two weeks in Los Alamos have been full of reminders of the cycles of life. I attended a wedding, I held a newly born baby, and I carried a casket containing a one hundred and six-year-old woman. Alongside all of these milestones of life, I have begun to establish a rhythm here in Chile as daily routines become a little less overwhelming. I am amazed at how quickly I was integrated into the lives of my host-family and the daily on-goings in Chile. The comfort that I feel with my new family, my new school, and my new home is a testament to the abundant warmth and familiarity of this community. I'm am hopeful for whatever the next one hundred days may bring.