To those of you who don't know Spanish

Sorry for the Spanish. I am writing this blog mostly so I can process this experience. I'm treating it kind of like a diary but allowing some of my closest friends to read it if they so choose. I just feel that, in order to write what I really think, it has to be in Spanglish. Because sometimes I think 100% in English or Spanish but mostly I think in a mix.

Road trip to Argentina

(Written over the course of the 7+ hour bus ride from Santiago, Chile to Mendoza, Argentina)

Of course last night I had everything packed, alarm set, and my clothes laid out. I got in bed early (10:30ish) but, if you noticed the time stamp on my last post, I couldn't sleep. I was so excited and nervous to go to Argentina today. Finally, around 5 I was able to sleep.

Driving in Chile

Next thing I know, I look at my phone and it says 7:37. Fuck. So I spent $13 on a taxi, arriving at the bus station at 8:20. My bus was supposed to leave at 8:40. We all made it though, if only by the skin on our necks. (That's the phrase, right?)

Now we are cruising through the Chilean countryside at 90 kph. There are so many Chilean flags from every rooftop. I see the first cactus I have seen since arriving in Latin America. I'm adding another set of sceneries to my mental collage of the New World, América.
As I am watching the landscape scroll by, it all stops. We have arrived at a line of stopped cars, which I'm assuming are waiting to cross the border. An invisible man-made line in the Andes dividing currencies, laws, plug types, economies... And yet I jumped the gun. We are not at the border yet, only a toll booth or something similar. I'm not sure.

A few hours later...

We passed several more places that may have been the border. A little town with patrolmen. Booths with Argentine flags. Then an industrial-looking building through which all of the cars, buses, and trucks were slowly passing. I don't know when I crossed the border, but this is where I got my stamp and officially entered my 8th foreign country.

Thoughts...
What is a border anyways?
Is it really a border if...?
-I cross it without knowing
-I cross it and I only I know
-little changes-- same language, same landscape, same dominant religion, similar development levels, etc.
-no one searched my things, made me pay an entrance fee, or asked me to declare certain types of items
And, if in my lifetime Chile claims Mendoza, can I still say that I have been to Argentina?

Hostel living

This is creepy. I cannot sleep. I have stayed in hostels before, but never in a shared room. The room is really just a rectangle with beds along a wall, stacked 3 high and 3 across. Ariel was right when she said the beds were like those in the concentration camps.

Under each column of 3 beds, there are an equal number of drawers. These drawers are deceiving. They are really lockers. There is just enough space between the beds and the bare wall to open your locker and take out your things.

The shower situation is probably the most daunting for me. As my roommates from last year can attest, I am usually very reserved with my shower routine when my bathroom is not directly connected to my single-person room. It took months for me to enter and exit the bathroom in anything but fully clothed. Only at the end of 2 semesters living together did I start wearing only undergarments going from my closet to the bathroom.

downstairs

So, here I am having to share showers with a whole bunch of people I have never met. With only flimsy plastic curtains separating us. There's almost no space to put any of my clothes, and I can't put on my underwear in the shower because the floor turns into a bathtub. I'm counting down the days I have to shower here.

Traveller's Bar, downstairs

That said, the atmosphere downstairs is really chill with good music and drinks. There's also a kitchen where we are making dinner tonight. And the people are nice and from around the world.

Things Chileans Love

Tech:
-WhatsApp
-over crowded PowerPoints
-Twitter
-Google docs

Food:
-mayo
-cilantro
-artichokes
-manjar (dulce de leche)
-strong alcoholic drinks
-Nescafé
-empanadas
-wine
-beef

Clothes:
-fanny packs
-pants in all weather (this is really a Latino thing in general)
-wearing beanies, scarves, jackets, etc. when it's not even below 50 F

Academics:
-run on sentences
-ignoring intellectual property laws
-photocopiers
-group projects

Business:
-pharmacies
-prepaid cells
-cash (vs. cards)
-lots of plastic bags and receipts

Others:
-taking care of street dogs
-chilenismos (idioms)
-Independence holidays
-their families
-amazing graffiti art

"un pueblo sin piernas pero que camina"

Soy,
Soy lo que dejaron,
soy toda la sobra de lo que se robaron.
Un pueblo escondido en la cima,
mi piel es de cuero por eso aguanta cualquier clima.
Soy una fábrica de humo,
mano de obra campesina para tu consumo
Frente de frio en el medio del verano,
el amor en los tiempos del cólera, mi hermano.
El sol que nace y el día que muere,
con los mejores atardeceres.
Soy el desarrollo en carne viva,
un discurso político sin saliva.
Las caras más bonitas que he conocido,
soy la fotografía de un desaparecido.
Soy la sangre dentro de tus venas,
soy un pedazo de tierra que vale la pena.
soy una canasta con frijoles ,
soy Maradona contra Inglaterra anotándote dos goles.
Soy lo que sostiene mi bandera,
la espina dorsal del planeta es mi cordillera.
Soy lo que me enseño mi padre,
el que no quiere a su patria no quiere a su madre.
Soy América latina,
un pueblo sin piernas pero que camina.

Tú no puedes comprar al viento.
Tú no puedes comprar al sol.
Tú no puedes comprar la lluvia.
Tú no puedes comprar el calor.
Tú no puedes comprar las nubes.
Tú no puedes comprar los colores.
Tú no puedes comprar mi alegría.
Tú no puedes comprar mis dolores.

Tengo los lagos, tengo los ríos.
Tengo mis dientes pa` cuando me sonrío.
La nieve que maquilla mis montañas.
Tengo el sol que me seca y la lluvia que me baña.
Un desierto embriagado con bellos de un trago de pulque.
Para cantar con los coyotes, todo lo que necesito.
Tengo mis pulmones respirando azul clarito.
La altura que sofoca.
Soy las muelas de mi boca mascando coca.
El otoño con sus hojas desmalladas.
Los versos escritos bajo la noche estrellada.
Una viña repleta de uvas.
Un cañaveral bajo el sol en cuba.
Soy el mar Caribe que vigila las casitas,
Haciendo rituales de agua bendita.
El viento que peina mi cabello.
Soy todos los santos que cuelgan de mi cuello.
El jugo de mi lucha no es artificial,
Porque el abono de mi tierra es natural.

Tú no puedes comprar al viento.
Tú no puedes comprar al sol.
Tú no puedes comprar la lluvia.
Tú no puedes comprar el calor.
Tú no puedes comprar las nubes.
Tú no puedes comprar los colores.
Tú no puedes comprar mi alegría.
Tú no puedes comprar mis dolores.

Você não pode comprar o vento
Você não pode comprar o sol
Você não pode comprar chuva
Você não pode comprar o calor
Você não pode comprar as nuvens
Você não pode comprar as cores
Você não pode comprar minha felicidade
Você não pode comprar minha tristeza

Tú no puedes comprar al sol.
Tú no puedes comprar la lluvia.
(Vamos dibujando el camino,
vamos caminando)
No puedes comprar mi vida.
MI TIERRA NO SE VENDE.

Trabajo en bruto pero con orgullo,
Aquí se comparte, lo mío es tuyo.
Este pueblo no se ahoga con marullos,
Y si se derrumba yo lo reconstruyo.
Tampoco pestañeo cuando te miro,
Para q te acuerdes de mi apellido.
La operación cóndor invadiendo mi nido,
¡Perdono pero nunca olvido!

(Vamos caminando)
Aquí se respira lucha.
(Vamos caminando)
Yo canto porque se escucha.

Aquí estamos de pie
¡Que viva Latinoamérica!

No puedes comprar mi vida.

Soy americana, igual que tú.

Un día estaba comprando en el OK Market! cerca de mi casa después de la clase de futsal cuando una mujer me acercó. Me preguntó qué tipo de ejercicio estaba haciendo y yo le dije fútbol. Ella percibió mi acento y, de repente, me preguntó, "¿eres americana?" ¡Qué cosa tan extraña de una boca chilena! Le respondé que soy gringa, pero, de veras, debo haber dicho "sí, igual que tú." ¿Cómo es que ella--una chilena, una americana de la cual nosotros hemos robado esa palabra--pudo decirme eso? Eso no cacho. Todos los que viven en las Américas son americanos sin cualificar. Comprendo que en inglés no existe una palabra como "estadounidense," pero igual estaba hablando en castellano. Así que les dejo esta imagen a todos aquellos que son americanos de cualquier país:

Alfredo Jaar "A Logo for America" 1986 Public intervention at Times Square, New York, USA. © Alfredo Jaar, courtesy Galerie Lelong, New York.

Encuestas

The group projects in Chile are much harder and in depth than the their US counterparts. My group of three from the class "Infraestructura y servicios de la metrópolis" has 2 months to a) survey 400-500 at Mall Plaza Sur, which is 2 hours in public transport from my house, b) compile the data in excel and c) write a report about it.

I have never surveyed strangers before in my life, let alone in a second language. Sería feliz nunca hacerlo más, but we have only finished about a quarter of the encuestas. I hate it when people want to survey me, so I hate bothering other people by asking them. Also, the survey shouldn't have the category "nombre" on it if it's not necessary. It just scares people, as if being a random foreigner approaching people was not enough.

In total, this was the "cost" of my viaje:
Ida y vuelta:1220 pesos ($3.50) and 5 hours
Permanencia allá: 2 hours

P.S. I should mention that we got kicked out the mall by security because we didn't have authorization to survey there.