Please use your own fork...

The one thing I really like about where I am staying, is that I feel like I am part of a family. It takes away the pressures of being completely self-sufficient, and ensures that every experience I have will be shared, or at least recounted and therefore intensified and better appreciated. For instance, when coming home from a recent weekend of city-hopping, I loved the few moments I spent telling Daisy and her hubby about my adventures- at once practicing more Spanish but also sharing and reliving all the fun and enjoyment I'd been blessed to experience. Travel is about building relationships- with the people you meet and with the places you visit. Staying with a family (rather than renting my own place) ensures that that happens.

It's about sharing really. I don't like living alone, and although at times I need my space and I do enjoy my own company, I would rather share as much as possible than live things alone. Everything is shared in a Chilean family home. Adventures, stories, bills, laughter, meals, crockery, cutlery...

Yes, cutlery.

Now, when traveling, I'm not usually one to complain about the differences in how food is prepared, or even served. Different Culture, different rules and all that. Heaven knows how odd my family's behaviour and manners must seem to the hordes that have cross our threshold over the years, so I am definitely in no place to judge. The only concern I ever have, is that of hygiene.

So, those who know me well enough can imagine my facial expression (for those who don't, try harder) when seated at an amply stocked dinner table, down whose centre are various dishes of assorted salads drenched in sumptuous dressings, each with their own serving fork, upon seeing my fellow diners reach for said serving forks and help themselves to salad before putting the same, used fork, back in the salad for the next person to use. Imagine the intensifying of my expression when the next person, without qualm or flinching, does the same, with the same, used fork!

Just to clarify, these forks are not used to pile salad from the serving dishes onto the diner's plate, they are used as personal cutlery- to shovel salad from the dish into the diner's mouth. And then they are put back. And used by the next person. Et cetera. Et cetera.

So far I don't think anyone has cottoned on to how alien this community approach to eating utensils is to me. I'm not sure if this is a Chilean habit, or particular to the background of the family I'm living with, or if they are just a VERY close-knit family on more levels than I am accustomed. I'll probably never ask, and consequently never know. Suffice it to say, I soon took up the habit of piling my serving of salad onto my own plate before anyone else has had the chance to dive in. I'm still a fan of sharing, but some things, in my opinion, are still better left unshared. And yes, cutlery is one of them.

The Menfolk 'round these parts

I thought it was important that I write about Machismo before writing this post, in order to put it in context.

I would recommend to any woman feeling a bit rubbish about herself to walk down a Latin American high street. And I would defy her to not be bright red by the time she got to the end of it.

Growing up in Mauritius, I've gotten used to receiving male attention whilst walking about the town. It's not really that much of a compliment, as they aren't all that discerning, and to attract your attention they make noises as if calling a puppy. The two times I ever actually turned around and asked the gang of young Mauritian boys whistling and clucking at me whilst hanging out at La Gare** what they actually wanted, they were all stumped for words.I'm not a demanding person, but I would appreciate having some sort of follow-up to simply clucking at me. Most disappointing. Suffice it to say, I was left quite cold.

Living in London, cat calls are either obscene to the point where I feel like calling my mother or taking a shower after receiving one, or nothing more than a whistle and a disgusting, lustful look. I have learned to just keep walking and have cultivated a fairly horrific scowl that I would like to think works as a powerful deterrent.

And it is wearing this very same scowl that I find myself walking down the high streets of down town Santiago. Armed also with my ipod in my ears (and therefore supposedly immune to any attempt at attracting my attention) I charge forward, focusing solely on my destination and the various stray animals that wander the streets.

On the street corner near my apartment block there is construction going on. Mixed in with the constant hum of the concrete mixer and the machinery, one can hear wolf-whistles and cat calls emanating from this site from opening to closing time.

My strategy is usually not to let anyone have any level of false hope. I have to walk past this site twice a day, and usually armed with my Ipod am immune to whatever it is that they are saying. I feel dirty just remembering the filth that these particular construction workers have been heard to say. Walking past the site one afternoon, without my Ipod, but with my ubiquitous frown, I was treated to a "¡Tú eres la reina de mi vida, y haré cualquier cosa pa' hacerte feliz!"*. I, in turn, treated the gentleman to one of my most pronounced scowls, before charging off, reaching the end of the street and thinking to myself: "ooo... actually... that sounded quite nice to me!"

Cat calls aside, I was little prepared for the other Chilean strategy for grabbing female attention. Although two or three men have been polite and just approached me and began talking- a strategy I respect and feel comfortable politely rejecting, The majority, however, adopt a rather odd and quite startling method of dive-bombing me. I have never felt more flustered than when I was walking down the amply spaced high street, I experienced several men, one after the other, walking in the opposite direction as me, approaching me a great speed, as if to kiss me on the cheek, and scuttling off. "What on earth is going on?!" I asked myself. They were acting like cats who'd had half their whiskers cut off.

This dive-bombing kept occurring (and startling and confusing me) until I mentioned it to Chilean friend M, who explained that they were (or attempting to) whispering "sweet nothings" into my ear. He warned me not to try listen to what they were saying, as they were probably obscenities. So, "sweet obscenities", more like.

And then the day came when I left my Ipod at home and had to walk without any audio entertainment. Once again, sporting a scowl, no makeup and a quick march I charged out onto the high street determined to ignore any attention I received. And then it started.

"¡Qué hermosa!"

"¡Mi Princesa!"

"¡Me enamoro!"

"¡Tan linda!"

"¡Eres el sol!"***

In soft, dulcet tones I was told that I was Rodrigo's  princess, that I was Marcelo's sun, that Cristóbal had fallen in love with me, that Miguel thought I was beautiful. And so on. Granted, still by strange, dive-bombing Chilean men in the high street  in the middle of the day. My thoughts? That Chile's idea of obscenities is far removed from what I'm used to taking offence to.

**Bus Station

*You are the queen of my life, and I will do anything to make you happy!

*** "How beautiful!" "My Princess" "I'm falling in love" "So pretty!" "You are the sun!"

Machismo

There is a particular phenomenon here in Latin America. Well, in all honesty, it exists across the globe, but it is pronounced and acknowledged here to such an extent that it has been given it's very own name: Machismo. Easy to work out what that means.

In a recent class I was giving I was trying to explain how this word could be translated into English. It's a fascinating concept in that there is no single word in English that describes all that it encompasses. It's a delightful cocktail of sexism, chauvinism and misogyny with a little vim and chutzpah thrown in for effect.

Machismo is a curious thing. It connotes the subordination and subjugation of women, but in so many a subtle way that it is often misunderstood. Machismo can be seen in the obvious objectification of women's bodies in the media: for instance after 23:00 there is sure to be a semi-naked woman on every TV channel you tune into. Objectification is readily available at any number of the most popular chain cafés you walk into, where the waitress uniform is a skintight mini-dress and they only employ women under 30.

However Machismo also takes more subtler forms. One thing that surprised me as my Spanish improved and I was able to comprehend the language more, was the romantic nature of the lyrics of most popular music. Where English artists specialize in making music about women's undercarriage or how big and manly they are, the Spanish-Language equivalents are often a celebration of beauty and a promise of love and romance. Odd, considering Latin America's reputation for Machismo and female objectification.

But this seemingly celebratory view of women can be just as damaging and oppressive. As Simone de Beauvoir argued in the case of women in France, if a woman is seen as whimsical, she cannot be trusted to make decisions. If a woman is emotional, she does not know how to be rational. Such assumptions provide the premise upon which women are seen as beautiful and lovely objects and nothing more, and consequently excluded from the highest paying jobs, the political sphere and, on many occasions, simply being taken seriously.

So although the idea of a "Latin Lover" is a warm and inviting one, with his easy words and ability to send shivers down your spine; these very talents at charming and swoon-inducing are often a double-edged sword. 

There's a Dog on the table II

So, my friend K and I planned to meet up for a coffee a few days before she was to go travelling. She's a lovely girl; half English half Kenyan, with a great sense of self- deprecating humour and a very warm nature. The heart bleeds a bit that she is leaving back to the UK. Anyway, this post isn't so much about her, more about this fateful cup of coffee (otherwise my choice of title could be taken as a little insulting, don't you think?).

We met up at the designated hour in the vicinity of Bellas Artes, a corner of Santiago Centro known for it's (as the name suggests) beautiful arts, bohemian atmosphere,  museums and cafés- sort of like the Soho or Camden of Santiago- without the drugs and goths. We decided on a little cafe and ordered. She ordered what I think was a cocktail of mango and coconut, which came in a beaker more than a glass. I was after something warmer and little more virgin, so I asked for a hot chocolate. Much to my confusion the waiter asked me how I wanted it. Now, if I had ordered steak, or even coffee, this question would not have stumped me with the stumping-power that it did. "umm... ¿caliente? ¿y con chocolate, por favor?"* I answered the waiter, thinking that surely my original order had already communicated to him all of the needs I had just outlined. More surprising yet was his retort: "¿Lo quiere liquido?"**. I looked at K. She looked at me. We said nothing but in the silence seemed to hang the understanding and complicity that neither of us had a clue what he was on about. I had traveled much . She had traveled much. Seemingly neither of us had ever encountered hot chocolate in any form other than liquid. I looked at the waiter, and nodded a patronizing nod; a nod would say "yes, surprisingly enough I would like my hot, liquid, chocolatey beverage to come hot, liquid and chocolatey." And off he scuttled.

I'm getting to the dog on the table bit...

So soon our handsome, and according to K, Argentine waiter returned (Although we later discovered he was that rare breed of handsome Chilean- see upcoming post for more details) with said beaker of yellow and white speckled juice for K and a medium sized mug of dark brown syrup. Apparently the concepts of both "hot" and "liquid" are highly subjective ones, as my Hot chocolate was lukewarm (which wasn't too criminal) and had the consistency of thick English custard (which I found equally surprising and of-putting). I was confused, and a little disappointed. And the cherry on the cake (or the lukewarm chocolate custard) of this sad predicament? It tasted like straight syrup- so sweet I felt the walls of my throat recoiling as it slowly journeyed down my oesophagus with the viscosity of freshly curdled yoghurt. All in all, I was not impressed.

Just then, who (or what, I should say) should appear to my aid? A german shepherd. Not a small, stuffed, chilean-jumper wearing German Shepherd, (because in all honesty if one of those had just appeared out of thin air I think I would have started somewhat more than I did). A real, full grown German Shepherd. And, instinctively, I made the 'click click' sound that any animal lover makes upon seeing an animal in their vicinity in need of some sincere petting. Needless to say the GS heard me, and mistook the three pats I proceeded to inflict on his head for an invitation to join our merry party. He leapt onto the table, licked the side of my face, and then proceeded to help himself to my chocolate, umm, beverage. A few moments of shock and awe ensued, after which our handsome, non-argentine waiter came to remove the mutt from the table. And that was that.

It may go without saying, but I will say it anyway- I did not order another.


*Hot, and chocolatey please?
** Would you like that in liquid form?

Are you being served?

0930 In the shower. Squeeze out the last breathe of life from my two-in-one shampoo and conditioner. Determine to venture forth and buy some more as soon as I am dressed.

0940 Scrutinize blotchy red face in the mirror. Curse the dryness of the water. Curse nearby bar of soap. Curse my lack of foresight for not bringing any form of facewash with me. Add facewash to my (growing) mental list of cosmetic necessities.

1000 Ipod and wallet in hand (well, in bag), venture down the main shopping street about 4 blocks from the apartment. Wander indecisively into 2 or 3 pharmacies and wander out again when I realise they don't have any items on the shelves to browse, just people behind counters to consult (about medicines, presumably).

1015 Enter 3 or 4 more customer-friendly pharmacies and proceed to the Skincare section. Think to self that this area of Santiago is by no means lacking in Pharmacies.

1016 I am in need of facewash, facial moisturizer and body cream, the last of which appears to be in amply available. The first two not so much. Leave the 4th pharmacy after searching high and low for some form of facial cleanser to no avail. Mental note to self: pay closer attention to the female Chilean complexion to see how this lack of facewash-readiness is paying off.

1040 Encounter large and amply stocked "Farmácia Ahumada" and proceed to the skincare aisle. Do a happy dance and let out what I think is a small squeal but measuring by the altitude of nearby cleaning-lady's jump is probably more of  piercing shriek. Mental note to self: Personal volume seems to increase when listening to music on Ipod. Eye nearby shopper with an intention to rugby tackle should they attempt to reach for the (last and only) tube of St Ives Apricot Facial Scrub with Minerals and Exfoliants sitting on the shelf.

1043 Pick up shampoo, cream and all the rest. Spot Nivea cream with built-in sun block. Add it to bundle and proceed to the counter.

1045 Note that there seems to be no queue. Stand a meter away from the long counter (manned by around 4 people in smart white coats). Wait.

1046 The man to my right finishes serving a lady and flashes me a smile. I step toward him when out of nowhere another middle aged lady with a bar of soap overtakes me and is attended to by this very same man. Stare in confusion. Think "How Rude!"

1048 Stare in even more confusion as the same thing happens again.

1050 And again. (each time with a different person, just to clarify)

1059 Note that these customers seem to be appearing in order, with steady frequency. Note that as soon as an attendant is free, a customer is served. Think "Conspiracy!". Think "Madness!". Think "Discrimination!" on racial, gender or being-foreign grounds.

1107 Approach an attendant who has been without customer for about 30 seconds. Express confusion when am met with a cold "83?". Quickly analyse possible interpretations of this question: number of items? Decidedly not. Date of birth? None of their business. Final price? Far too low. Shake head. Step back in shame.

1110 Watch as same attendant shouts out the same interrogative "83?" and is answered by a gentleman holding a small scrap of paper with the number 83 on it. Visually retrace gentleman's steps. Notice tiny sign on the back wall of the shop. Approach it.

1112 Read "Take ticket in order to be served". Sheepishly take ticket number 86 from the odd black box below. Head back to the counter. Wait to be served.

1113 Repent in my head for having cursed this country and its pharmaceutical ways. Repent for having mentally accused the attendants of discrimination on every level. Repent for having been ready to rugby tackle a innocent passer-by who probably hadn't even the smallest design on my St Ives Apricot Facial Scrub with Minerals and Exfoliants.

1115 Number 86 is called. I am attended, I pay. I leave. With my tail between my legs.

Who is this "Po" of whom you speak?

 The first Chilean I ever met, (to my knowledge at least), let's call her P, convinced me with each conversation following our introduction that she had mistaken me for someone else. As far as I was aware, she could recognise my face, my conversation and even my Facebook profile. What she seemed to struggle with was my name.

Now "Lizzie" is not too complicated to remember. Granted in a spanish-speaking mouth it either transforms into the god-awful "Lithie" or the quite smooth-sounding "Lissie". I also answer to "Liz" and, occasionally, "Elizabeth". I'm not fussed. I answer to a "you" or grunt or even an impassioned gesture in my general direction. P, however, seemed to think my name was "Po". An odd predicament.

Imagine my surprise (and concern) upon my arrival in Chile to find that almost everybody I met suffered from the same confusion as P. "Po" seemed to me a ubiquitous character, looming over every conversation; addressed at the end of every affirmative (yes) or negative (no). Should I leave my number? "Sí po." Do you sell facewash? "No po." Shall we watch a movie? "Claro* po!"

After grasping that this "po" was used more as a filler than a form of addressing me, I was struck by two fascinating facets of this omnipresent word:

1. It's only used in Chile. (And it's used like it's going out of fashion.)

2. No one seems to know where it comes from.

Both these points are interesting on different levels. The first because it is very rare to encounter a linguistic element in isolation in Latin America, given that the majority of the countries speak the same language. You can hear the use of "Chevre" (cool) in both Colombia and Venezuela. "Vos" is used instead of "Tú" (you) in Argentina, El Salvador and pockets of other countries. But in the art of "Po", Chile seems to stand alone.

The second point is interesting because, in all fairness I haven't dedicated that many-an-hour to the study of the origins of "po", and yet it seems that the general public (or at least the general public within my vicinity) are no better informed that I. The most interesting theory I've heard, which is highly plausible, is that it is a Chinese expression that has serruptitiously infiltrated the language. From where? I hear you ask, as did I. Well, in short, a couple of hundred years ago there was this little scuffle (or rather large scuffle) between Peru, Bolivia and Chile, known as the War of the Pacific. It is generally acknowledged that Chile emerged the winner of the war, and this is (according to legend and some sources) largely due to the fact that mistreated Chinese labourers from Peru defected and migrated to Chile, joining the Chilean army and thus strengthening their numbers. There is some argument that points towards the strength of the indigenous people of Chile warming to the Chinese for their similarity in appearance, but this is hard to prove on many levels.

I will probably never find where this "po" comes from, when or how he began, or perhaps even why he continues to hang on the end of every Chilean sentence. In short, no sé po...

*Claro= Of course

There´s a dog on the table

There´s a coffee table in the middle of our living room. It sits in front of the TV, the only obstacle between myself (curled up on the comfy red sofa) and the giant plasma frame. Glass-topped, sort of 80´s design with brassy-gold edges. There´s a dog sitting on the top of this coffee table. A small, stuffed version of a german shepherd happily ensconced in the middle of the brassy-gold edged, 80´s style glass topped table. And it´s wearing a sweater. The small, stuffed german shepherd is wearing a red sweatshirt with the chilean flag down the front.

Has it been there since I arrived? Is it a new addition to the (colourful) collection of curios and knickknacks that ubiquitously adorn the apartment. I´m not sure. Today I noticed it. I noticed it in great detail. It puzzled me in great detail. Life is full of the absurd, that´s a given... but when is it that we cease to notice it?? Have I reached the point in my short 22 years on this earth where a small, stuffed, patriotic and red-jersey wearing german shepherd sitting on top of a coffee table in the middle of a living room ceases to attract my attention or arouse my curiosity? Maybe...

What a scary thought!