Family Part I

It has been suggested, more than a few times, that the so-called breakdown of moral behaviour and personal values in the "west" is a direct result of the disappearance of the nuclear family. No, not the family living in the shack at the bottom of the garden wearing aluminium space-suits and cultivating Uranium, the other Nuclear family*. Children and young people no longer view their primary care-givers as role models, and the latter do very little to warrant any such respect anyway. Children fly the nest at an ever-decreasing age, and even when still occupying the nest they spend more time with their friends, real or virtual, than with their own flesh and blood. Ask any Southern English youth today what the 3 most important things in their life are, and the idea of 'family' isn't likely to make an appearance in their answer.

Over recent years, with my own development and maturity, the growth of my own flesh and blood and my time being so far away from them, I have come to appreciate certain truths about the family dynamic. The affection, tenacity and endurance of family is one of God's greatest gifts, or at least has been in my life, and anyone who knows me even slightly will know that I do not say that from behind rose-coloured glasses**.

My time here in Santiago has confirmed and inspired my almost all my thoughts and desires about family. Latin America is still very family orientated. There is no Latin American "Super-Nanny" that I'm aware of. Hispanic Youths are not sent away on shows such as "The world's strictest parents". Even drug cartels and crime rings are structured around blood ties, and loyalty (or so I'm told) is to family above all.

Each member is respected. From the smallest baby to the oldest grandparent when somebody talks everybody else listens. Every action is a source of entertainment. Every event is cause for celebration. This week alone I have attended 2 birthdays, a graduation celebration, an acceptance into University cocktail and a retirement celebratory lunch; and all in the same family. And at these gatherings I find all those present are fully up to speed with all the latest goings on in my life. I am peppered with inquiries about my timetable for work, my latest acquaintances, my most recent outings and my general wellbeing and happiness during my time in Santiago. I have been adopted as a member of the family, and my life now forms part of this chain of conversation, where nothing is too mundane or trivial to be left out. Every happening is worth a conversation.

It is true that you do not choose your family, and yes this explains why indeed family can be so hard at times. But even if we do not choose our family, we can choose to jolly well make the most of whatever we've been given.

*To be honest, the nuclear part isn't that important, I would just rather leave out the word "traditional".

**They are distinctly peachy!

Travellers

There are many different kinds of traveller in the world. There are many different kinds of traveller in Latin America. There are many different kinds of traveller in Chile.


There is the kind that plans meticulously and packs in anticipation of every possible need. They always carry a satchel or backpack brimming with first-aid implements and emergency numbers, and are wary of any food sold in the street or any brand that doesn't look like it has an english-language equivalent. The kind that carries all their money on them at any one time, but hidden in various (intimate) parts of their person. The kind that panics upon discovering in transit that their connection is located on the other side of the airport. The kind that calls home. A lot. 


There is the kind of traveller that dives headfirst into the culture of the new country, making considerable noise as they go. That has a dubious past and has assumed a new identity to accompany their new surroundings. They have often chosen a particular niche of society, the maya in (on?) the Yucatan Peninsula in Mexico, the Mapuches in the South of Chile, and have learned to perfectly imitate the language and behaviour of their host society. They have cut ties with the outside world, and are in the habit of popping up every so often at the sound of an anglo-accent or a word of english, offering advice and directions whilst all the while attempting to draw attention to the fact that they were once, like you, a traveller, but are now a superior species that has completely absorbed and acculturated to their new environment. The kind that is usually seen riding a rusty bike with half a handle. The kind that often sports matted, slightly greying hair no matter their age and an unwashed look, as if to say to the world that they are so atune to their new environment that they are no longer bound by capitalist habits of cleanliness, or apparently the even hygiene of their host culture for that matter.


There is the kind of traveller that likes to like to travel. They like to make conversation and tally up the places they have visited, notching their belt for every museum, ruin, gallery, monument and national reserve that they lay foot on. They invest in package tours, and end up experiencing places in ways unknown even to it's residents. They take crash courses in the language, spend on souvenirs, pose for picture after picture in front of tourist attractions and are rarely seen without an (oh-so-fashionable and oh-so-handy) bum-bag/fanny pack. They do not scour for discounts or barter with local merchants (not successfully at least). They travel in packs and can be seen following an umbrella or flower across town squares or the nearest, picturesque field. 


There is the kind that bought into the idea of travel in relation to their situation at the time. Perhaps they chose their destination for it's similarity to their current surroundings, or the fact that the official language was the same as their mother tongue. Upon arrival they scout out the nearest pubs/bars/restaunrants that serve the food they're accustomed to. They make friends with other anglophones, and manage to live for months, even years in their host country without learning more than a few words of the local language. When they travel home they bring back supplies in bulk to sustain them until they can make their next trip back to (as one such traveller recently referred to it) "Civilisation". They congregate with other, like-minded travellers for conversations based around the general theme of 'this country' and its shortcomings.   And when they leave, they take with them friendships that could have been found elsewhere, and the memory of the views of the towering mountaintops or rolling seas, from over their morning, starbucks cup of coffee.


I have met all these kinds, and more in my life. Especially since being here. I have found myself, at different times and in different circumstances to be one or a mix of every kind of traveller I describe here. But there is a kind of traveller I want to be. The kind that considers their new environment their new home, not a temporary fix or a experience that brings them to count down the days 'til they leave. The kind that appreciates help and advice from fellow foreigners on how to settle in and struggle through the red-tape of moving country, but quickly sets about trying to get to know the residents of their new host country. The kind that understands the appeal of the natural and manmade attractions that the country has to offer, but is more interested in getting to know the country's greatest resource and export- it's people. The kind that can find humour and amusement in the quirks and differences between what they're used to and what they're faced with, without allowing their humour to turn to condescension or frustration. The kind that is keen to see the lay of the land through the eyes of those who live in it. The kind that refuses to speak their mother tongue unless it's absolutely necessary. The kind that is willing to entertain different ideas and attitudes, even when they surpass threatening to the point of being offensive, but is able to appreciate the difference in the root attitude that is being expressed. The kind that leaves having impacted and been impacted by the cultural differences and similarities between the host country and their country of origin. The kind that leaves taking with them a few or many precious relationships and unforgettable experiences. The kind that by the end of their sojourn can truly say that they have 'lived' in every sense of the word, in the country in question.


I'll let you know how it works out in 8 months time...

6 things

Some things you're unlikely to find in your Lonely Planet guide or any Internet search.

1. You need a ticket to be served (see my post on being served). In any business in which you need to be attended to, there is sure to be a little box-machine thing dispensing tickets with numbers to minimize queuing and ensure everyone is attended with steady regularity. I would have loved to have been aware of this before coming. Would have saved me a lot of time!

2. There are fans in the metro that spray water at regular intervals. My first few experiences standing on the platform awaiting my train when suddenly sprinkled with cold water left me scowling around at the other people on the platform, mentally accusing each one of opening a well-shaken bottle of fizzy water, or shaking out their freshly washed and still damp hair. I was relieved, to say the least when I worked out where the water was coming from, and am now grateful for this revolutionary (no pun intended) invention, especially during the hot, sticky rush hour.

3. (Speaking of being ambushed by water) The buildings leak. Avoid taking the sharp end of a sharp corner around a building. You will get splattered. It feels just like have a bird drop one mid-flight, and the feeling when realising that you are in fact bird-poo free is a mixed one... "Where did this water come from? at least it doesn't stain!". They call it 'el sudor' (the sweat) which, as one can imagine, does nothing to make you feel any better about falling victim to it. I'm told it's actually faulty air-conditioning units.

4. If there is a protest, everything will close. And of protests- there are many. Stock up on essentials.


5. Tea is drunk without milk. Should you want 'tea' in the British/African sense of the word, you need to stipulate 'té con leche' (tea with milk). And this is readily available in a whole host of disguises- milk with a teabag; hot milk with a teabag; hot water, teabag and glass of milk; hot water, teabag, jug of milk; amongst others.

6. Everyone, and I mean everyone, is a night owl. Well past 22:00 babies still roam the streets and invitations to 'go out' are usually only valid from 23:30 onwards. This isn't just hip, young, Chilean twenty-somethings sporting all white bopping from side to side in electronica night clubs, this is also family gatherings, dinner in restaurants, movies, visiting friends etc. From birth chileans are groomed to stay up late and still get up and do a decent day's living the next day, or so I'm told. Interesting, as this contradicts the 8-hour theory, suggesting that the amount of sleep we need is actually very relative and dependent on our environment and what we're used to. I'd like to say that my body-clock is adjusting, slowly but surely, but unfortunately, that would be a lie. Thank God for coffee!

A Nation to be admired

In 2010 Chile garnered the attention and gained the respect of the world. It suffered a devastating earthquake and the massively covered mining accident that left 30 miners trapped underground, as well as a return to a right-wing government. Being here one can but admire the 'keep calm and carry on' attitude that Chileans have towards the lives they lead and the environment in which they lead them.

Chile is a distinct country in so many ways. Different from the rest of the world, but also very different from the other countries of Latin America. Talking it over with a work colleague called N he pointed out to me how naturally inaccessible Chile is- to one side the endless pacific, to the other the almost insurmountable Andes, to the south punishing Antarctica and to the north, Atacama, the driest desert on earth. Have these circumstances caused Chile to develop the independence and self-sufficiency that is in many ways makes it so distinct to its Latin neighbours?

Geography aside Chile has also suffered one of the bloodiest dictatorships of Latin America, and consequently one of the most famous in the history of the world. The almost 20 years under (the US backed) General Pinochet ushered in neoliberal reform and saw the mass oppression, repression and at times, violation and murder, of the people and their most basic human rights. Moreover, Pinochet and many of his henchmen were never brought to trial, let alone justice, and were allowed to die peacefully, not even in exile. On the "compassionate" grounds of the UK courts. Nice one, Britain.

Yet to speak to those who lived through the brunt of those 20 years, you would think they were telling you about a story they had read in the paper long ago, or something that had happened to a friend of a friend of a friend. They are not reticent, nor blazé, but rather exhibit such a clarity of mind, such a singular understanding and such a strength to carry on despite having been subjected to years of oppression and terror beyond what most of us could conceive as surmountable.

They display the same stoic resistance towards the very earth that seems to punish them. There is something terrible and fearful about an earthquake. Beyond all that it damages, destroys and engenders. Hurricanes and Cyclones are terrible, but they are dangers that come from outside, from the exterior, and strike the very same chord of fear in us humans that keeps us going to movies about Alien Invasions and other exterior threats. Droughts as well, are caused by the absence of an exterior agent, and can be outrun and, if lucky, outpaced.

But there is something truly formidable about the very earth upon which you stand; upon which you have built your houses and planted your crops; throwing up great heat and motion and rejecting you from it's very surface. It cannot be outrun. It cannot be outpaced. Until we learn to fly there is truly no escape. We remain subject to the earth's caprices. And caprices it has many.

And yet Chile remains- damaged in places but unbroken, conscious of the danger but unfazed. Many criticize the previous government for not rejecting many of the policies put in place by the dictatorship, just as many criticize the current government for delays in reconstructions in the wake of the 2010 earthquake. But Chile truly remains a nation to be admired. 

When the Earth moves

The other evening a friend was telling me about the first time she kissed her fiancé (boyfriend at the time). He's European, and had been living in Chile for only a few months before they started dating. As they stood outside the cinema and passionately locked lips she said she had butterflies in her tummy and the earth began to tremble. Literally.*

"did you feel that?" she asked,

"feel what?"

"That." It happened again. "The earth is moving"

"Yea, baby, the earth is moving..." he replied, moving his face closer to hers once again

"No, seriously," She insisted, pulling back, "The earth is moving."

"What?"

"We're experiencing and tremor."

"Oh..."

Ok so maybe she didn't describe it to me in that much detail but that's I reckon that's the way it should have happened, at least to make it an anecdote worth retelling.

I looked forward to experiencing my first tremor, but during my first months here I began to worry that I was immune to them. My lack of experience in the movement of the earth's plates had somehow dulled my spidey-sense to detect tremors. I blame my parents for raising me in countries devoid of any natural hazards. In Mauritius the risk of cyclones is still very much an exterior one. In the UK you aren't really at the mercy of mother nature, (more at the mercy of the coalition government). And in the DRC, the dangers are definitely potent, but mostly manmade.

In the middle of one of my classes the students looked up at one another from completing an exercise in silence and announced "¡Está temblando!". I felt nothing. They advised me to sit down on a chair to better feel it. I felt nothing. One of my students told me to crouch down with my palms flat on the floor to feel the vibrations. I felt nothing. I leaned up against a supporting wall. I felt nothing. Disappointing.

The first tremor I actually experienced was in my sleep. Well, I say "experienced"...

I was napping (a habit I have cultivated since arriving to the point of making it a talent) and had fallen into that light, half-sleep stage where your subconscious somehow translates whatever is going on around you into your dream. I began dreaming that there was an old man trapped under my bed trying to get out. (I think I should take a moment here to thank my older sister for the one horror story she told me when I was 13 that to this day evidently haunts my dreams. Love you C.) He was writhing about under my bed shaking it violently. I woke up to find my whole room shaking but, believing I was still dreaming and it not being an unpleasant sensation, I turned over and fell back to sleep.

I woke up half an hour later and stepped out of my room to find Daisy and her husband waiting for me right outside my door, which was odd to say the least. Apparently they had been hesitating whether or not to knock on my door and see if I was OK and hadn't been too frightened by the tremor (bless 'em!). They found it very amusing that I had, at that point, no recollection of feeling it whatsoever. It was only hours later when thinking my dreams over that I realised that in fact my bed had been shaking, thankfully not because of a writhing, old man but rather because the 14 floors below me were jiggling about from the tremor.

There have been 3 tremors in the past 24 hours. For all 3 of them I was in the apartment, on the 15th floor. It's quite a pleasant sensation if I'm honest, kind of like the beginning of a ride in Disney land or the first few moments of take-off in an aeroplane. For the most part these tremors are small, and happen all the times to the extent that some people tell me they hardly notice them anymore, although the one this morning did knock a few things off my nightstand, but that may be more the fault of how precariously they were perched on the mountain of books, papers, chocolate boxes and hair-bands that ever adorn my little bedside table.

I've been told that lots of little tremors are a good sign, it means that the plates are moving about in a quiet but regular way. I'm no geologist, or geographer, or seismologist (just in case anyone had come to the conclusion that I was), and have yet to look it up for myself.

*About the earth trembling. She didn't literally have butterflies in her tummy as far as I'm aware.

Does that come in a bag?

One crisp and sunshiney tuesday morning I was asked by a teacher to contribute part of the day's lesson, as I had observed one of her lessions the previous day. The previous day's content had been quite heavily grammar based, so I was grateful that I wasn't the going to be the one to inflict the stodgy rules of the present perfect continuous onto the poor, unsuspecting 8 o'clock class.


The content I had been given was fairly simple to the point that I was struggling to find an interesting way of presenting it. The topic was "in the kitchen" (be still my beating heart) and my job was to teach the various types of containers that one would find in the 'average' kitchen cupboard. If there's one thing that this particular lesson taught me, it's that the idea of an 'average kitchen cupboard' is a highly relative one.


Since I hadn't had the forsight to bring with me the various containers to make the lesson a nice, kinaesthetic experience, I resolved to simply sketch said containers on the board, and allow the students to draw on their own common sense. Again, a sense of what is common: highly relative. And so I drew: a can, a tin, a bottle, a box, a jar, a packet and a bag.


The book we were using was British based and gave some strict(ish) guidelines as to how to explain and justify what sort of food was kept in each e.g. liquid in a can and solid food in a tin (something I had never really noticed but interesting when you think about it. Well... relatively at least). After sketching (a dubious semblance of) said containers onto the whiteboard, I handed the board markers out to the students and asked them to come up to the board and list all the things that could be stored in them next to the appropriate drawing. 


I wasn't really sure how to react when all of the students unanimously decided that every possible type of food and drink was sold in a bag. With the exception of wine and beer, my little sketch of a bag of walkers crisps found itself surrounded by the names of every food and drink you could imagine. Milk, jam, dog food, oil, orange juice, cream, mayonnaise, fruit, honey, you name it, my students thought it came in a bag. At first I thought they may have misinterpreted my drawing, but upon eliciting more information from them they too seemed confused as to the purpose of this excercise. "But you can buy it all in a bag?" one student said, with polite but poignant undertones of "what is the point of this, you foreign teacher who obviously doesn't go out shopping very much?". I was confused.


I put it down to 50% misunderstanding 50% possible cultural packaging differences, and on my way home I stopped at a little supermarket to investigate the omnipotence of the bag as a Chilean packaging solution. To me, honey is a fiendish substance to manage even with the most sophisticated of pots and spoons, so you can well understand my surprise at finding, yes indeedy, bag upon bag of honey, milk, jam, cream, oil, orange juice and, wait for it, even wine.. It would seem that my students were right, the mandates of the book I had been using did not hold water here. (I was later told that the last item was the worst and cheapest form of alcohol available. If you think drinking wine from a box is tasteless, imagine wine from a bag)


The lesson to be drawn from this is that although there must be structure and content in our teaching and our perception of the world, (see my description Re: the fiendishness of honey), everything is always and ultimately extremely relative, varying from person to person and from place to place; and in Chile, apparently sold in a bag.

We are all Students

My first few days working here at the language school I didn't have all that much to do. The academic year here begins in March and runs until November, so January and February are the longer (summer) holidays. During these months (or so I'm told) Santiago is empty, as all the families make the most of having time off work and school to retreat to the mountains, the coast or the south to get some rest. The school I'm working at offers intensive courses over the summer, but by the time I had arrived they had all been allocated teachers. So, in order to justify paying me for two months, I was despatched to various classrooms to observe other teachers at work and, when I felt ready, was expected to co-teach a section of the lesson that followed.


Although intially I resented the feeling of being fobbed off onto "observations" by my coordinators who didn't seem to have anything more productive to give me, the experience soon proved to be an infinitely enriching and enjoyable one. I was priveledged to watch every shape, size and design of English teacher I could ever imagine. There was the quiet, soft-spoken R with his North American lilt and his expertise in phonetics and sound formation; and the loud and boisterous I who cracked joke after joke and and kept his class in hysterics; then there was the bubbly V who spoke with soothing condescension to her students, like a mother pigeon cooing to her chicks, eager to laugh at their jokes or reassure them of their progress. I watched teacher after teacher and slowly began to piece together a semblance of the sort of educator I want to be. Teaching, in this sense, seems to me to be like any form of modern art- part original creativity, thoughts and ideas; part reinvention, reconstruction and inspired by other's performances.


Another facet of what I observed that made a great impact on me was the humility that these teachers possessed. Not all of them, to be sure, as I have outlined before TEFL attracts people from all walks of life and seems to provoke misplaced-ego-syndrome in the most unlikely of victims, and to this my current environment is no exception. But for the most part, I have so much to learn from the attitudes of the teachers here. There are about 70 odd teachers employed at this particular branch of the school, 6 of whom are native-speakers, the rest of whom are chilean. Most, if not all of the chilean teachers have a 5 year bachelors and masters degree in teaching, as well as years of experience teaching English. They are well-versed in grammar and linguistics, and have transformed themselves into that rare and desired breed of bilingual chilean, admired by the rest of society. And yet, when I walk into their classroom, barely 3 years experience and not even a degree under my belt, they are just as keen and eager to learn from whatever small contribution I could attempt to make as their students. They are quick to correct themselves and take notes and ask questions just as much if not more than the actual paying students. After the observations they rush to ask me what I thought and if I had any feedback on how they could improve. I am there to learn from their experience, and yet they want to hear from me. 


I see in this attitude something that I never want to lose. In order to be a good teacher, one must remain a good student- ever learning but moreover ever ready to learn. One cannot learn if one sees oneself as superior to the person who is imparting information or expertise. One cannot learn if one dismisses some people on grounds of age, experience or talent and accept only to learn from certain others. I truly admire this about the teachers I have met here. I don't know if this can be generalised to all chilean TEFL teachers, or chilean teachers, but the ones I have met so far, in the situations I have been in up to this point have inspired my admiration and sparked in me a genuine desire to remain ever as humble a student I can, in order to become as good a teacher as I ever could be.