Time Travel

One of the particular skills I've cultivated since arriving here. 


Lining every main street, on every other block corner there is a billboard sporting some form of adverstisment or other, (this being of little consequence to my point, I will now turn to) what matters is that at the top of each of these billboards is a digital clock that switches between displaying the date, the time and and temperature.


The walk from my apartment to work is a right angle. Four blocks up, then eleven blocks to the left and bam! there you are at my workplace... hopefully not so violently as I've just described but I'm sure, discerning reader, that you get the idea. 


I cross around 5 or so of these billboard clocks on my way to work. The sequence is the same pretty much every day (I opt to vary my walk home as I'm usually not pressed for time). The extraordinary thing about these billboard clocks, (or perhaps it is in fact a freak-skill I was born with that is only choosing to manifest itself in my old age) is that they seem to run backwards.


By 0735, I'm leaving the house. By 0742ish I have reached my first clock, which, as is to be expected, reads 07:42 (or some such perverse hour of the morning to be scuttling about Santiago's streets). Good to go.


Two blocks later, I am met with an alarming 07:52, leaving me with 8 minutes to get to work and be in my classroom ready to inject my faithful students with their weekly dose of the 'present continuous' and 'phrasal verbs'. Heaven forbid they should miss out on even a minute of such delights! Scuttle faster...


Two more blocks, and my spidey-skills kick in. The looming billboard across the road from me reads a comforting (and probably more accurate) 07:50. I sigh the sigh of someone who could have made it in a rush but is relieved that they no longer have to, and slow my scuttling to a reasonable pace.


However my superpowers have not yet had their morning flexing, and only when I come across the last billboard do I find that lo and behold, I've done it again! I''m about to arrive at work 20 minutes early, as the clock reads 07:35- the exact time that I left home.


Impressive, huh? 


My boss doesn't think so...

Distance

(This post was written on April 12th 2011 after recieving some worrying news from home that has since been confirmed but dealt with and thankfully things are thus far going well)

Distance is a beautiful thing. It is air and breath and freshness. It is change and growth and opportunity. It makes the situation more complicated but gives each of us a chance to become resourceful.

I don't have a country I call home. That's probably why I've never understood patriotism. I don't see how you can think your country is great simply because you were born there. Seems a little narcissistic to me.

So perhaps I have always felt at a distance. Home is where the heart is, and so far in my life my heart has gone wherever I have. I spent years on a small island wishing I was on another, and when I finally left I was disappointed that the second island was not as I remembered. For the next three years my heart learned to be portable and travel-friendly.

However one's heart can be in many places at a time. My heart is with my friends, the few I would travel across the world to see; with my greater family, and all those who share my beliefs and aspirations. And my heart is with my family, mostly still on the small island, very, very far from me.

For this reason when there is rupture and disaster, when there is panic and trouble and misfortune, I find myself cursing the distance for being such a double edged sword. For being so appealing an opportunity and yet such a formidable obstacle between me and the ones I love. Although in recent weeks my proximity would not have altered much, I curse the distance for the little lives I am missing out on. I curse the distance for the little support and warmth I could have offered. I curse the distance for extending beyond the reach of my arms and my voice. I curse the distance because there is nothing else that I can do.

Will you be wanting legs with your coffee?

One of my stranger experiences here in Chile...

Walking along one of downtown Santiago's buzzing streets on one of my first days here I was struck with the desire to write. The feeling, much like the need to satisfy an itch or tell someone talking loudly on a mobile phone to be quiet, would not be suppressed, and so being several blocks between both work and home I determined to locate a convenient cafe where I could enjoy a nice cuppa whilst relieving said itch. As convenience would have it, I spotted (or rather couldn't spot anything other than) a giant, neon teacup with the word 'Coffee' (equally giant and neon) flashing underneath it. Hmm, I thought to myself, I must be on the right track...

(Now bear in mind this was some time between 0900 and 1030 in the morning).

I approached the local and attempted to peer into (what I soon worked out were) the large, floor length, tinted windows. I saw nothing. I pushed at the antique wooden door. Nothing. I knocked. Still nothing. I stepped back onto the pavement to contemplate the situation.

Moments later I was still attempting to soothe my confusion when the old, wooden door creaked open and what I can only describe as a character from a Roald Dahl adult novel stepped out, scrappy, tweedy jacket and all. As I was flagrantly the only person on the street at the time, he flashed me what I'm sure he intended as charming but came off as a rather toothless smile. "Consulta... aviso...?"* he mumbled, or something of the like. Now, this was still in my early days here in Santiago, before I had honed the fine art of deciphering the Chilean accent. After a few moments of blank staring on my part, and lecherous leering from his, I decided against this cafe, and pressed onwards towards the high street.

As time went on and I fell into a more comfortable routine I began to take time in observing my surroundings on my walks around Santiago. There seemed to be a lot of giant, neon, flashing 'coffee' signs from the time I start work at 0730 in the morning until just past lunchtime at 1600 in the afternoon. (Yes, lunch here is late!). I'm a bit of a morning person, it only takes me a few minutes to get properly woken up but I can imagine that the last thing a sleep-deprived, possibly hung-over caffeine addict wants to see on their way to work is a giant, seizure-inducing, fluorescent piece of crockery summoning both man and small insect alike to partake of the caffeinated goodness that awaits all who venture inside. Puzzling to say the least.

Weeks later, I happened to point out one such neon sign to my friend M as we walked home after I finished my afternoon's work. He laughed and promised that he would explain the next day. As it happened, the next day rolled on, and, M going one better, I was dragged into a mall, down a spiral staircase (ominous...) up another spiral staircase (confusing...) and into a lugubriously lit and surprisingly well ventilated local littered with leatherette chairs and mismatched glass coffee tables. A few gentlemen were lounging about here and there, with two or three perched at a sort of bar area, all the while (now here comes the legs part) being served by three or four, not unattractive, 30-something women in lingerie.

Suffice it to say I was speechless. As it turns out, so were they, as I soon learned I was the first woman to ever darken the (already rather dark) doors of their, erm, establishment. I've never been to strip club, or even seen an exotic dancer in the flesh, although I had always imagined that such places would reek of stale cologne and give me a slightly sick, churning feeling in my stomach. However, speaking to the ladies who worked there (and ignoring all the the men who soon disappeared off back to the cubicle-farms from whence they no doubt came) was a surprisingly pleasant experience. They were eager to explain to me how the concept worked (an interesting one it is indeed) and defend their career choice as exploiting the ever-present, ever-prevalant Machismo for their own gain (and gain they do!). They were lovely women, mothers each one of them, and without any apparent guise or gimmick. They don't play down their intelligence or lie about their age or background, nor did they attempt to glamorise their line of work. "¡Todo por la plata!"** one admitted to me, laughing unabashedly.

Cafe con Piernas is a purely Chilean phenomenon. Nowhere else in Latin America, or the world for that matter, does this particular concept exist. Although appealing to the same, err, market crowd as chains such as Hooters or the ubiquitous Cafe Caribes with their youthful baristas and their skin-tight uniforms (see my post on Machismo). Cafes con Piernas are open from 09:00 am to 21:00, so no night crowds. They serve coffee and only coffee, so no drunken stag do's or rowdy, letchy customers. They charge around the same for drinks and eats, so they compete with the general cafe business rather than the adult entertainment sector. And the ladies with afore-mentioned legs get to keep all tips they make, which they suggested to me could amount to several hundred thousand pesos in one lunchtime's work. I didn't ask how...

As you can imagine, dear reader, (or maybe you can't, in which case just keep reading and I will elucidate) although fascinated by the human condition in such a place and the possible reasons behind the ladies' choice to work there, the Cafe with legs wasn't really my scene, or M's for that matter. So after the polite and very interesting chat with the ladies with legs, we bid them farewell and scooted off in search of a cafe where the coffee came completely free of any extra limbs. Just the way I like it!

*Help? Advert?

**It's all about the money!

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.