Sunday, July 18, 2010
About those updates...
Does anybody pop by here ever anymore? I expect not. I don't think I'm in RSS feeds, so no niggling reminders are going out, either. Even so, I thought it might be a good thing to back-update this journal from a comfortable place--my bedroom, USA--so that there's a record of highlights from my year-long jaunt in the southern hemisphere. I'm not going to back-date them anymore, but I'll post the date of original writing in each entry. Hold on to your seats, imaginary readers. There are some gems in this gal's travel journals.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
just some business
So that you know:
I've been journaling on paper during my traveling, and am trying to type some things up and slowly get the online journal up to date. Blogs will be coming up in bits and pieces, with photos coming along at some other point.
In the meantime, if you want some photos, there are some at our flickr accounts, which are:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/cabraschicas/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/andacata/
I've been journaling on paper during my traveling, and am trying to type some things up and slowly get the online journal up to date. Blogs will be coming up in bits and pieces, with photos coming along at some other point.
In the meantime, if you want some photos, there are some at our flickr accounts, which are:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/cabraschicas/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/andacata/
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
27 October, 2009—Arequipa, Peru
We made it, with some luck, across the border and up six more hours by bus to Arequipa, Peru's second largest city, the “white” or “shining” city. Awesome.
It was not an eventless day. Boiled down, it went something like this:
At 8:35, we go downstairs for some breakfast at the hostal. There is bread (mm, Chile) and coffee (or nescafe? There was enough milk in it that I couldn't be sure) and lots of people sitting around trading travel tips and stories. One girl really bothers me: she came to Sough America on a whim, and instead of being open to anything she is seeing, is totally judgmental from the getgo. Of everything. The language (which she doesn't speak), the food, the people (if you can't speak the language, how can you form an opinion of the quality of individuals?), the sights, the cleanliness... I think to myself, if you're only here to judge, why bother?
Our ride (a colectivo—shared taxi—to Tacna, the town on the other side of the border) is supposed to leave at 11:00, so we get to the bus terminal at 10:30. We change our pesos for soles (Peruvian currency), and head out to the taxi, where Christian rock is blaring while the driver takes our documents to photocopy them for the crossing.
While we're waiting for what seems like forever for the driver to get back, the Carabineros (police) drive a couple of cop cars into the parking lot; people start milling around. Traffic builds up all over the parking lot, we're confused.
The taxi driver comes back, leaves to check up on the situation. She is short and wiry, brunette, capable of doing ten things at once. She laughs a throaty laugh and has a mole in the dent above her lip, left side. She walks quickly away, and then hurries back.
“There's a strike,” she says, “they're saying it's the truck drivers.” The border is blocked.
Information warps: new word gets out that maybe it's the truck drivers in league with the teachers. I start to get nervous—my tourist visa expires today. If I don't leave, even if it's only for fifteen minutes, I'm facing a heavy fine (“you've been infected with the Chilean bug,” says the driver, “waiting to the last minute like that.”) The driver crosses her fingers against the teachers (profesores are public employees; if they strike, the aduana workers will strike with them in solidarity, and we won't be able to cross until it's resolved) and we decide to try our luck, just in case the protest gets broken up (and also because the taxi driver has to do some shopping in Tacna—her 21 year old son totalled a parked car).
When we get close to the border, around 12:45, there's a ton of traffic, all stopped. Drivers are milling around, and protestors up ahead are waving banners and shouting. The taxi driver, Sarah, goes to see what's happening, and comes back with good news. “It's the plomeros (lead workers),” she says, “the pacos should be here with the guanaco any second.”
Sure enough, the police bring an armored vehicle, and within ten minutes, traffic is moving. Sarah warms up the engine (“these old cars are like us ladies—you have to get them hot first!”) and we head to the border, where we cross without incident. I breathe a sigh of relief.
Once in Tacna, Sarah takes Catalina and I to buy our bus tickets to Arequipa, and then takes us to a little restaurant where, for two dollars, we eat some of the most delicious cazuela (soup with potato, meat, corn, and pumpkin) and arroz con pollo (chicken with rice) of my life. While we eat, she gives us a series of tips to avoid trouble, from “don't book the whole trip from beginning to end with one company, scout around for deals,” to, “keep your camera around your neck,” and, “only change money indoors and MAKE SURE nobody follows you when you leave.”
She is an amazing woman—she's quick and funny, capable and bawdy, single with a twenty-one year old son and a four year old daughter and more good humor than should be allotted to one person. She leaves us in the restaurant with her share of the check and tip, and goes back to work with another firm set of directions from the restaurant to the bus terminal, and a warning not to dally or wander.
We finish lunch and head to the terminal, but first make a stop so Catalina can change money. Unfortunately, like a couple of freshmen, we have forgotten how to get back to the money changers (who are located right by the ticket vendors). A pusher asks if we want to buy weed, I laugh and say no. We ask a security guard where to go to get money changed; he points us to a different set of changers, and rattles of a more extensive list of tourist advice while Catalina changes her money. His list seems to border on paranoid, but is also fatherly, well meant and well taken: don't take things from strangers, make sure nobody is following you, NEVER show all your money to a vendor, don't change money outdoors. He is extremely nice, overly concerned for our safety, and points us in the direction of our terminal once again. And off we go.
At 12:30 PM Peruvian time (conveniently two hours behind Chilean time), we board another bus for our ride to Arequipa. The trip isn't noteworthy, except for some gorgeous views, and some ridiculous passengers praying passionately the whole ride or narrating the particularly bad movie (“August Rush”) to their husbands.
We have Lonely Planet's guide to South America on a shoestring; we've been following it pretty closely in terms of safety precautions and telephone numbers. It had a long, serious warning about taxis in Arequipa: you're supposed to always call for a taxi, never hail one off the street. If you're going to take one off the street, you're supposed to be certain it has a registration sticker in the window and a telephone number (the radio taxi company's number) on the hood.
The book is apparently a little out of date; it said nothing about the security guards and police officers who have been installed at the station to stop foreigners from getting mugged. We arrived at the terminal shortly after sunset, and were immediately approached by two (apparent) police officers, who told us they would get us safely to our hostel. Nervous (there are fake police scams in Bolivia, and we really don't want to find ourselves in one of those), we follow them to a pay phone and call a hostel; we take down the address while the police fend off taxi drivers (who respect their authority, lending credence to their uniforms), and then follow the police to a taxi. They write down our names and snap the driver's photo; he shows his credential, and we see the sticker on his front window. Nervous anyway, we get in. The hotel he takes us to (the hotel Arequipa Center) was recommended by some travelers at breakfast, and pays him commission for bringing passengers. It's not the hostel we really wanted to stay in, but it's clean, not expensive, close to downtown, and safe. And here we are.
A funny thing or two: the notes the hotel has left for customers ask us to kindly not use the bedspread or curtains as a towel, and to walk to the front desk to request things rather than telling from the rooms. I am dying to meet the person who did either one of these things. Really, excellent.
I am exhausted. Will e-mail home (with the free internet!! downstairs) and then sleep. Ugh. Travel days hurt.
It was not an eventless day. Boiled down, it went something like this:
At 8:35, we go downstairs for some breakfast at the hostal. There is bread (mm, Chile) and coffee (or nescafe? There was enough milk in it that I couldn't be sure) and lots of people sitting around trading travel tips and stories. One girl really bothers me: she came to Sough America on a whim, and instead of being open to anything she is seeing, is totally judgmental from the getgo. Of everything. The language (which she doesn't speak), the food, the people (if you can't speak the language, how can you form an opinion of the quality of individuals?), the sights, the cleanliness... I think to myself, if you're only here to judge, why bother?
Our ride (a colectivo—shared taxi—to Tacna, the town on the other side of the border) is supposed to leave at 11:00, so we get to the bus terminal at 10:30. We change our pesos for soles (Peruvian currency), and head out to the taxi, where Christian rock is blaring while the driver takes our documents to photocopy them for the crossing.
While we're waiting for what seems like forever for the driver to get back, the Carabineros (police) drive a couple of cop cars into the parking lot; people start milling around. Traffic builds up all over the parking lot, we're confused.
The taxi driver comes back, leaves to check up on the situation. She is short and wiry, brunette, capable of doing ten things at once. She laughs a throaty laugh and has a mole in the dent above her lip, left side. She walks quickly away, and then hurries back.
“There's a strike,” she says, “they're saying it's the truck drivers.” The border is blocked.
Information warps: new word gets out that maybe it's the truck drivers in league with the teachers. I start to get nervous—my tourist visa expires today. If I don't leave, even if it's only for fifteen minutes, I'm facing a heavy fine (“you've been infected with the Chilean bug,” says the driver, “waiting to the last minute like that.”) The driver crosses her fingers against the teachers (profesores are public employees; if they strike, the aduana workers will strike with them in solidarity, and we won't be able to cross until it's resolved) and we decide to try our luck, just in case the protest gets broken up (and also because the taxi driver has to do some shopping in Tacna—her 21 year old son totalled a parked car).
When we get close to the border, around 12:45, there's a ton of traffic, all stopped. Drivers are milling around, and protestors up ahead are waving banners and shouting. The taxi driver, Sarah, goes to see what's happening, and comes back with good news. “It's the plomeros (lead workers),” she says, “the pacos should be here with the guanaco any second.”
Sure enough, the police bring an armored vehicle, and within ten minutes, traffic is moving. Sarah warms up the engine (“these old cars are like us ladies—you have to get them hot first!”) and we head to the border, where we cross without incident. I breathe a sigh of relief.
Once in Tacna, Sarah takes Catalina and I to buy our bus tickets to Arequipa, and then takes us to a little restaurant where, for two dollars, we eat some of the most delicious cazuela (soup with potato, meat, corn, and pumpkin) and arroz con pollo (chicken with rice) of my life. While we eat, she gives us a series of tips to avoid trouble, from “don't book the whole trip from beginning to end with one company, scout around for deals,” to, “keep your camera around your neck,” and, “only change money indoors and MAKE SURE nobody follows you when you leave.”
She is an amazing woman—she's quick and funny, capable and bawdy, single with a twenty-one year old son and a four year old daughter and more good humor than should be allotted to one person. She leaves us in the restaurant with her share of the check and tip, and goes back to work with another firm set of directions from the restaurant to the bus terminal, and a warning not to dally or wander.
We finish lunch and head to the terminal, but first make a stop so Catalina can change money. Unfortunately, like a couple of freshmen, we have forgotten how to get back to the money changers (who are located right by the ticket vendors). A pusher asks if we want to buy weed, I laugh and say no. We ask a security guard where to go to get money changed; he points us to a different set of changers, and rattles of a more extensive list of tourist advice while Catalina changes her money. His list seems to border on paranoid, but is also fatherly, well meant and well taken: don't take things from strangers, make sure nobody is following you, NEVER show all your money to a vendor, don't change money outdoors. He is extremely nice, overly concerned for our safety, and points us in the direction of our terminal once again. And off we go.
At 12:30 PM Peruvian time (conveniently two hours behind Chilean time), we board another bus for our ride to Arequipa. The trip isn't noteworthy, except for some gorgeous views, and some ridiculous passengers praying passionately the whole ride or narrating the particularly bad movie (“August Rush”) to their husbands.
We have Lonely Planet's guide to South America on a shoestring; we've been following it pretty closely in terms of safety precautions and telephone numbers. It had a long, serious warning about taxis in Arequipa: you're supposed to always call for a taxi, never hail one off the street. If you're going to take one off the street, you're supposed to be certain it has a registration sticker in the window and a telephone number (the radio taxi company's number) on the hood.
The book is apparently a little out of date; it said nothing about the security guards and police officers who have been installed at the station to stop foreigners from getting mugged. We arrived at the terminal shortly after sunset, and were immediately approached by two (apparent) police officers, who told us they would get us safely to our hostel. Nervous (there are fake police scams in Bolivia, and we really don't want to find ourselves in one of those), we follow them to a pay phone and call a hostel; we take down the address while the police fend off taxi drivers (who respect their authority, lending credence to their uniforms), and then follow the police to a taxi. They write down our names and snap the driver's photo; he shows his credential, and we see the sticker on his front window. Nervous anyway, we get in. The hotel he takes us to (the hotel Arequipa Center) was recommended by some travelers at breakfast, and pays him commission for bringing passengers. It's not the hostel we really wanted to stay in, but it's clean, not expensive, close to downtown, and safe. And here we are.
A funny thing or two: the notes the hotel has left for customers ask us to kindly not use the bedspread or curtains as a towel, and to walk to the front desk to request things rather than telling from the rooms. I am dying to meet the person who did either one of these things. Really, excellent.
I am exhausted. Will e-mail home (with the free internet!! downstairs) and then sleep. Ugh. Travel days hurt.
27 October, 2009—Arica, Chile
It's morning and, as always, I've woken up an hour and a half before the alarm, totally restless at the prospect of traveling. I don't know why this always happens—the night before any big trip, I sleep restlessly and wake up in the dark before the alarm can even consider ringing. Full of nervous energy, I just lay motionless or sit still, running down the time until I'm allowed to wake up.
This morning, I just sucked it up, though; got out of bed, showered, packed up a bit. Three more hours until we leave for Arequipa. I am so excited!
This morning, I just sucked it up, though; got out of bed, showered, packed up a bit. Three more hours until we leave for Arequipa. I am so excited!
Monday, October 26, 2009
26 October, 2009—Arica, Chile
After 30 hours on a tour bus (in semi-cama seats, the most economical choice, with partially reclining seats and an abundant selection of bad movies), Catalina and I arrived yesterday afternoon at Sunny Days, which is quite possibly the cutest hostel in the Southern Hemisphere. The owner showed us to our room; we did some quick vegetable shopping, made dinner, and crashed into our beds. After 30 hours on a tour bus, though, I slept surprisingly restlessly and woke up feeling a little foggy.
This morning, we got out of bed around nine, donned some athletic gear and, barefooted, went to the beach for a jog. It wasn't the world's greatest jog, but sustained activity after so much time sitting so still felt wonderful. After, we went on a brief city tour.
Arica is the northernmost city in Chile, population ~185,000, and the site of an important Chilean victory in the War of the Pacific—the 1880 Chilean-Peruvian-Bolivian war in which Chile doubled its territory and cut off Bolivia's access to the sea. It's a small, semi-urban beach town that is loomed over by El Morro—the huge rock on which this huge battle was fought—and doesn't have an awful lot of sights to see. The sights it has, though, it has in spades: some of the world's oldest mummies live in a museum here, and a church and an old customhouse designed by Gustave Eiffel sit in the middle of downtown.
We didn't see everything. In Santiago's pre-colonial art museum, we'd already seen Chinchorro mummies (which are actually really cool: the Chinchorro people mummified everyone, from the youngest miscarried fetus to the oldest old man, regardless of gender and of social class, by taking out all of their organs, replacing them with plant matter, reattaching the skin, and covering their faces with ochre-painted masks and wigs), so we decided to skip the museum at the outskirts of town where they are the main showpiece. We also decided not to climb up on El Morro; it's a bit of a ride out there, and the thought of more car rides was sickening. Instead, we stuck to the city center.
We did see both Eiffel designs, the Iglesia San Marcos and the ex-Aduana (currently a cultural center). Both are pretty, if small and relatively unassuming. The church is constructed out of all metal, and covered with a thin layer of paint. The taller outside turret is rusting; it's a vague greenish color, while the rest of the building is painted white and copper. The inside looks oddly mechanical—the balustrades have flower details in them, and the roof arches up steeply and dramatically, but the lines are sort of too clean. Inside is the bell from the original church (Eiffel was brought in by the Peruvian Viceroy to design the new Church after a tsunami destroyed the old one), and one strange detail: the only part of the building NOT made of metal is the thick set of double doors that stand guard at the entrance—who knows why? (I don't. That's not a dare, but an open question.)
The second Eiffel construction is the former customhouse (aduana), which is made out of brick and currently houses pictures of Arica from its time as a Peruvian city to now, and also has art brought in from the school of fine art in Cuzco, Peru. Out front, there's an amphitheater, where we sat for a while and watched a kindergarten class practicing a dance for some kind of exhibition. Inside, there's also some cool history: a flirty (and therefore chatty) guide took us through the building. He showed us the original tiling where Peruvian workers, angry that they hadn't been paid for constructing the building, turned a patterned ceramic piece around 180 degrees to mess up the pattern, and expected nobody to notice. He showed us the original Peruvian coat of arms that adorned the outside of the building, but was taken down when Chile won the War of the Pacific. And he took us up a rickety, beautiful spiral staircase for an amazing view of El Morro. It's interesting how El Morro is a constant in the cityscape, sort of like the Cordillera in Santiago: always there as a reminder of some history or other.
A brief thought: Arican identity must be a little odd—at the same time that the city is Chilean and has been for 130 years, there seems to still be a lot of Peruvian influence/ pride/ memory. I wonder what the interaction is between ex-Peruvian and Chilean identities.
After our busy morning, we stopped off for some heladito (ice cream is always delicious) and decided to head to fisherman's wharf for some seafood (and to see the sea lions. As though we'd never seen them before.) We did see the sea lions, and at a surprisingly short distance: they were sleeping, fighting, chilling about five feet away from us, across a fence, totally indifferent to our presence. They were very stinky, and only a little cute—one animal that gains from distance in the bay. The rest of the plan got sidetracked when we met The Boxer.
The Boxer was a seventy-eight year old man who approached us with the normal series of questions—where are you from? What are you doing here? How long are you here for?--and made some uncomfortable insinuations—going into great detail about sea lion sex, and inviting us for some cartonet (boxed wine) and sandwiches in his apartment (we politely refused.) He thought Abraham Lincoln was black. Also, he was a former boxer; the country retired him at 21 and he's been living pensioned ever since. “I've never worked a day in my life,” he said, smiling yellowly, “because I was an athlete.” I told some convenient lies (“We're staying with a friend,” “I have a fiance,” and “I don't drink,” among others) to get us out of a tight spot or two, and we escaped unharmed, as politely as possible.
Another side note: I'm glad that I've learned to be appropriately wary here. Although I think I go overboard sometimes, I'm glad that the gypsies in the park this morning couldn't cajole us into getting our fortunes read (“they speak good Spanish, let's go”) and that we didn't go to have boxed wine with the ex-boxer. I'm glad to be a little bit jaded, even though I sometimes wish I would calm down and be open to more experiences. I guess the city has done some weird things to me. Or maybe, I've always been cautious and now am just savvier. Or maybe this is all part of that “growing up” thing—learning to say no when you don't want things.
Tomorrow, we're in for another long haul on a bus (although nowhere near as long as the last one—only seven hours this time!), scheduled to make it to Arequipa at 4:00 PM local time (that's 6:00 Chilean time, 2:00 California time). I'm excited for the canyons and the sparkling buildings! We'll be there a few days before we head off to Cuzco, to blaze the Inca Trail (or, more likely, an alternative) and see some seriously amazing ruins. I'm SO EXCITED!!
For now, though, I'm going to re-organize my pack, throw a couple of tarot cards, stretch thoroughly, and head to sleep. And remember to write down everything so as not to forget.
This morning, we got out of bed around nine, donned some athletic gear and, barefooted, went to the beach for a jog. It wasn't the world's greatest jog, but sustained activity after so much time sitting so still felt wonderful. After, we went on a brief city tour.
Arica is the northernmost city in Chile, population ~185,000, and the site of an important Chilean victory in the War of the Pacific—the 1880 Chilean-Peruvian-Bolivian war in which Chile doubled its territory and cut off Bolivia's access to the sea. It's a small, semi-urban beach town that is loomed over by El Morro—the huge rock on which this huge battle was fought—and doesn't have an awful lot of sights to see. The sights it has, though, it has in spades: some of the world's oldest mummies live in a museum here, and a church and an old customhouse designed by Gustave Eiffel sit in the middle of downtown.
We didn't see everything. In Santiago's pre-colonial art museum, we'd already seen Chinchorro mummies (which are actually really cool: the Chinchorro people mummified everyone, from the youngest miscarried fetus to the oldest old man, regardless of gender and of social class, by taking out all of their organs, replacing them with plant matter, reattaching the skin, and covering their faces with ochre-painted masks and wigs), so we decided to skip the museum at the outskirts of town where they are the main showpiece. We also decided not to climb up on El Morro; it's a bit of a ride out there, and the thought of more car rides was sickening. Instead, we stuck to the city center.
We did see both Eiffel designs, the Iglesia San Marcos and the ex-Aduana (currently a cultural center). Both are pretty, if small and relatively unassuming. The church is constructed out of all metal, and covered with a thin layer of paint. The taller outside turret is rusting; it's a vague greenish color, while the rest of the building is painted white and copper. The inside looks oddly mechanical—the balustrades have flower details in them, and the roof arches up steeply and dramatically, but the lines are sort of too clean. Inside is the bell from the original church (Eiffel was brought in by the Peruvian Viceroy to design the new Church after a tsunami destroyed the old one), and one strange detail: the only part of the building NOT made of metal is the thick set of double doors that stand guard at the entrance—who knows why? (I don't. That's not a dare, but an open question.)
The second Eiffel construction is the former customhouse (aduana), which is made out of brick and currently houses pictures of Arica from its time as a Peruvian city to now, and also has art brought in from the school of fine art in Cuzco, Peru. Out front, there's an amphitheater, where we sat for a while and watched a kindergarten class practicing a dance for some kind of exhibition. Inside, there's also some cool history: a flirty (and therefore chatty) guide took us through the building. He showed us the original tiling where Peruvian workers, angry that they hadn't been paid for constructing the building, turned a patterned ceramic piece around 180 degrees to mess up the pattern, and expected nobody to notice. He showed us the original Peruvian coat of arms that adorned the outside of the building, but was taken down when Chile won the War of the Pacific. And he took us up a rickety, beautiful spiral staircase for an amazing view of El Morro. It's interesting how El Morro is a constant in the cityscape, sort of like the Cordillera in Santiago: always there as a reminder of some history or other.
A brief thought: Arican identity must be a little odd—at the same time that the city is Chilean and has been for 130 years, there seems to still be a lot of Peruvian influence/ pride/ memory. I wonder what the interaction is between ex-Peruvian and Chilean identities.
After our busy morning, we stopped off for some heladito (ice cream is always delicious) and decided to head to fisherman's wharf for some seafood (and to see the sea lions. As though we'd never seen them before.) We did see the sea lions, and at a surprisingly short distance: they were sleeping, fighting, chilling about five feet away from us, across a fence, totally indifferent to our presence. They were very stinky, and only a little cute—one animal that gains from distance in the bay. The rest of the plan got sidetracked when we met The Boxer.
The Boxer was a seventy-eight year old man who approached us with the normal series of questions—where are you from? What are you doing here? How long are you here for?--and made some uncomfortable insinuations—going into great detail about sea lion sex, and inviting us for some cartonet (boxed wine) and sandwiches in his apartment (we politely refused.) He thought Abraham Lincoln was black. Also, he was a former boxer; the country retired him at 21 and he's been living pensioned ever since. “I've never worked a day in my life,” he said, smiling yellowly, “because I was an athlete.” I told some convenient lies (“We're staying with a friend,” “I have a fiance,” and “I don't drink,” among others) to get us out of a tight spot or two, and we escaped unharmed, as politely as possible.
Another side note: I'm glad that I've learned to be appropriately wary here. Although I think I go overboard sometimes, I'm glad that the gypsies in the park this morning couldn't cajole us into getting our fortunes read (“they speak good Spanish, let's go”) and that we didn't go to have boxed wine with the ex-boxer. I'm glad to be a little bit jaded, even though I sometimes wish I would calm down and be open to more experiences. I guess the city has done some weird things to me. Or maybe, I've always been cautious and now am just savvier. Or maybe this is all part of that “growing up” thing—learning to say no when you don't want things.
Tomorrow, we're in for another long haul on a bus (although nowhere near as long as the last one—only seven hours this time!), scheduled to make it to Arequipa at 4:00 PM local time (that's 6:00 Chilean time, 2:00 California time). I'm excited for the canyons and the sparkling buildings! We'll be there a few days before we head off to Cuzco, to blaze the Inca Trail (or, more likely, an alternative) and see some seriously amazing ruins. I'm SO EXCITED!!
For now, though, I'm going to re-organize my pack, throw a couple of tarot cards, stretch thoroughly, and head to sleep. And remember to write down everything so as not to forget.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Yoda: A Very Wise Man
I am getting very fed up with some of my students. I recognize they have lives, that they're busy people, that English is not their top priority. But when I assign five or ten minutes of homework for the weekend, and it's not done come Monday, I'm starting to get annoyed. Not because I care about the homework, but because it shows me just how little this student is willing to invest in learning a language. And that makes me realize just how much of a waste their lessons are--monetarily, of their time, and of my time.
One student--we'll call him "D"--is the classic example. He is a middle-aged man who takes private classes three days a week. He never does homework. He uses any and every excuse not to speak English in class. He refuses to practice by reading newspapers or watching English TV. And he's not doing particularly well as a result.
Today, he had to do a listening activity. Normally, we skip listening activities because they're frequently boring and usually stupid; this one, though, was about a homeless man in New York. I thought it would be good practice for him, since he's going to Chicago in November, and the listening exercise had lots of American money terminology.
So we listen once. He looks at me afterwords, and I ask him some comprehension questions. He says, "I don't know. I didn't understand anything."
"Okay," I say, "We'll listen again." So we slow down the speed, and start to listen again. He stops the recording halfway through.
"I don't understand anything," he says, and smirks because he thinks he's being cute. "It's Monday."
I'm not amused, in part because I'm worried that he can't understand what's going on in the exercise, but mostly because this is typical behavior from him, and I've had enough of it.
"Okay," I say, "here's the deal. You're going to have to listen to this for homework and do the exercise in your book."
He makes the usual homework excuses ('I don't have time,' to which I reply, 'Don't lie, we both know you have ten minutes to do this,') and then finally cedes with an "I'll try."
But I'm not taking his bull today. I say, "D, have you ever seen the movie Star Wars?" He has not. "Well, there's a very wise character named Yoda, and he says, 'do or do not, there is no try.' So, D, here's the deal. Do your homework or don't do your homework, there is no try. But if you don't do your homework, you will fail this level."
He thinks he has my number. "But you can't do that--there's the test," he says, and smirks.
"Yes, I can do that," I answer, knowing that he's close to failing regardless of this homework assignment. "I assign grades, and I have final jurisdiction." This is only mostly true, but I'm okay with the stretch. "If you don't do this homework, I will not pass you."
Class is over five minutes later (I spend the five minutes explaining the gist of and vocabulary words from the listening exercise), and as I'm packing up to leave, I say, "Remember, do or do not. I hope you do."
He answers, "You have a very strong character."
I respond, "Yes, and it has served me well." Then, feeling fired up and satisfied (and like I've somehow channeled my father), I leave.
Lesson learned: be not a doormat lest you be trampled on. Seriously. Reclaiming power through assertiveness feels... powerful.
One student--we'll call him "D"--is the classic example. He is a middle-aged man who takes private classes three days a week. He never does homework. He uses any and every excuse not to speak English in class. He refuses to practice by reading newspapers or watching English TV. And he's not doing particularly well as a result.
Today, he had to do a listening activity. Normally, we skip listening activities because they're frequently boring and usually stupid; this one, though, was about a homeless man in New York. I thought it would be good practice for him, since he's going to Chicago in November, and the listening exercise had lots of American money terminology.
So we listen once. He looks at me afterwords, and I ask him some comprehension questions. He says, "I don't know. I didn't understand anything."
"Okay," I say, "We'll listen again." So we slow down the speed, and start to listen again. He stops the recording halfway through.
"I don't understand anything," he says, and smirks because he thinks he's being cute. "It's Monday."
I'm not amused, in part because I'm worried that he can't understand what's going on in the exercise, but mostly because this is typical behavior from him, and I've had enough of it.
"Okay," I say, "here's the deal. You're going to have to listen to this for homework and do the exercise in your book."
He makes the usual homework excuses ('I don't have time,' to which I reply, 'Don't lie, we both know you have ten minutes to do this,') and then finally cedes with an "I'll try."
But I'm not taking his bull today. I say, "D, have you ever seen the movie Star Wars?" He has not. "Well, there's a very wise character named Yoda, and he says, 'do or do not, there is no try.' So, D, here's the deal. Do your homework or don't do your homework, there is no try. But if you don't do your homework, you will fail this level."
He thinks he has my number. "But you can't do that--there's the test," he says, and smirks.
"Yes, I can do that," I answer, knowing that he's close to failing regardless of this homework assignment. "I assign grades, and I have final jurisdiction." This is only mostly true, but I'm okay with the stretch. "If you don't do this homework, I will not pass you."
Class is over five minutes later (I spend the five minutes explaining the gist of and vocabulary words from the listening exercise), and as I'm packing up to leave, I say, "Remember, do or do not. I hope you do."
He answers, "You have a very strong character."
I respond, "Yes, and it has served me well." Then, feeling fired up and satisfied (and like I've somehow channeled my father), I leave.
Lesson learned: be not a doormat lest you be trampled on. Seriously. Reclaiming power through assertiveness feels... powerful.
Monday, September 14, 2009
11 de Septiembre
September 11th is a notorious day inside and outside of the United States. In 2001, we watched our twin towers, symbols of American capitalism, creativity and ingenuity, come crashing to the ground in pillars of ash, debris, and flame. In 1973, Chileans watched their democratic government crash to the ground. Their president committed suicide (many think he was murdered), and the military police stormed the capital, pointing guns and lighting bombs and fires. September eleventh--11/9--is an important day here in Chile, for people who were opposed to the dictatorial regime, and for people who were in favor.
In the United States, 9/11 is symbolic of an attack on American values and American power. Here, 9/11 is symbolic of an attack on democracy, of the imposition of outside ideas (including an impressively heirarchical capitalist system) by a superpower (the United States, who funded the coup) on members of a formerly free society. For the youth, September eleventh demonstrates the failings of democracy--how democracy cannot work in Latin America because the United States won't let it work. Salvador Allende, a democratically elected socialist, was under constant attack by the U.S. from the time he started running for office. They tried to block his election, and when they couldn't, funded opposition newspapers and provided money and support (training, weaponry) for the armed forces who took over and ran the government until 1990.
My September 11th was actually very calm; I went to a friend's despedida in Vitacura, one of the richer comunas, where everything was quiet and protest free. Yesterday, on the Sunday after September 11th (because the proletariat doesn't have to work on Sunday, but they did have to work on the 11th), I went with two Spaniard friends to watch a protest aimed at the military police who have not been prosecuted for crimes committed during the dictatorship. Of course, the protestors weren't all there to protest human rights abuses. The communists came out, the gays came out, the militant anarchists came out. Everyone was marching to protest something about the government; everyone had a bone to pick (even if it wasn't the human rights bone.)
Some of the signs:
"No a la Impunidad"
One of the Spaniards carrying a "No a la Impunidad" sign
"Revolutionary Socialism: Power to the Workers"
"Truth and Justice Now"
"No Discrimination: Equality in Love"
Clase Contra Clase (one of the bigger, more organized groups. website: http://www.clasecontraclase.cl/)
"Our Only Option: Fight!! Popular Protest November 10th"
It's illegal for foreigners to protest, so I wasn't protesting. I didn't carry any signs or yell any slogans, but I (and the Spaniards, particularly the one with the sign) was still worried about what would happen if things heated up. We brought handkerchiefs and lemons just in case, and started the walk from metro station Los Heroes to the cemetery.
Things started out calm. Protestors handed out propaganda, chanted their slogans, caught up with old friends. I opened one of the pamphlets and started reading. "Yanqui, go home!" it screamed across the bottom of the page. I laughed and showed on of the Spaniards, "Try not to talk too much," he laughed back. When we started walking, we saw the police, dressed in full riot gear, carrying shields and accompanied by armored cars, that lined the roads and guarded the exits. Some were holding video cameras, others had digital cameras; everything was on film.
"Me da pena," said one of the spaniards, pointing his chin at the line of policemen.
"Don't worry about them," I said, full of false confidence, "They're just blocking traffic."
We walked a few blocks without anything noteworthy happening. Then, slowly, the crowd started to get more rowdy. An old man standing next to me solemnly gave the carabineros ("pacos"; the cops) the middle finger as we passed by; young people brought out cans of spray paint and started posting messages on the walls sometimes with stencils, sometimes free hand. The farther we walked, the thicker and sweeter the spray paint tainted air got. The farther we walked, the angrier the crowd got with the police. "PACOS CULIADOS!" one man cried, giving another one-fingered salute. The police didn't respond.
It had been calm for several blocks when we ran into the Spaniards' friend from school. "Is this as rowdy as it's going to get?" one asked. She laughed. "We're at the halfway point now," she said, "it's going to start picking up real soon. Did you bring lemons?"
Sure enough, one block later, things picked up. one of the protestors started throwing stones at the police lining the road. "PACOS CULIADOS!!" he screamed, and the next thing I knew, the whole crowd was sprinting forward. I heard what sounded like a high-powered hose, and then my eyes were burning. My throat burned--I spat and retched, but happily didn't throw up. My nose burned. My ears rang. I pulled my handkerchief up around my face and ran with the crowd, trying to get away from the gas.
Finally, it seemed like the spraying had stopped. I looked around and couldn't find the Spaniards; I moved forward along the sidewalk looking for them. The protestors started setting off firecrackers in the road, far away from the police; every time I heard a noise, I jumped because I thought we were going to get gassed again.
We did get gassed again; someone let off another firecracker, and the police decided they'd had enough. The crowd started running again; I was shoving my way through rows of people, all bunched together and running too slow to get away. Finally, I saw a chance to get out from behind them--the road forked. Most people took the left fork; I took the right fork, which seemed like the fastes way to get away from the burning. This turned out to be a bad decision; One protestor was violently angry, and decided he was going to tear down a police barrier along the right side of the road as an expression of this anger. And the police made a beeline for him, and the rest of us who had taken the right fork had to hop the barrier. I'm awful at hopping fences; someone was pulling me back off the thing, someone else was trying to get leverage off me, and I was on top of the barrier, screaming frustratedly, when someone else finally shoved me over, and I kept running down the street through the gas.
It finally stopped for real, and my throat and my eyes and my nose were still burning. Then I remembered the lemon: I pulled it out of my pocket, peeled it with shaking fingers, and took a bite. It worked: my throat stopped burning, and my head started to clear. I kept moving through the crowd, looking for the spaniards. There was no way I was leaving through the line of riot police lining the road, and there was no way I was staying there alone.
I finally found them, about a block ahead, and we kept on walking to the cemetary, where there were groups of protestors posted at all the major grave sites of revolutionary figures from the '70s, giving speeches, playing music, and praising the struggle of their compatriots that day, and in years past.
We stayed for about half an hour; then the spaniard's friend found us, and told us it was time to leave. "Why?" we asked; it was only one in the afternoon.
"That wasn't anything before," she answered. "You're not from here, and you can't afford to get caught by the cops, and you're not used to the way they're going to start treating people soon," she said. "We'll walk through the cemetary so you can see it, but then you have to go."
We were all exhausted from a long night before and the morning of sprinting, so we nodded and walked back through the cemetary, towards the entrance.
When we got there, the entrance was lined with police. We were about 40 yards away from the gate when they started spraying more gas into the street. I don't know why--we didn't see or hear anything happening outside. All I know is that I saw two armored vehicles go in two opposite directions, spraying gas while the people in the street ran away. A woman next to us was holding her baby and staring out at the entrance. She covered the baby's face with a blanket, and we all stayed back from the entrance as more and more police came to guard it. About one hundred fifty police in the end, I think, with their shields raised, in groups of six or seven, stood there, some taking video of the street, others holding shields, still more with their hands over their guns. We stayed still behind them for ten minutes; when they thought the threat had passed, they started to retreat and we saw our chance to leave.
We left, very quietly, through the front gate after about half the police had retreated into the cemetary. Outside, the air was still heavy with gas. vendors lined the streets, munching on their lemons. We walked to the next metro station, passing more protestors giving speeches and standing around; finally, we walked exhaustedly onto the metro and started the long ride home.
Being an outsider on the inside of this kind of political action made me ask some questions that I really don't know how to answer. I observed an almost bizarre ritual, in which both sides knew that the other side would not hesitate to respond with violence, and so both sides overreacted to each others' smallest actions. The protestors reacted to the mere police presence with shouts; the police reacted to the throwing of pebbles with gas. What about either of these reactions is reasonable?
Who is right here? How effective is this kind of protest if the police do not hesitate to use force, and if the crowd is small enough and calm enough that it's unlikely to create state-wide political change? If this kind of protest is ineffective, why is it the kind most commonly seen not just in Chile, but in Latin America generally? If this kind of protest is ineffective, what kind of protest would be more effective?
And the answer is, I just don't know.
In the United States, 9/11 is symbolic of an attack on American values and American power. Here, 9/11 is symbolic of an attack on democracy, of the imposition of outside ideas (including an impressively heirarchical capitalist system) by a superpower (the United States, who funded the coup) on members of a formerly free society. For the youth, September eleventh demonstrates the failings of democracy--how democracy cannot work in Latin America because the United States won't let it work. Salvador Allende, a democratically elected socialist, was under constant attack by the U.S. from the time he started running for office. They tried to block his election, and when they couldn't, funded opposition newspapers and provided money and support (training, weaponry) for the armed forces who took over and ran the government until 1990.
My September 11th was actually very calm; I went to a friend's despedida in Vitacura, one of the richer comunas, where everything was quiet and protest free. Yesterday, on the Sunday after September 11th (because the proletariat doesn't have to work on Sunday, but they did have to work on the 11th), I went with two Spaniard friends to watch a protest aimed at the military police who have not been prosecuted for crimes committed during the dictatorship. Of course, the protestors weren't all there to protest human rights abuses. The communists came out, the gays came out, the militant anarchists came out. Everyone was marching to protest something about the government; everyone had a bone to pick (even if it wasn't the human rights bone.)
Some of the signs:
"No a la Impunidad"
One of the Spaniards carrying a "No a la Impunidad" sign
"Revolutionary Socialism: Power to the Workers"
"Truth and Justice Now"
"No Discrimination: Equality in Love"
Clase Contra Clase (one of the bigger, more organized groups. website: http://www.clasecontraclase.cl/)
"Our Only Option: Fight!! Popular Protest November 10th"
It's illegal for foreigners to protest, so I wasn't protesting. I didn't carry any signs or yell any slogans, but I (and the Spaniards, particularly the one with the sign) was still worried about what would happen if things heated up. We brought handkerchiefs and lemons just in case, and started the walk from metro station Los Heroes to the cemetery.
Things started out calm. Protestors handed out propaganda, chanted their slogans, caught up with old friends. I opened one of the pamphlets and started reading. "Yanqui, go home!" it screamed across the bottom of the page. I laughed and showed on of the Spaniards, "Try not to talk too much," he laughed back. When we started walking, we saw the police, dressed in full riot gear, carrying shields and accompanied by armored cars, that lined the roads and guarded the exits. Some were holding video cameras, others had digital cameras; everything was on film.
"Me da pena," said one of the spaniards, pointing his chin at the line of policemen.
"Don't worry about them," I said, full of false confidence, "They're just blocking traffic."
We walked a few blocks without anything noteworthy happening. Then, slowly, the crowd started to get more rowdy. An old man standing next to me solemnly gave the carabineros ("pacos"; the cops) the middle finger as we passed by; young people brought out cans of spray paint and started posting messages on the walls sometimes with stencils, sometimes free hand. The farther we walked, the thicker and sweeter the spray paint tainted air got. The farther we walked, the angrier the crowd got with the police. "PACOS CULIADOS!" one man cried, giving another one-fingered salute. The police didn't respond.
It had been calm for several blocks when we ran into the Spaniards' friend from school. "Is this as rowdy as it's going to get?" one asked. She laughed. "We're at the halfway point now," she said, "it's going to start picking up real soon. Did you bring lemons?"
Sure enough, one block later, things picked up. one of the protestors started throwing stones at the police lining the road. "PACOS CULIADOS!!" he screamed, and the next thing I knew, the whole crowd was sprinting forward. I heard what sounded like a high-powered hose, and then my eyes were burning. My throat burned--I spat and retched, but happily didn't throw up. My nose burned. My ears rang. I pulled my handkerchief up around my face and ran with the crowd, trying to get away from the gas.
Finally, it seemed like the spraying had stopped. I looked around and couldn't find the Spaniards; I moved forward along the sidewalk looking for them. The protestors started setting off firecrackers in the road, far away from the police; every time I heard a noise, I jumped because I thought we were going to get gassed again.
We did get gassed again; someone let off another firecracker, and the police decided they'd had enough. The crowd started running again; I was shoving my way through rows of people, all bunched together and running too slow to get away. Finally, I saw a chance to get out from behind them--the road forked. Most people took the left fork; I took the right fork, which seemed like the fastes way to get away from the burning. This turned out to be a bad decision; One protestor was violently angry, and decided he was going to tear down a police barrier along the right side of the road as an expression of this anger. And the police made a beeline for him, and the rest of us who had taken the right fork had to hop the barrier. I'm awful at hopping fences; someone was pulling me back off the thing, someone else was trying to get leverage off me, and I was on top of the barrier, screaming frustratedly, when someone else finally shoved me over, and I kept running down the street through the gas.
It finally stopped for real, and my throat and my eyes and my nose were still burning. Then I remembered the lemon: I pulled it out of my pocket, peeled it with shaking fingers, and took a bite. It worked: my throat stopped burning, and my head started to clear. I kept moving through the crowd, looking for the spaniards. There was no way I was leaving through the line of riot police lining the road, and there was no way I was staying there alone.
I finally found them, about a block ahead, and we kept on walking to the cemetary, where there were groups of protestors posted at all the major grave sites of revolutionary figures from the '70s, giving speeches, playing music, and praising the struggle of their compatriots that day, and in years past.
We stayed for about half an hour; then the spaniard's friend found us, and told us it was time to leave. "Why?" we asked; it was only one in the afternoon.
"That wasn't anything before," she answered. "You're not from here, and you can't afford to get caught by the cops, and you're not used to the way they're going to start treating people soon," she said. "We'll walk through the cemetary so you can see it, but then you have to go."
We were all exhausted from a long night before and the morning of sprinting, so we nodded and walked back through the cemetary, towards the entrance.
When we got there, the entrance was lined with police. We were about 40 yards away from the gate when they started spraying more gas into the street. I don't know why--we didn't see or hear anything happening outside. All I know is that I saw two armored vehicles go in two opposite directions, spraying gas while the people in the street ran away. A woman next to us was holding her baby and staring out at the entrance. She covered the baby's face with a blanket, and we all stayed back from the entrance as more and more police came to guard it. About one hundred fifty police in the end, I think, with their shields raised, in groups of six or seven, stood there, some taking video of the street, others holding shields, still more with their hands over their guns. We stayed still behind them for ten minutes; when they thought the threat had passed, they started to retreat and we saw our chance to leave.
We left, very quietly, through the front gate after about half the police had retreated into the cemetary. Outside, the air was still heavy with gas. vendors lined the streets, munching on their lemons. We walked to the next metro station, passing more protestors giving speeches and standing around; finally, we walked exhaustedly onto the metro and started the long ride home.
Being an outsider on the inside of this kind of political action made me ask some questions that I really don't know how to answer. I observed an almost bizarre ritual, in which both sides knew that the other side would not hesitate to respond with violence, and so both sides overreacted to each others' smallest actions. The protestors reacted to the mere police presence with shouts; the police reacted to the throwing of pebbles with gas. What about either of these reactions is reasonable?
Who is right here? How effective is this kind of protest if the police do not hesitate to use force, and if the crowd is small enough and calm enough that it's unlikely to create state-wide political change? If this kind of protest is ineffective, why is it the kind most commonly seen not just in Chile, but in Latin America generally? If this kind of protest is ineffective, what kind of protest would be more effective?
And the answer is, I just don't know.
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