10.7.10
"How do you measure a year in the life?"
“Five hundrend twenty five thousand
six hundred minutes
Five hundrend twenty five thousand
moments so dear
Five hundrend twenty five thousand
six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year”
-"Seasons of Love:" Rent
The measurement of time is clearly objective. Sixty seconds comprise a minute; sixty minutes comprise an hour and so forth. Yet, the way we perceive the passage of time is entirely dependant on our experiences. An hour spent languishing in a boring science lecture certainly feels significantly longer than one spent laughing with friends over a steaming cup of coffee.
Thus, it seems somewhat inaccurate to state that I have now officially been living in South America for a year. After all, any consider this unit of measurement as being a long stretch of time and I feel as if I only just arrived. Although my perspective, hopes, and dreams have been completely transformed by the abroad experience, I would not even blink if someone suggested that I had actually just boarded the plane a few weeks ago.
Units of time, therefore, seem like a rather frivolous way to quantify this past year. Yet, as an overly-organized individual, I feel the need to neatly categorize it in some manner, so I've turned to the lyrics of “Seasons of Love” as a means of finding the answer (clearly, I cannot deny the influence that the incredibly talented singers from Tufts-in-Chile have had on me).
Could it be in DAYLIGHTS? From the 19 hour days we enjoyed while trekking through Torres del Paine to the agonizing sunburns resulting from the powerful sun in Paraguay, the light of day always brought adventure.
Or in SUNSETS? The setting sun did not, however, signify much as the nights similarly brought much laughter as I my two left feet struggled to dance salsa.
Or in MIDNIGHTS? Given that the nightlife in Santiago has barely begun when the clock's hands meet at the twelve, I often watched the day technically begin while chatting with friends about topics such as the mysterious lack of a “linea 3” on the metro and the sociological reasons behind just about any phenomenon ranging from the lack of social mobility in Chile and the United States to our choices regarding who to date/marry.
Or in CUPS OF COFFEE? While these conversations never proved dull, I certainly needed to inhale coffee in order to study for my classes, from which I often gained insight into both the designated topic and Chilean culture.
Or in INCHES? Unfortunately, as a student interested in a variety of fields and enrolled in an interdisciplinary major, my class selection generally involved spending too much time crammed into the metro traveling between campuses. The opportunity to study at the different campuses was, however, in itself advantageous as I saw the very different attitudes and beliefs held by the majority of students within various departments at the same university and between the student bodies at two of the largest universities in the city.
Or in MILES? Although I oftened complained about the commute to class, these trips were significantly shorter than those necessary to arrive at my various internships revolving around topics as varied as environmental justice, property law, and education. Once again, the time spent in the sweltering metro proved worthwhile however. Without a doubt, the opportunity to conduct English workshops / substitute teach / monitor the computer room at a school for marginalized youth who have been excluded from the mainstream school system proved to be an eye-opening experience that reconfirmed my hopes to someday teach abroad regardless of the constant obstacles faced in the classroom and drastically changed my perceptions on education in both Chile and the world. Not to mention the inspiration that I drew from the spirit and resilience of some students at the school.
Or, as a devoted runner, maybe I should define miles in terms of the miles of roads explored as I ran in both the stifling heat of Paraguay and the frigid Andean air near Las Trancas.
Or in LAUGHTER? While I would love to measure a year in laughter, the amount of time spent laughing at my own blunders would be impossible to calculate. Who knew that “estar en rajas” does not necessarily mean go to sleep due to exhaustion? I certainly didn't.
Or in STRIFE? Luckily, I barely ever needed to raise my voice, let alone fight with anyone in Chile or Paraguay. Paraguay has, after all, been affectionately dubbed the land of friends.
Should I choose one of these terms to describe my year? No. Each of the concepts accurately describes a portion of my experience this past year, but none of them actually embody it as a whole.
Infive hundrend twenty five thousand
six hundred minutes
How do you measure a year in the life
How about LOVE?
Given the importance of family in South America, many question how I can spend a year away from my parents. While I miss them, the answer is simple; I have found the love and support of innumerable other individuals who have made this year absolutely unforgettable. From my incredible Chilean host family who has treated me like a daughter ever since our first meeting at Laurita's baptism to my Paraguayan co-workers who adopted me over the holidays, I have never lacked the love of a pseudo-family.
And, if the language barriers proved overwhelming, the Tufts-in-Chile crew really did turn into a family as Katrina recently noted. While I am sure we will continue to spend time debating mundane philosophical topics,baking (250+) cookies, or showing off on the dance floor in Boston, I already miss your smiling faces.
Not to mention the countless other friends that I've made along the way. Whether playing soccer, checking out photo exhibits, chugging (too many) cups of coffee, bringing Mexican food to Chile, etc., these individuals have made this past year absolutely incredible. While I may not see some of them again, they will always stand out in my memories of my time spent in Chile and Paraguay.
So. Given the number of people who have impacted my life, I think it's fair to say that the only way to measure the year is to....
MEASURE IN LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE.
24.6.10
Chi-Chi-Chi. Le-Le-Le. VIVA CHILE!
When the semester first began, the entirety of Chile stopped momentarily to mourn the victims of the terremoto that shook in the nation in late February. Now, as the semester rolls to a close, the country is once again collectively pausing. This time, however, it is a much more joyous occasion: the World Cup. As Chile is in Group H, "La Roja" (as the squad is affectionately known in Chile) has only played two games and has won both.
Even more interesting than the 1-0 wins versus both Honduras and Switzerland is the raucous environment that consumes the center of the city on gameday. Hundreds congregate at La Moneda to watch the game on a big screen. Actually, watch is a bit of an understatement; in addition to watching, everyone screams, sings, jumps, etc. It almost constitutes a workout.
Moments after the final whistle blows, all begin marching towards Plaza Italia, or the center of the city. Not only do the hoards from La Moneda make their way to the square, but those from all corners of the expansive metropolis join them. Once in the plaza, it's a celebration that gradually devolves to mob violence and destruction; the damange to the city after the win against Switzerland was surprisingly widespread. What will happen if the revelers leave the game angry?
Although it often doesn't seem like it, life does go on away from the pitch. We study; we dance; we chatter; we laugh. We also have to begin the dreaded process of saying good-bye to the city, friends, and Chilean families we have come to know and love. Whether joking with the six other Tufts students at the official "despedida" last weekend or handing in a final paper in a class that has challenged and amused all semester, our time is here is all too quickly coming too a close. Last December, the semester students complained that it seemed as if their time in Chile had only just begun. Well, seven months later, I honestly feel the same.
Even more interesting than the 1-0 wins versus both Honduras and Switzerland is the raucous environment that consumes the center of the city on gameday. Hundreds congregate at La Moneda to watch the game on a big screen. Actually, watch is a bit of an understatement; in addition to watching, everyone screams, sings, jumps, etc. It almost constitutes a workout.
Moments after the final whistle blows, all begin marching towards Plaza Italia, or the center of the city. Not only do the hoards from La Moneda make their way to the square, but those from all corners of the expansive metropolis join them. Once in the plaza, it's a celebration that gradually devolves to mob violence and destruction; the damange to the city after the win against Switzerland was surprisingly widespread. What will happen if the revelers leave the game angry?
Although it often doesn't seem like it, life does go on away from the pitch. We study; we dance; we chatter; we laugh. We also have to begin the dreaded process of saying good-bye to the city, friends, and Chilean families we have come to know and love. Whether joking with the six other Tufts students at the official "despedida" last weekend or handing in a final paper in a class that has challenged and amused all semester, our time is here is all too quickly coming too a close. Last December, the semester students complained that it seemed as if their time in Chile had only just begun. Well, seven months later, I honestly feel the same.
6.6.10
Loving Our Messy and Dysfunctional World
“I tend to like messy dysfunctional countries where people are passionate about things.” - Anthony Bourdain
For the past several days, this phrase from an interview with this outspoken food critic has resonated in my mind. It isn’t particularly eloquent nor provocative; yet, I cannot forget the words as they speak to many of my more recent experiences in Santiago.
Generally speaking, Chile should not be considered a “messy” or “dysfunctional” country. As discussed in previous posts, it boasts a flourishing economy, reliable infrastructure, and many of the other hallmarks of a “developed” country. Yet, a surprisingly large proportion of the population does not have access to these institutions (Chile does, after all, boast on the largest gaps between the rich and the poor in the world as measured by the GINI index). The differences between the resources enjoyed by those living in generally wealthy neighborhoods and those relegated the poor communities on the fringe of the city continues to shock me whenever I venture to either my internship.
Despite my anger at the inequalities facing my students, I eagerly look forward to my treks to the school in La Granja each week and I love every moment that I spend there. The poverty, disparity, and challenges obviously enrage me, but students‘ energy and curiosity continues to inspire me. Whether working 60 hours a week at Lider (which is owned by Wal Mart by the way)or trying to raise a child at fifteen, the students somehow manage to confront these challenges without forgetting to laugh or losing their curiosity about the world around them.
To succeed, these students must employ the passion described by Bourdain in the aforementioned quote. Absolutely nothing will be given to them. Similarly, children from more privileged backgrounds earn their achievements, but don’t quite need the same spirit. It’s almost as if the wealthier students are running the 5k on the track; your muscles scream in pain and it takes effort, but it’s a controlled, planned trek. Those from more marginalized communities, on the other hand, are competing in the 5k cross country race. Rather than a smooth, predictable surface, each turn can bring another mountain, some unexpected roots, or a small river. Given the route, they need a certain passion and spirit not always found in other communities and, like Bourdain, this attracts me to communities that may not always be considered developed.
That being said, however desirable this spirit, it should not need to exist and the global community must begin to address the disparities between the wealthiest and poorest neighborhoods in Santiago and the world. Such passion can obviously grow without such deprivation.
*********************************************
When not teaching English, my days have overflowed with both the routine and some extraordinary opportunities. Classes consume most of my week, although I still find time to pretend I can salsa, meander through the city in my running shoes, devour too much white bread and palta at the nightly once, and laugh with friends. I cannot believe that I only have a few short weeks left with them (although it is not “if I return” it is “when I return“…just to clarify).
And interspersed amongst the habitual activities are the extraordinary ones (although I would argue that the daily routine may in many ways prove more memorable). A few weeks ago, I represented Fundación Paraguaya at a conference on multi-dimensional poverty held in Santiago. Several experts debated what it means to be poor (consensus…it isn’t just economic. duh), before assessing various means used measure it around the world that can be applied both objectively and across cultures. The speakers hailed from bodies as varied the United Nations, the Chilean government, and TUFTS UNIVERSITY. Well, Fletcher. But that’s part of Tufts…right?
I’ve also had the chance to escape the city and explore the Chilean countryside. A friend’s professor recently commented that all of Chile’s development is centered around it’s highways (which obviously run from the north to south given the country’s geography) and this is understandably true. Stepping away from the highways is like stepping back in time; the countryside is truly another world and unsurprisingly a much less developed one. On a recent Tufts trip to Coinco and Donihue, we explored much of this countryside and took part in traditional crafts such as chamanto weaving and the baking of pan amasado. While the artisan work proved interesting, the devastating wounds left on these communities from the terremoto remain some of my biggest memories. Walking around Santiago on a daily basis, it is easy to forget the disaster that rocked Chile only a few months ago. Yet, for many living in rural communities especially in the south, the devastation is a daily reality. Hundreds, if not thousands, are still without homes as the winter rains have begun to roll in (and those living in temporary houses have unfortunately discovered that temporary housing does not necessarily denote a roof that doesn’t leak or good construction).
The countryside isn’t devastated in its entirety however. I also spent a weekend in the Termas de Chillan, or an exclusive ski resort area nestled among some Andean volcanoes. We arrived a little to early to do any skiing, but did enjoy the exquisite views and the first snow fall of the season. Although it is cold in Santiago, it never snows so it was nice to enjoy some of the powdery white fluff that I avoided by spending the northern hemisphere’s winter in the steamy tropical heat of Paraguay.
Pictures, have of course, been posted on Picasa…po.
And a quick note regarding my lack of posts: I’m simply too busy and given the rapid decay of my English skills lately, it isn’t quite as easy for me to write in English anymore. Some things, such as terremotos and palta, that never really affected my life in the USofA have forever been converted into Spanish concepts for me!
For the past several days, this phrase from an interview with this outspoken food critic has resonated in my mind. It isn’t particularly eloquent nor provocative; yet, I cannot forget the words as they speak to many of my more recent experiences in Santiago.
Generally speaking, Chile should not be considered a “messy” or “dysfunctional” country. As discussed in previous posts, it boasts a flourishing economy, reliable infrastructure, and many of the other hallmarks of a “developed” country. Yet, a surprisingly large proportion of the population does not have access to these institutions (Chile does, after all, boast on the largest gaps between the rich and the poor in the world as measured by the GINI index). The differences between the resources enjoyed by those living in generally wealthy neighborhoods and those relegated the poor communities on the fringe of the city continues to shock me whenever I venture to either my internship.
Despite my anger at the inequalities facing my students, I eagerly look forward to my treks to the school in La Granja each week and I love every moment that I spend there. The poverty, disparity, and challenges obviously enrage me, but students‘ energy and curiosity continues to inspire me. Whether working 60 hours a week at Lider (which is owned by Wal Mart by the way)or trying to raise a child at fifteen, the students somehow manage to confront these challenges without forgetting to laugh or losing their curiosity about the world around them.
To succeed, these students must employ the passion described by Bourdain in the aforementioned quote. Absolutely nothing will be given to them. Similarly, children from more privileged backgrounds earn their achievements, but don’t quite need the same spirit. It’s almost as if the wealthier students are running the 5k on the track; your muscles scream in pain and it takes effort, but it’s a controlled, planned trek. Those from more marginalized communities, on the other hand, are competing in the 5k cross country race. Rather than a smooth, predictable surface, each turn can bring another mountain, some unexpected roots, or a small river. Given the route, they need a certain passion and spirit not always found in other communities and, like Bourdain, this attracts me to communities that may not always be considered developed.
That being said, however desirable this spirit, it should not need to exist and the global community must begin to address the disparities between the wealthiest and poorest neighborhoods in Santiago and the world. Such passion can obviously grow without such deprivation.
*********************************************
When not teaching English, my days have overflowed with both the routine and some extraordinary opportunities. Classes consume most of my week, although I still find time to pretend I can salsa, meander through the city in my running shoes, devour too much white bread and palta at the nightly once, and laugh with friends. I cannot believe that I only have a few short weeks left with them (although it is not “if I return” it is “when I return“…just to clarify).
And interspersed amongst the habitual activities are the extraordinary ones (although I would argue that the daily routine may in many ways prove more memorable). A few weeks ago, I represented Fundación Paraguaya at a conference on multi-dimensional poverty held in Santiago. Several experts debated what it means to be poor (consensus…it isn’t just economic. duh), before assessing various means used measure it around the world that can be applied both objectively and across cultures. The speakers hailed from bodies as varied the United Nations, the Chilean government, and TUFTS UNIVERSITY. Well, Fletcher. But that’s part of Tufts…right?
I’ve also had the chance to escape the city and explore the Chilean countryside. A friend’s professor recently commented that all of Chile’s development is centered around it’s highways (which obviously run from the north to south given the country’s geography) and this is understandably true. Stepping away from the highways is like stepping back in time; the countryside is truly another world and unsurprisingly a much less developed one. On a recent Tufts trip to Coinco and Donihue, we explored much of this countryside and took part in traditional crafts such as chamanto weaving and the baking of pan amasado. While the artisan work proved interesting, the devastating wounds left on these communities from the terremoto remain some of my biggest memories. Walking around Santiago on a daily basis, it is easy to forget the disaster that rocked Chile only a few months ago. Yet, for many living in rural communities especially in the south, the devastation is a daily reality. Hundreds, if not thousands, are still without homes as the winter rains have begun to roll in (and those living in temporary houses have unfortunately discovered that temporary housing does not necessarily denote a roof that doesn’t leak or good construction).
The countryside isn’t devastated in its entirety however. I also spent a weekend in the Termas de Chillan, or an exclusive ski resort area nestled among some Andean volcanoes. We arrived a little to early to do any skiing, but did enjoy the exquisite views and the first snow fall of the season. Although it is cold in Santiago, it never snows so it was nice to enjoy some of the powdery white fluff that I avoided by spending the northern hemisphere’s winter in the steamy tropical heat of Paraguay.
Pictures, have of course, been posted on Picasa…po.
And a quick note regarding my lack of posts: I’m simply too busy and given the rapid decay of my English skills lately, it isn’t quite as easy for me to write in English anymore. Some things, such as terremotos and palta, that never really affected my life in the USofA have forever been converted into Spanish concepts for me!
4.5.10
La Llegada del Otoño
Although the temperature has soared recently, fall has certainly arrived in Santiago. Golden leaves sparkle in the sunlight and their fallen counterparts make a delightful crunch as I jog through the city. Outside Santiago's confines, the plump fruits and vegetables wait to be plucked off the vine.
A few weeks ago, Tufts-in-Chile students had the opportunity to help with the harvest at Vina Casas del Bosque located in the beautiful Casablanca Valley. Although we did each fill a few baskets, I think we may have done a slightly better job sampling both merlot and sauvignon blanc grapes than actually filling our crates. And we didn't stop gourging ourselves when we left the fields as the Tufts program treated us to an oversized lunch and far too many glasses of wine after the tour.
While the most enjoyable part of the day was definately the harvest experience, it was vaguely uncomfortable as actual laborers toiled only a few rows away. I have no reason to believe that they are mistreated or underpayed, but I highly doubt their job is desirable. After all, they most likely work long hours in the sun while bent over. Thus, it seems a little odd that a groups of relatively affluent tourists flock to the vineyard to mimic (dare I say mock?) their experiences. Not sure why, but the entire tour seemed to belong on the website entitled "The Stuff White People Do."
When not frolicking in the countryside, I spend most of my time absorbed in schoolwork and internships, much as I would if I were at Tufts during the fall semester. This semester, rather than focusing on environmental justice, my internship involves education in Chile. I'm working with Sumate, a group dedicated to providing children from marginalized backgrounds with an education capable of allowing them to leave poverty.
Once a week, I meet with a few students in the "Becas Ed. Tec. Superior" program and provide English tutoring. This initiative provides youth from impoverished families with the tools needed to attend technical colleges and learn skills that will lead to well-paying jobs. Not only does the program give them financial assistence, but it also includes mandatory workshops and tutoring services. This, I believe, proves key in ensuring that most of the recipients graduate from their respective schools. Many of the students come from families without the cultural capital to navigate the system; with the help of Sumate, they will be given some of the resources children from more priviledged backgrounds often take for granted.
In addition to tutoring these students, I also teach English workshops at Escuela Hogar de Cristo as part of the "Reinsercion Educativa" program. This school accepts students who are, for whatever reason, no longer involved in the mainstream system. For instance, many of the girls have children and other students previously dropped out of school. Even after only a few visits to the school, it has become clear that these workshops will be both the amongst the most challenging and enjoyable projects I have undertaken while in Chile.
Although I may occasionally be a workaholic, I still do find time to relax. I've even taken up a new sport: soccer. Well, not quite new, but I haven't played in years. And I am, of course, still rocking out at salsa lessons, spending time with friends, and enjoying fall in Santiago!
A few weeks ago, Tufts-in-Chile students had the opportunity to help with the harvest at Vina Casas del Bosque located in the beautiful Casablanca Valley. Although we did each fill a few baskets, I think we may have done a slightly better job sampling both merlot and sauvignon blanc grapes than actually filling our crates. And we didn't stop gourging ourselves when we left the fields as the Tufts program treated us to an oversized lunch and far too many glasses of wine after the tour.
While the most enjoyable part of the day was definately the harvest experience, it was vaguely uncomfortable as actual laborers toiled only a few rows away. I have no reason to believe that they are mistreated or underpayed, but I highly doubt their job is desirable. After all, they most likely work long hours in the sun while bent over. Thus, it seems a little odd that a groups of relatively affluent tourists flock to the vineyard to mimic (dare I say mock?) their experiences. Not sure why, but the entire tour seemed to belong on the website entitled "The Stuff White People Do."
When not frolicking in the countryside, I spend most of my time absorbed in schoolwork and internships, much as I would if I were at Tufts during the fall semester. This semester, rather than focusing on environmental justice, my internship involves education in Chile. I'm working with Sumate, a group dedicated to providing children from marginalized backgrounds with an education capable of allowing them to leave poverty.
Once a week, I meet with a few students in the "Becas Ed. Tec. Superior" program and provide English tutoring. This initiative provides youth from impoverished families with the tools needed to attend technical colleges and learn skills that will lead to well-paying jobs. Not only does the program give them financial assistence, but it also includes mandatory workshops and tutoring services. This, I believe, proves key in ensuring that most of the recipients graduate from their respective schools. Many of the students come from families without the cultural capital to navigate the system; with the help of Sumate, they will be given some of the resources children from more priviledged backgrounds often take for granted.
In addition to tutoring these students, I also teach English workshops at Escuela Hogar de Cristo as part of the "Reinsercion Educativa" program. This school accepts students who are, for whatever reason, no longer involved in the mainstream system. For instance, many of the girls have children and other students previously dropped out of school. Even after only a few visits to the school, it has become clear that these workshops will be both the amongst the most challenging and enjoyable projects I have undertaken while in Chile.
Although I may occasionally be a workaholic, I still do find time to relax. I've even taken up a new sport: soccer. Well, not quite new, but I haven't played in years. And I am, of course, still rocking out at salsa lessons, spending time with friends, and enjoying fall in Santiago!
14.4.10
La Búsqueda de un Campeón
Sports are often touted as a tool to unite warring factions within a society. While there are countless examples both affirming and refuting this conclusion, many arguments ignore a fundamental problem. Many sports transcend cultures. However, countless others do not. It would be very difficult, if not impossible, to unite two cultures on the field if one side finds the sport absolutely incomprehensible.
Prior to this weekend, I would have argued that few sports could overtly offend. Yet, after attending the Chilean National Rodeo this weekend, I can see how some pracices could prove utterly incomprehensible to foreigners. The goal of the sport seems to be to steer a cow into the wall and urge your horse to kick it until it falls to the ground. When it rises and runs, the horses and riders repeat the process. It seems barbaric, at least to my sensibilities as a resident of suburban Massachusetts.
In all fairness, I understand why many of the Chilean fans enjoyed the sport. Living and working on farms, cow herding is a way of surviving. Animal cruelty is, after all, a concept that only certain demographics can actually adhere to without greatly disrupting their lives. The rise of the sport and its continued support are certainly reasonable in this context.
But, I'll be honest, I won't be attending anymore rodeos either. I can understand the sport, but I will never enjoy it.
Some sports, however, seem to have more international appeal. Prior to the rodeo, I attended the Santiago Marathon. Although I do often see other runners on my daily jaunts through the city, runners are not nearly as common in Santiago as in the United States. People find it surprising that I run 10 kilometers a day (mas or menos); and it's even more unbelievable that I enjoy it. Yet, the sport is becoming increasingly widespread, as evidenced by the fact that the marathon sold out, albeit only a couple days before the starting gun went off.
Regardless, the event was certainly nothing like the marathon in Boston (which is a significantly smaller city); I stood only a few hundred yards from the starting line, but was entirely alone. Almost no other fans ventured out of their beds to cheer. Moreover, some of the athletes seemed to have had a hard time waking up as well, countless arrived only seconds before the start and some did not make it downtown until quite a bit later (it was timed by a chip, so I guess it doesn't matter).
Regardless of the contrast, the marathon made me miss racing. In a future blog, look for an update on the contrast between road races in the USA and Chile...from a competitor's perspective.
Pictures have, of course, been posted on Picasa.
Prior to this weekend, I would have argued that few sports could overtly offend. Yet, after attending the Chilean National Rodeo this weekend, I can see how some pracices could prove utterly incomprehensible to foreigners. The goal of the sport seems to be to steer a cow into the wall and urge your horse to kick it until it falls to the ground. When it rises and runs, the horses and riders repeat the process. It seems barbaric, at least to my sensibilities as a resident of suburban Massachusetts.
In all fairness, I understand why many of the Chilean fans enjoyed the sport. Living and working on farms, cow herding is a way of surviving. Animal cruelty is, after all, a concept that only certain demographics can actually adhere to without greatly disrupting their lives. The rise of the sport and its continued support are certainly reasonable in this context.
But, I'll be honest, I won't be attending anymore rodeos either. I can understand the sport, but I will never enjoy it.
Some sports, however, seem to have more international appeal. Prior to the rodeo, I attended the Santiago Marathon. Although I do often see other runners on my daily jaunts through the city, runners are not nearly as common in Santiago as in the United States. People find it surprising that I run 10 kilometers a day (mas or menos); and it's even more unbelievable that I enjoy it. Yet, the sport is becoming increasingly widespread, as evidenced by the fact that the marathon sold out, albeit only a couple days before the starting gun went off.
Regardless, the event was certainly nothing like the marathon in Boston (which is a significantly smaller city); I stood only a few hundred yards from the starting line, but was entirely alone. Almost no other fans ventured out of their beds to cheer. Moreover, some of the athletes seemed to have had a hard time waking up as well, countless arrived only seconds before the start and some did not make it downtown until quite a bit later (it was timed by a chip, so I guess it doesn't matter).
Regardless of the contrast, the marathon made me miss racing. In a future blog, look for an update on the contrast between road races in the USA and Chile...from a competitor's perspective.
Pictures have, of course, been posted on Picasa.
31.3.10
Por Lo Menos No Estoy Cubierta en Pintura
Something's afoot in Santiago. Swarms of individuals covered in paint have taken over the streets asking for money. Yet, they are not ordinary beggars; they laugh constantly and almost all seem to be between 18 and 20 years old. Who are they?
They are the mechoneos--or first year students--at most universities throughout Santiago. While in the United States any activities that remotely resemble hazing are strictly forbidden, Chile freshman receive a very public welcome.Upperclassmen shred their clothes and cover them in paint, tuna, pig guts, confetti, etc. Then, they are sent into the streets to beg for coins. It sounds awful, maybe even traumatizing.
On the contrary, most Chilean upperclassmen remember the experience fondly. There is, apparently, no better way to unite a group of new students and create enduring friendships.
And so, amid paint-splattered and foul-smelling freshman, my next semester in Chile has begun. Like last semester, I'm taking four classes along with a graded internship. Unfortunately, they happen to be located in five different spots throughout the sprawling city, which means that I either need to buy new "walking shoes" or prepare to spend hours languishing on public transportation. Pucha.
Admittedly, I knowingly ignored location when choosing my classes. I could spend all of my time on one campus, but then I wouldn't be nearly as excited about my classes this semester which include "La Ciudad y el Futbol," "Enfrentando la Pobreza," "La Politica de los EEUU hacia America Latina 1865-1990" y "Discursos Artisticos y Formas Politicos en America Latina." I have yet to choose an internship, although I have decided I would like to work with an organization tackling poverty using a multi-dimensional approach.
In addition to the subject matter, my assortment of classes proves interesting due to their varied locales on various campuses throughout the city. This semester, Tufts students have the opportunity to take classes at La Universidad de Chile and La Universidad Catolica. Although considered to be similarly competitive, the two institutions could not be more different.
As noted last semester, La Universidad de Chile has a distinctly leftist vibe at all its campuses. The most extreme, Macul, could even be considered somewhat anarchist. Political grafitti splatters the campus and (violent) protests and clashes with the police are not uncommon.
On the other hand, la Catolica reminds me of Tufts in that almost all purport to have strong political views, but very few actually act on them. Even the main campus resembles Tufts; dozens of buidings are nestled amid grassy lawns on whichs students study or recline in the sun.
Why study at two universities? Why endure long bus rides in order to traverse between classes? Although I often complain about the trips, the chance to experience Chile from two different perspectives is definately "vale la pena." At La Chile, I have to step outside my comfort zone and study in a still slightly unfamiliar environment, At La Catolica, on the other hand, the classes tend to be more challenging (in my admittedly limited experience) but the environment is eerily reminiscent of home.
Tufts and La Catolica are not, however, the same institution nor are they in the same hemisphere. After a few more weeks of classes and a few more hours spent on campus, I'm sure the differences will be more clear. At the moment, they do seem alike, but that's not necessarily a bad thing either.
They are the mechoneos--or first year students--at most universities throughout Santiago. While in the United States any activities that remotely resemble hazing are strictly forbidden, Chile freshman receive a very public welcome.Upperclassmen shred their clothes and cover them in paint, tuna, pig guts, confetti, etc. Then, they are sent into the streets to beg for coins. It sounds awful, maybe even traumatizing.
On the contrary, most Chilean upperclassmen remember the experience fondly. There is, apparently, no better way to unite a group of new students and create enduring friendships.
And so, amid paint-splattered and foul-smelling freshman, my next semester in Chile has begun. Like last semester, I'm taking four classes along with a graded internship. Unfortunately, they happen to be located in five different spots throughout the sprawling city, which means that I either need to buy new "walking shoes" or prepare to spend hours languishing on public transportation. Pucha.
Admittedly, I knowingly ignored location when choosing my classes. I could spend all of my time on one campus, but then I wouldn't be nearly as excited about my classes this semester which include "La Ciudad y el Futbol," "Enfrentando la Pobreza," "La Politica de los EEUU hacia America Latina 1865-1990" y "Discursos Artisticos y Formas Politicos en America Latina." I have yet to choose an internship, although I have decided I would like to work with an organization tackling poverty using a multi-dimensional approach.
In addition to the subject matter, my assortment of classes proves interesting due to their varied locales on various campuses throughout the city. This semester, Tufts students have the opportunity to take classes at La Universidad de Chile and La Universidad Catolica. Although considered to be similarly competitive, the two institutions could not be more different.
As noted last semester, La Universidad de Chile has a distinctly leftist vibe at all its campuses. The most extreme, Macul, could even be considered somewhat anarchist. Political grafitti splatters the campus and (violent) protests and clashes with the police are not uncommon.
On the other hand, la Catolica reminds me of Tufts in that almost all purport to have strong political views, but very few actually act on them. Even the main campus resembles Tufts; dozens of buidings are nestled amid grassy lawns on whichs students study or recline in the sun.
Why study at two universities? Why endure long bus rides in order to traverse between classes? Although I often complain about the trips, the chance to experience Chile from two different perspectives is definately "vale la pena." At La Chile, I have to step outside my comfort zone and study in a still slightly unfamiliar environment, At La Catolica, on the other hand, the classes tend to be more challenging (in my admittedly limited experience) but the environment is eerily reminiscent of home.
Tufts and La Catolica are not, however, the same institution nor are they in the same hemisphere. After a few more weeks of classes and a few more hours spent on campus, I'm sure the differences will be more clear. At the moment, they do seem alike, but that's not necessarily a bad thing either.
21.3.10
El Año del Verano Interminable: Perfecto
Growing up, summer vacation generally lasted for about two and a half months. College generally allows for longer breaks, but we're still back in the classroom a mere 3 and a half months after finishing our last finals. Luckily, summer in Chile has proven even longer. Although the circumstances around this prolonged break are certainly not ideal (La Universidad de Chile sustained some pretty significant damage during the quake), it has given us ample to time to reacquaint ourselves with Santiago and explore previously undiscovered corners of the city. Whether hunting for Chilean attire in the blur of colors that is Patronato, devouring exotic flavors of ice cream at Emporio de la Rosa (Chocolate Pepperocino or Miel del Ulma anyone?), jogging along El Rio Mapocho, or making homemade french fries, the added weeks without much work are certainly appreciated.
While I love the city, I've also enjoyed the chance to escape the endless cement grid on occassion. A couple weeks ago, most of the remaining Tufts-in-Chile crew reunited and hopped on a bus to Algorobo and spent a day on the beach. Unfortunately, the cloudy weather wasn't ideal for sunbathing and sloshing in the waves, but it did allow us to spread across the nearly vacant beach to toss a frisbee around (or, more accurately, try to throw it) and listen to Kamillah and Katrina strum on the guitar.
Even activities considered more "American" can prove to be interesting cultural experiences as well. In an effort to stimulate the economy after the earthquakes, most cinemas are offering significantly cheaper tickets. Obviously, we couldn't resist the opportunity to see "Valentine's Day" or "El Dia de los Enamorados." Although a relatively predictable romantic-comedy, it was definately an enjoyable film if only because of the vast quantities of Tufts merchandise in Jessica Biel's office (she's attended Tufts for a year before dropping out to pursue a film career) and some sizzling social commentary (let's be honest, we go to Tufts. Of course, we love that stuff).
It was also an incredibly interesting look into Chilean culture. Although most movies and television programs in this country have been imported from the United States, it was soon clear that some of the jokes just don't translate. Frequently, my "gringo" friends and I would be consumed with laughter only to realize that we were the only people chortling in the relatively crowded theater. And I promise the jokes were actually funny in an American cultural context. Some subjects, especially homosexuality, are still somewhat taboo in Chile and the related storyline just didn't seem to amuse most of the audience. Interestingly, many criticize the American media for exporting its values (I wouldn't call them American values) around the world, yet it seems as if many of these ideas remain foreign in Chile and most likely in other places across the globe.
Anyways, summer looks like its about to draw to a close. Classes in the majority of faculties at La Chile begin tomorrow and, combined with my two classes at La Catolica, I'll finally have a full schedule. But, I'm not too worried, we're in Chile. I'm sure we'll find more time to go to the beach.
While I love the city, I've also enjoyed the chance to escape the endless cement grid on occassion. A couple weeks ago, most of the remaining Tufts-in-Chile crew reunited and hopped on a bus to Algorobo and spent a day on the beach. Unfortunately, the cloudy weather wasn't ideal for sunbathing and sloshing in the waves, but it did allow us to spread across the nearly vacant beach to toss a frisbee around (or, more accurately, try to throw it) and listen to Kamillah and Katrina strum on the guitar.
Even activities considered more "American" can prove to be interesting cultural experiences as well. In an effort to stimulate the economy after the earthquakes, most cinemas are offering significantly cheaper tickets. Obviously, we couldn't resist the opportunity to see "Valentine's Day" or "El Dia de los Enamorados." Although a relatively predictable romantic-comedy, it was definately an enjoyable film if only because of the vast quantities of Tufts merchandise in Jessica Biel's office (she's attended Tufts for a year before dropping out to pursue a film career) and some sizzling social commentary (let's be honest, we go to Tufts. Of course, we love that stuff).
It was also an incredibly interesting look into Chilean culture. Although most movies and television programs in this country have been imported from the United States, it was soon clear that some of the jokes just don't translate. Frequently, my "gringo" friends and I would be consumed with laughter only to realize that we were the only people chortling in the relatively crowded theater. And I promise the jokes were actually funny in an American cultural context. Some subjects, especially homosexuality, are still somewhat taboo in Chile and the related storyline just didn't seem to amuse most of the audience. Interestingly, many criticize the American media for exporting its values (I wouldn't call them American values) around the world, yet it seems as if many of these ideas remain foreign in Chile and most likely in other places across the globe.
Anyways, summer looks like its about to draw to a close. Classes in the majority of faculties at La Chile begin tomorrow and, combined with my two classes at La Catolica, I'll finally have a full schedule. But, I'm not too worried, we're in Chile. I'm sure we'll find more time to go to the beach.
10.3.10
The Stove Exploded, the Guide Vanished, and It Rained in San Pedro....FML
As we traveled through Peru and northern Chile, everything went wrong. Stoves exploded, tour guides abandoned us, and rain fell in San Pedro. Yet, we still had an incredible time exploring Arequipa, Cuzco, Arica, San Pedro, and even Calama (an unforeseen final stop on our marathon trek).
Arequipa
After spending a rough night being attacked by swarms of flies in the airport in Arica, we finally set off for Arequipa early on Friday morning. The trip itself, although long, was relatively uneventful. We crossed the Peruvian border, met a Peruvian history professor who recounted old Incan myths to us for the majority of our journey, and watched countless bad (and badly dubbed) movies as our bus traversed the Peruvian desert.
Upon arriving, we meandered through the historic city. The center consists almost entirely of old buildings constructed from white rock from the surrounding volcanoes. It seemed as if each narrow block featured its own elaborate cathedral and convent. For dinner, we tried a unique Peruvian delicacy: cuy or guinea pig. Slightly rico, but I’m not sure I’ll be eating it again anytime soon. After all, his head was still attached.
Athough still overtired from the overnight flight the night before, we climbed out of bed at 2:30 AM to board a bus to Colca Canyon, the deepest canyon in the world. Throughout the day, we saw Andean condors, enjoyed stunning views of the canyons, saw some old ruins, and otherwise enjoyed the trip through the lush valley. It was an incredibly calm day.
The night, however, was anything but serene. Shortly after returning to Arequipa, we began cooking dinner in our hostel. As the pasta boiled and the homemade sauce simmered, we relaxed nearby. Suddenly, a sharp bang jolted us from our seats. The glass part of the stove had somehow exploded from the heat and shards of glass covered the floor. Luckily, no one was hurt although the food wasn’t quite edible given the likelihood that some glass had found its way inside the pots.
The night improved drastically only a few hours later. As we sat chatting at a roof top bar, some random fireworks danced across the sky somewhere else in the city. Stunning.
The next day, we spent more time exploring the city. Whether visiting more religious sites, artisan fairs, or markets, everything was stunning. The one blemish on the day was the police officer brutally kicking a drunkard on a street corner. While I don’t necessarily condone the victim’s behavior, it was a painful reminder that two different worlds exist within Peru’s borders (and in many other, if not all, countries in this world): the tourist and the reality for thousands if not millions of impoverished individuals.
This message was further cemented that evening as we bussed to Cuzco. A fatal accident delayed our vehicle for nearly four hours. Due to ice, perilous mountain roads, and lack of local emergency services, it took several hours for help to arrive. Could lives have been saved if firefighters or EMTs were more readily available? I can’t accurately answer that question, but combined with my experiences while locked in the bathroom in Paraguay, I am increasingly glad that the United States boasts efficient emergency services (at least where I live). I haven’t, fortunately, ever needed to call 911 though, so I’m relying on the five minute response time promised by firefighters who lectured in our elementary schools.
Cuzco
Whenever tourists discuss traveling to Cuzco, it’s generally considered a given that they journey further into the sacred valley to visit Machu Picchu as well. Unfortunately, the archaeological site has been closed since mid-January due to heavy rains that destroyed most roads in the area. Although we grumbled about missing a location often described as stunning and incredible, the situation is far worse for the majority of Peruvians living in the surrounding villages. Without the constant flow of tourists they have no jobs and cannot provide for themselves and their families, as demonstrated by the protest we witnessed our final day in the city.
Even without Machu Picchu, we were never bored while in Cuzco. We spent countless hours meandering through the narrow streets scaling the mountainsides, perusing through shops boasting Incan artwork and crafts, and dancing la salsa. The first night, we stumbled upon some salsa lessons and a discoteca where we would spend far too many hours during the next few nights with some newfound Peruvian friends.
This schedule proved exhausting; we still stumbled out of bed early in the morning in order to explore the city. One morning, we enlisted a local guide to take us to the various Incan ruins that dot the Andes mountains on horseback. After spending roughly on horseback, we finally reached Pukara and Tambochay. Our guide promised to stay with the horses while we wandered through the ruins. Unfortunately, it began raining and he vanished (unbeknownst to us at the time, the tour was temporarily suspended due to the inclement weather. Lost deep in the Andes Mountains, freezing cold, and soaked, we eventually located a minibus and retreated to Cuzco in order to dry off and find some coffee to chase away the chill.
The next few days included treks up to Cristo Blanco to see the city, an improved Incan dance performance on a mountain top, perusing dozens of artisan shops, lounging around in the plaza and watching a demonstration, dinner with Gaby (whose currently studying in Cuzco), stalking Amilcar, and finally joining him for coffee and a long chat on the American influence in the city. And lots and lots of salsa. Although we spent more time in Cuzco than any other city on our trip, I can say with certainty that we were definitely not ready to leave.
Arica
When initially planning our journey, we expected a marathon bus trip from Cuzco to San Pedro de Atacama lasting about 27 hours. Fortunately, our plans changed slightly and we broke up the trek into two more manageable segments lasting 17 and 10 hours respectively and spent a day relaxing in Arica, Chile. Or, more specifically, lounging around on the beach in this city on the shore before embarking on the next leg of our trip.
While we did not actually feel it, an earthquake measuring 8.8 on the Richter Scale rattled Chile while we dozed on the bus. We learned of it upon our arrival in San Pedro, but did not understand the magnitude of what had occurred until much later than evening (which explains why we failed to contact anyone in the US for several hours). Luckily, all of our host families and friends survived the disaster unharmed. My family’s washing machine even managed to fix itself as it shook on the balcony.
San Pedro de Atacama
Our final planned destination on the trip was a well-known tourist mecca deep in the Atacama desert. Unlike previous stops, we could not explore this city and the surrounding area on our own. Due to the immense, uninhabited expanses separating the city from various attractions, we had to enlist guides. We were not thrilled to lose some of our freedom, but it actually proved an excellent experience as we met interesting characters from across the globe.
The first night, we journeyed to Valle de la Luna. Unfortunately, as we wandered through the stunning rock and salt formations, it began to rain. Or maybe it wasn’t so unfortunate…as this is truly a remarkable occurrence in the Atacama Desert. It is, after all, the driest desert in the world and it only rained once in 2009 and never even rained in 2008.
After the brief shower, we continued meandering through the rocks, sampling the ample quantities of salt, and enjoying the views of the distant volcanoes. Eventually, the sun began to set and we perched on a rock ledge to watch the sun fall beneath the horizon and the sky and rocks turn a dazzling array of colors.
The next morning, we embarked on a trip to the Salar de Atacama and Lagunas Antiplanicas. The Salar de Atacama is an endless expanse of salt broken up by some small rivers and highways teeming with wild llamas and flamingos. After exploring a small portion of the salar (it is the third largest in the world), so hoped back into the vans and began a rapid ascent. Within two hours, we were thousands of meters above sea level and enjoyed a stunning walk along the shores two shimmering lakes. Nearby, volcanoes scrapped the sky while vicunas (llama-esque creatures frolicked in the field). Too soon, we began our descent and stopped in two tiny villages (Socaire and Tocanao) before returning to San Pedro.
Although tired from our trip, we again crawled out of bed at an ungodly hour to visit the Tatio Geysers Monday morning. As the boiling streams of water are most active between 6:00-8:00 AM, we arrived at the site early enough to view sunrise through the mist. Although we admittedly grumbled a bit about leaving at 3:30AM, it was definitely worth the early trek, if only to hear our Bolivian guide tell Ayamaran legends throughout the trip.
Calama
We initially planned to return to Santiago on Monday; however, due to the earthquake, cancelled flights, and an endless stream of worried emails from Tufts and our parents in the United States, we decided to stay in the desert for a few extra nights. Although we enjoyed our time in San Pedro, we moved to they nearby town of Calama due to communication difficulties when we were in the tourist mecca.
After waiting in several interminable lines that spilled into the street at the airline’s office, we finally rescheduled our flight for Thursday evening. In the meantime, we relaxed in the plazas, wandered through the down town area, and enjoyed far too much standard Chilean fare. We were all eager to return home and see our families, but the downtown was an excellent opportunity to unwind and catch up on all the sleep lost while sitting on overnight buses, salsa-ing until dawn, and arising before dawn for various tours.
We finally returned to Santiago Thursday evening. Luckily, we left Calama about 20 minutes before this city was rattled by another earthquake measuring 7.2 on the Richter Scale. A few hours later, after passing through an airport consisting of tents, we had finally arrived in Santiago and were soon shaking ourselves as the still-frequent aftershocks continued to unnerve the city.
Pictures have, of course, been posted on Picasa.
Arequipa
After spending a rough night being attacked by swarms of flies in the airport in Arica, we finally set off for Arequipa early on Friday morning. The trip itself, although long, was relatively uneventful. We crossed the Peruvian border, met a Peruvian history professor who recounted old Incan myths to us for the majority of our journey, and watched countless bad (and badly dubbed) movies as our bus traversed the Peruvian desert.
Upon arriving, we meandered through the historic city. The center consists almost entirely of old buildings constructed from white rock from the surrounding volcanoes. It seemed as if each narrow block featured its own elaborate cathedral and convent. For dinner, we tried a unique Peruvian delicacy: cuy or guinea pig. Slightly rico, but I’m not sure I’ll be eating it again anytime soon. After all, his head was still attached.
Athough still overtired from the overnight flight the night before, we climbed out of bed at 2:30 AM to board a bus to Colca Canyon, the deepest canyon in the world. Throughout the day, we saw Andean condors, enjoyed stunning views of the canyons, saw some old ruins, and otherwise enjoyed the trip through the lush valley. It was an incredibly calm day.
The night, however, was anything but serene. Shortly after returning to Arequipa, we began cooking dinner in our hostel. As the pasta boiled and the homemade sauce simmered, we relaxed nearby. Suddenly, a sharp bang jolted us from our seats. The glass part of the stove had somehow exploded from the heat and shards of glass covered the floor. Luckily, no one was hurt although the food wasn’t quite edible given the likelihood that some glass had found its way inside the pots.
The night improved drastically only a few hours later. As we sat chatting at a roof top bar, some random fireworks danced across the sky somewhere else in the city. Stunning.
The next day, we spent more time exploring the city. Whether visiting more religious sites, artisan fairs, or markets, everything was stunning. The one blemish on the day was the police officer brutally kicking a drunkard on a street corner. While I don’t necessarily condone the victim’s behavior, it was a painful reminder that two different worlds exist within Peru’s borders (and in many other, if not all, countries in this world): the tourist and the reality for thousands if not millions of impoverished individuals.
This message was further cemented that evening as we bussed to Cuzco. A fatal accident delayed our vehicle for nearly four hours. Due to ice, perilous mountain roads, and lack of local emergency services, it took several hours for help to arrive. Could lives have been saved if firefighters or EMTs were more readily available? I can’t accurately answer that question, but combined with my experiences while locked in the bathroom in Paraguay, I am increasingly glad that the United States boasts efficient emergency services (at least where I live). I haven’t, fortunately, ever needed to call 911 though, so I’m relying on the five minute response time promised by firefighters who lectured in our elementary schools.
Cuzco
Whenever tourists discuss traveling to Cuzco, it’s generally considered a given that they journey further into the sacred valley to visit Machu Picchu as well. Unfortunately, the archaeological site has been closed since mid-January due to heavy rains that destroyed most roads in the area. Although we grumbled about missing a location often described as stunning and incredible, the situation is far worse for the majority of Peruvians living in the surrounding villages. Without the constant flow of tourists they have no jobs and cannot provide for themselves and their families, as demonstrated by the protest we witnessed our final day in the city.
Even without Machu Picchu, we were never bored while in Cuzco. We spent countless hours meandering through the narrow streets scaling the mountainsides, perusing through shops boasting Incan artwork and crafts, and dancing la salsa. The first night, we stumbled upon some salsa lessons and a discoteca where we would spend far too many hours during the next few nights with some newfound Peruvian friends.
This schedule proved exhausting; we still stumbled out of bed early in the morning in order to explore the city. One morning, we enlisted a local guide to take us to the various Incan ruins that dot the Andes mountains on horseback. After spending roughly on horseback, we finally reached Pukara and Tambochay. Our guide promised to stay with the horses while we wandered through the ruins. Unfortunately, it began raining and he vanished (unbeknownst to us at the time, the tour was temporarily suspended due to the inclement weather. Lost deep in the Andes Mountains, freezing cold, and soaked, we eventually located a minibus and retreated to Cuzco in order to dry off and find some coffee to chase away the chill.
The next few days included treks up to Cristo Blanco to see the city, an improved Incan dance performance on a mountain top, perusing dozens of artisan shops, lounging around in the plaza and watching a demonstration, dinner with Gaby (whose currently studying in Cuzco), stalking Amilcar, and finally joining him for coffee and a long chat on the American influence in the city. And lots and lots of salsa. Although we spent more time in Cuzco than any other city on our trip, I can say with certainty that we were definitely not ready to leave.
Arica
When initially planning our journey, we expected a marathon bus trip from Cuzco to San Pedro de Atacama lasting about 27 hours. Fortunately, our plans changed slightly and we broke up the trek into two more manageable segments lasting 17 and 10 hours respectively and spent a day relaxing in Arica, Chile. Or, more specifically, lounging around on the beach in this city on the shore before embarking on the next leg of our trip.
While we did not actually feel it, an earthquake measuring 8.8 on the Richter Scale rattled Chile while we dozed on the bus. We learned of it upon our arrival in San Pedro, but did not understand the magnitude of what had occurred until much later than evening (which explains why we failed to contact anyone in the US for several hours). Luckily, all of our host families and friends survived the disaster unharmed. My family’s washing machine even managed to fix itself as it shook on the balcony.
San Pedro de Atacama
Our final planned destination on the trip was a well-known tourist mecca deep in the Atacama desert. Unlike previous stops, we could not explore this city and the surrounding area on our own. Due to the immense, uninhabited expanses separating the city from various attractions, we had to enlist guides. We were not thrilled to lose some of our freedom, but it actually proved an excellent experience as we met interesting characters from across the globe.
The first night, we journeyed to Valle de la Luna. Unfortunately, as we wandered through the stunning rock and salt formations, it began to rain. Or maybe it wasn’t so unfortunate…as this is truly a remarkable occurrence in the Atacama Desert. It is, after all, the driest desert in the world and it only rained once in 2009 and never even rained in 2008.
After the brief shower, we continued meandering through the rocks, sampling the ample quantities of salt, and enjoying the views of the distant volcanoes. Eventually, the sun began to set and we perched on a rock ledge to watch the sun fall beneath the horizon and the sky and rocks turn a dazzling array of colors.
The next morning, we embarked on a trip to the Salar de Atacama and Lagunas Antiplanicas. The Salar de Atacama is an endless expanse of salt broken up by some small rivers and highways teeming with wild llamas and flamingos. After exploring a small portion of the salar (it is the third largest in the world), so hoped back into the vans and began a rapid ascent. Within two hours, we were thousands of meters above sea level and enjoyed a stunning walk along the shores two shimmering lakes. Nearby, volcanoes scrapped the sky while vicunas (llama-esque creatures frolicked in the field). Too soon, we began our descent and stopped in two tiny villages (Socaire and Tocanao) before returning to San Pedro.
Although tired from our trip, we again crawled out of bed at an ungodly hour to visit the Tatio Geysers Monday morning. As the boiling streams of water are most active between 6:00-8:00 AM, we arrived at the site early enough to view sunrise through the mist. Although we admittedly grumbled a bit about leaving at 3:30AM, it was definitely worth the early trek, if only to hear our Bolivian guide tell Ayamaran legends throughout the trip.
Calama
We initially planned to return to Santiago on Monday; however, due to the earthquake, cancelled flights, and an endless stream of worried emails from Tufts and our parents in the United States, we decided to stay in the desert for a few extra nights. Although we enjoyed our time in San Pedro, we moved to they nearby town of Calama due to communication difficulties when we were in the tourist mecca.
After waiting in several interminable lines that spilled into the street at the airline’s office, we finally rescheduled our flight for Thursday evening. In the meantime, we relaxed in the plazas, wandered through the down town area, and enjoyed far too much standard Chilean fare. We were all eager to return home and see our families, but the downtown was an excellent opportunity to unwind and catch up on all the sleep lost while sitting on overnight buses, salsa-ing until dawn, and arising before dawn for various tours.
We finally returned to Santiago Thursday evening. Luckily, we left Calama about 20 minutes before this city was rattled by another earthquake measuring 7.2 on the Richter Scale. A few hours later, after passing through an airport consisting of tents, we had finally arrived in Santiago and were soon shaking ourselves as the still-frequent aftershocks continued to unnerve the city.
Pictures have, of course, been posted on Picasa.
6.3.10
Life in a Shaken City
After spending far too many hours wedged onto a bus, we finally arrived in San Pedro de Atacama slightly before noon on February 27, 2010. I had barely slept throughout the past week, but still could not suppress a smile when looking at my surroundings consisting of arid desert and snow-capped volcanoes scrapping the sky. To put it simply, it was absolutely stunning.
Our earth, unfortunately, is not only beautiful but incredibly dangerous as well. Earlier that morning, an earthquake measuring 8.8 (the fifth largest quake ever recorded) on the Richter scale had rattled much of Chile and destroying countless lives. A series of tsunamis further terrorized Chileans living in costal regions and nearly obliterated numerous towns. To date, the death toll reaches into the hundreds and the whereabouts of hundreds of others remain unknown.
Given the magnitude of the natural destruction, it is mind-boggling that many consider the greatest tragedy to be one of human origin: the looting plaguing Concepcion in the chaos following the quake. Both individuals and bands of thieves stole everything from clothing to electronics from both homes and stores in the city. One major department store was burned to the ground.
Luckily, we did not feel the quake itself nor witness any looting or mayhem, but the impact of the disaster affected our return to Santiago and will most likely continue to impact our experiences throughout the rest of the semester. Physically, Santiago is relatively unharmed. The majority of buildings and houses remain standing due to stringent building codes; water and electricity have since returned to most neighborhoods.
Yet, it is still a wounded city. Many report being unable to sleep at night. Even the smallest aftershocks ( a daily occurrence) trigger fearful reactions in many residents, although they should be accustomed to small disturbances as they live in seismically active city. Work has since resumed and classes are about t begin, but all has definitely not returned to normal.
Not only has the quake revealed the fears of the city, but it has also demonstrated the resolve of both Santiago and the entire nation. It is impossible to walk even three blocks without being implored to donate some non-perishable food items or a bottle of shampoo. Money is, of course, needed as well and Chileans exhibited their generosity during a recent telethon in which they raised $60,000,000, doubling organizers’ goal of $30,000,000.
The support extends beyond the material, of course. Nearly all of the busses clogging the city’s streets sport painted windows declaring “Vamos Chile” or “Fuerza Chile.” And, perhaps I am imagining it, but I have seen a definite surge in Chilean soccer jerseys and other such patriotic attire in the streets.
Without a doubt, the earthquake, tsumanis, and subsequent looting were tragic, but such overwhelming solidarity and generosity proves that Chile will most certainly be able to rebuild and will most likely become a stronger nation than ever before.
FUERZA CHILE!
(The earthquake occurred during the final days of an incredible trip through Peru and the Chilean desert. I chose to discuss the quake as it is obviously an event that has had and will have a huge impact on my host country. A blog or novel chronicling our trip will be written soon!)
Our earth, unfortunately, is not only beautiful but incredibly dangerous as well. Earlier that morning, an earthquake measuring 8.8 (the fifth largest quake ever recorded) on the Richter scale had rattled much of Chile and destroying countless lives. A series of tsunamis further terrorized Chileans living in costal regions and nearly obliterated numerous towns. To date, the death toll reaches into the hundreds and the whereabouts of hundreds of others remain unknown.
Given the magnitude of the natural destruction, it is mind-boggling that many consider the greatest tragedy to be one of human origin: the looting plaguing Concepcion in the chaos following the quake. Both individuals and bands of thieves stole everything from clothing to electronics from both homes and stores in the city. One major department store was burned to the ground.
Luckily, we did not feel the quake itself nor witness any looting or mayhem, but the impact of the disaster affected our return to Santiago and will most likely continue to impact our experiences throughout the rest of the semester. Physically, Santiago is relatively unharmed. The majority of buildings and houses remain standing due to stringent building codes; water and electricity have since returned to most neighborhoods.
Yet, it is still a wounded city. Many report being unable to sleep at night. Even the smallest aftershocks ( a daily occurrence) trigger fearful reactions in many residents, although they should be accustomed to small disturbances as they live in seismically active city. Work has since resumed and classes are about t begin, but all has definitely not returned to normal.
Not only has the quake revealed the fears of the city, but it has also demonstrated the resolve of both Santiago and the entire nation. It is impossible to walk even three blocks without being implored to donate some non-perishable food items or a bottle of shampoo. Money is, of course, needed as well and Chileans exhibited their generosity during a recent telethon in which they raised $60,000,000, doubling organizers’ goal of $30,000,000.
The support extends beyond the material, of course. Nearly all of the busses clogging the city’s streets sport painted windows declaring “Vamos Chile” or “Fuerza Chile.” And, perhaps I am imagining it, but I have seen a definite surge in Chilean soccer jerseys and other such patriotic attire in the streets.
Without a doubt, the earthquake, tsumanis, and subsequent looting were tragic, but such overwhelming solidarity and generosity proves that Chile will most certainly be able to rebuild and will most likely become a stronger nation than ever before.
FUERZA CHILE!
(The earthquake occurred during the final days of an incredible trip through Peru and the Chilean desert. I chose to discuss the quake as it is obviously an event that has had and will have a huge impact on my host country. A blog or novel chronicling our trip will be written soon!)
9.2.10
Sólo Quiero Ver
Don’t I have the right to be able to see five meters in front of me?
While my imperfect eyesight has been corrected by contact lenses, I still find myself crashing into walls and carefully scaling the stairs nearly every night. Why? Constant power outages have been continually plaguing Asunción. Although the power has never been particularly reliable in this city, a recent heat wave ( 45 degrees Celsius nearly every day. YIKES) and a consequent spike in air conditioning usage amongst those lucky enough to have such systems have overwhelmed the electrical system causing frequent black-outs.
Ironically, Paraguay boasts joint-ownership of the second largest hydroelectric dam in the world (as discussed in my last post). It just lacks adequate infrastructure to transport the electricity throughout the country, making black-outs common. Not only are they extremely annoying, but they also greatly hinder workplace productivity. At Fundación Paraguaya, and the majority of other businesses in the country I believe, the majority of the staff work on desktop computers. Power outages, therefore, generally signify several hours of wasted time. How can a developing economy expect to flourish if its businesses cannot even enjoy uninterrupted workdays? It seems obvious that the Paraguayan government and the company controlling the distribution of electricity (ANDE) must invest in more power lines. However, there is no money for such a costly investment. It’s a catch-22; the economy cannot grow due to a lack of infrastructures and, consequently, the government cannot raise enough money to facilitate the construction of such resources.
The link between infrastructure and sight extends beyond the power lines. Last Thursday, I attended a women’s committee meeting in which the group addressed safety concerns in their neighborhood. They planned to paint the telephone poles and trees lining the road white. Although not necessarily attractive, the paint serves to warn drivers of their existence if driving after dark. Street lights don’t exist in this neighborhood after all.
Given the extreme heat, the project went surprisingly well. I was slightly disappointed that the majority of the women briefly participated before relaxing under a tree to drink terere while Fundación Paraguaya staff and their children continued to work. Yet, the kids clearly had an excellent time and it was interesting to watch them take ownership of the project and their neighborhood. In fact, their involvement and investment in the work may be an unintended benefit of Proyecto Limpieza in Mariano Roque Alonso.
Friday, I again ventured outside Casa Matriz. Rather than trekking to another office in the countryside, I had the opportunity to meet with two women credited with leading the Women’s Rights Movement in Paraguay. For several hours, we snacked on pastries, sipped tea from an antique tea set, and chatted about their past work, their goals, and their personal stories of life in a machista society. Although I frequently mention astonishing statistics regarding gender equality (or the lack thereof) in Paraguay, the women’s rights movement has clearly made significant strides. For instance, only a few decades ago children borne by unmarried women could not even attend school. Relatively recent legislation, fortunately, explicitly gives such children (and all women equal rights) but ingrained cultural attitudes remain pervasive in some parts of the country.
While my imperfect eyesight has been corrected by contact lenses, I still find myself crashing into walls and carefully scaling the stairs nearly every night. Why? Constant power outages have been continually plaguing Asunción. Although the power has never been particularly reliable in this city, a recent heat wave ( 45 degrees Celsius nearly every day. YIKES) and a consequent spike in air conditioning usage amongst those lucky enough to have such systems have overwhelmed the electrical system causing frequent black-outs.
Ironically, Paraguay boasts joint-ownership of the second largest hydroelectric dam in the world (as discussed in my last post). It just lacks adequate infrastructure to transport the electricity throughout the country, making black-outs common. Not only are they extremely annoying, but they also greatly hinder workplace productivity. At Fundación Paraguaya, and the majority of other businesses in the country I believe, the majority of the staff work on desktop computers. Power outages, therefore, generally signify several hours of wasted time. How can a developing economy expect to flourish if its businesses cannot even enjoy uninterrupted workdays? It seems obvious that the Paraguayan government and the company controlling the distribution of electricity (ANDE) must invest in more power lines. However, there is no money for such a costly investment. It’s a catch-22; the economy cannot grow due to a lack of infrastructures and, consequently, the government cannot raise enough money to facilitate the construction of such resources.
The link between infrastructure and sight extends beyond the power lines. Last Thursday, I attended a women’s committee meeting in which the group addressed safety concerns in their neighborhood. They planned to paint the telephone poles and trees lining the road white. Although not necessarily attractive, the paint serves to warn drivers of their existence if driving after dark. Street lights don’t exist in this neighborhood after all.
Given the extreme heat, the project went surprisingly well. I was slightly disappointed that the majority of the women briefly participated before relaxing under a tree to drink terere while Fundación Paraguaya staff and their children continued to work. Yet, the kids clearly had an excellent time and it was interesting to watch them take ownership of the project and their neighborhood. In fact, their involvement and investment in the work may be an unintended benefit of Proyecto Limpieza in Mariano Roque Alonso.
Friday, I again ventured outside Casa Matriz. Rather than trekking to another office in the countryside, I had the opportunity to meet with two women credited with leading the Women’s Rights Movement in Paraguay. For several hours, we snacked on pastries, sipped tea from an antique tea set, and chatted about their past work, their goals, and their personal stories of life in a machista society. Although I frequently mention astonishing statistics regarding gender equality (or the lack thereof) in Paraguay, the women’s rights movement has clearly made significant strides. For instance, only a few decades ago children borne by unmarried women could not even attend school. Relatively recent legislation, fortunately, explicitly gives such children (and all women equal rights) but ingrained cultural attitudes remain pervasive in some parts of the country.
3.2.10
"If It Doesn't Hurt, It's Not a Sunburn"
Dear Travel Guides,
Do you mean to suggest that there are only seven wonders of the natural world? Do you truely believe that man has only created seven wonders in the modern world?
Love,
A confused backpacker
Perhaps the only thing more ridiculous than the number of "wonder lists" found online is the existence of these lists in the first place. How can anyone attempt to name the seven best sites given the sheer quantity of majestic locales dotting the globe? Why is the Grand Canyon anymore deserving of a spot on this prestigious list than the towering peaks on the Torres del Paine?
Regardless of the absurdity of such lists, the majority of highlighted sites are truly incredible and I had the opportunity to experience both a natural wonder and a modern one this past weekend.
Taking advantage of the vacation days afforded to each intern, I began my trek to Iguazu Falls late Wednesday night to meet Mim and Row the following morning at our hostel. Or more accurately, resort. Unlike typical hostels, this one featured a pool, pool side bar, and game room in addition to the standard dorm rooms and plethora of accents from around the world.
By the time we finished gaping at our surroundings, pretending to play ping-pong, and frolicking in the pool, it was too late to journey to the falls. We consequently dragged ourselves out to bed early Friday morning to maximize our time in the park.
Iguazu Falls. Amazing. Incredible. Phenomenal. Thousands of gallons of water spill over the falls which span nearly two miles along the Argentinean and Brazilian borders. Lush green rainforest surrounds and it teems with wildlife including swarms of butterflies, cotes, lizards, and gigantic spiders. Once we finally tore ourselves away from the falls we trekked through the rainforest until arriving at a small pond fed by a comparatively gentle, albeit tall, waterfall. Hot and tired, we jumped in to escape the oppressive heat. It was, I must admit, a much more enjoyable swim than me and Mim's brief dip in the glacial lake in Torres Del Paine.
Unfortunately, Saturday morning signaled the end of our time together. While my Australian amigos continued onto Salta, I hopped onto an express bus to Paraguay and started my journey home. The trip began with a brief stint in Brazil. Well, almost. The bus passed through the country but we could not disembark unless we stopped at customs and bought a pricey visa. So, I only experienced the nation through a window, but I still get a point in the admittedly stupid game of country collection, right?
After spending roughly an hour in Brazil, we entered Paraguay. Surprisingly, the bus seemingly forgot to stop at customs. If I was simply a local traveler, this wouldn't have been a problem. However, I'll be flying out of Paraguay in a couple weeks and can not do so without either an entry stamp or a large wad of cash to pay the fine. I consequently hopped off the bus on an unknown street corner and meandered through the overflowing streets until finding a customs officer and my stamp.
In the process, I also spotted a casa de cambio. As I still needed to change some Argentine pesos to Guaranis, I stepped inside assuming it was like any other casa de cambio. I was, to put it mildly, wrong. About 8 guards armed with gigantic guns lined the room while numerous men waited to change small fortunes. They dumped bags of pesos, guaranis, and reals on the table in exchange for thick wads of US dollar bills (and by that I mean hundred dollar bills). Each man appeared to leave with enough cash to pay for at least a year of my college education. Needless to say, the banker scoffed at my small fortune of 69 Argentine Pesos (between US$18-US$20). I had to endure a few more smirks from the staff, but at least I left with a handful of Guaranis and some unforeseen insight into the world of money laundering in Latin America.
Still slightly confused by my experiences in the casa de cambio, I began wandering through Ciudad del Este. Although I didn't stay for too long, the city certainly lived up to its reputation as a lawless border city. The informal shops and markets easily dwarfed those of Asuncion's Mercado 4 and its vendors sold everything from cheap electronics to locally-grown produce. Any shops housed within actual buildings were surrounded by armed guards constantly shifting oversized guns and sawed off shot guns from arm to arm. Meanwhile, thousands of people speaking in a mix of Spanish, Portuguese, and Guarani ambled through the stalls.
Although intrigued by the mayhem, I soon hopped onto a bus heading to the local town of Hernandarias. While the town itself proved relatively non-descript, it boasts the second largest hydroelectric power plant in the world: Itaipu Dam. Considered one of the seven man-made wonders of the world, it powers the entirety of Paraguay and upwards of 20% of Brazil. I, of course, took a tour of the facility.
The views of the power plant and river were stunning, but I actually left the facility slightly irritated by the entire experience. Understandably, the dam's operators created a tour designed to celebrate their architectural achievements while completely ignoring more controversial aspects of the project. For instance, no one mentioned that its construction destroyed a series of waterfalls once considered larger and grander than Iguazu Falls. Nor did anyone note that Paraguayans pay ludicrously large amounts for electricity due to an unfair accord with Brazil involving the dam's electricity production. Moreover, rolling blackouts still plague Paraguay. We've already had three today...and its only a little before 7:00.
After spending the next few hours exploring some unremarkable museums and zoos in the area, I finally hoped onto a bus returning to Asuncion eager to spend a night resting in my own bed. My adventure, I foolishly believed, was over. Within fifteen minutes of entering my empty house, I realized I had been sorely mistaken. I had locked the bathroom door when using it. No big deal...right?
Unfortunately, it was a very big deal. The lock managed to break while I was inside and I couldn't escape. I tried everything: picking the lock, screaming, etc. Yet, I was still sitting in the sweltering bathroom almost three hours later when Izas finally returned home. Upon hearing my pleas for help, she too began fighting with the door. After an hour, she finally called the fire department. There was absolutely nothing else we could do.
Although the fire department indicated that they believed it was an emergency (they arrived with lights flashing after all), they didn't charge up the stairs to rescue me until nearly an hour later. Six firefighters kicked down the door at approximately 4:00 AM. Por fin.
Pictures of Iguazu and Itaipu have been posted on Picasa.
Do you mean to suggest that there are only seven wonders of the natural world? Do you truely believe that man has only created seven wonders in the modern world?
Love,
A confused backpacker
Perhaps the only thing more ridiculous than the number of "wonder lists" found online is the existence of these lists in the first place. How can anyone attempt to name the seven best sites given the sheer quantity of majestic locales dotting the globe? Why is the Grand Canyon anymore deserving of a spot on this prestigious list than the towering peaks on the Torres del Paine?
Regardless of the absurdity of such lists, the majority of highlighted sites are truly incredible and I had the opportunity to experience both a natural wonder and a modern one this past weekend.
Taking advantage of the vacation days afforded to each intern, I began my trek to Iguazu Falls late Wednesday night to meet Mim and Row the following morning at our hostel. Or more accurately, resort. Unlike typical hostels, this one featured a pool, pool side bar, and game room in addition to the standard dorm rooms and plethora of accents from around the world.
By the time we finished gaping at our surroundings, pretending to play ping-pong, and frolicking in the pool, it was too late to journey to the falls. We consequently dragged ourselves out to bed early Friday morning to maximize our time in the park.
Iguazu Falls. Amazing. Incredible. Phenomenal. Thousands of gallons of water spill over the falls which span nearly two miles along the Argentinean and Brazilian borders. Lush green rainforest surrounds and it teems with wildlife including swarms of butterflies, cotes, lizards, and gigantic spiders. Once we finally tore ourselves away from the falls we trekked through the rainforest until arriving at a small pond fed by a comparatively gentle, albeit tall, waterfall. Hot and tired, we jumped in to escape the oppressive heat. It was, I must admit, a much more enjoyable swim than me and Mim's brief dip in the glacial lake in Torres Del Paine.
Unfortunately, Saturday morning signaled the end of our time together. While my Australian amigos continued onto Salta, I hopped onto an express bus to Paraguay and started my journey home. The trip began with a brief stint in Brazil. Well, almost. The bus passed through the country but we could not disembark unless we stopped at customs and bought a pricey visa. So, I only experienced the nation through a window, but I still get a point in the admittedly stupid game of country collection, right?
After spending roughly an hour in Brazil, we entered Paraguay. Surprisingly, the bus seemingly forgot to stop at customs. If I was simply a local traveler, this wouldn't have been a problem. However, I'll be flying out of Paraguay in a couple weeks and can not do so without either an entry stamp or a large wad of cash to pay the fine. I consequently hopped off the bus on an unknown street corner and meandered through the overflowing streets until finding a customs officer and my stamp.
In the process, I also spotted a casa de cambio. As I still needed to change some Argentine pesos to Guaranis, I stepped inside assuming it was like any other casa de cambio. I was, to put it mildly, wrong. About 8 guards armed with gigantic guns lined the room while numerous men waited to change small fortunes. They dumped bags of pesos, guaranis, and reals on the table in exchange for thick wads of US dollar bills (and by that I mean hundred dollar bills). Each man appeared to leave with enough cash to pay for at least a year of my college education. Needless to say, the banker scoffed at my small fortune of 69 Argentine Pesos (between US$18-US$20). I had to endure a few more smirks from the staff, but at least I left with a handful of Guaranis and some unforeseen insight into the world of money laundering in Latin America.
Still slightly confused by my experiences in the casa de cambio, I began wandering through Ciudad del Este. Although I didn't stay for too long, the city certainly lived up to its reputation as a lawless border city. The informal shops and markets easily dwarfed those of Asuncion's Mercado 4 and its vendors sold everything from cheap electronics to locally-grown produce. Any shops housed within actual buildings were surrounded by armed guards constantly shifting oversized guns and sawed off shot guns from arm to arm. Meanwhile, thousands of people speaking in a mix of Spanish, Portuguese, and Guarani ambled through the stalls.
Although intrigued by the mayhem, I soon hopped onto a bus heading to the local town of Hernandarias. While the town itself proved relatively non-descript, it boasts the second largest hydroelectric power plant in the world: Itaipu Dam. Considered one of the seven man-made wonders of the world, it powers the entirety of Paraguay and upwards of 20% of Brazil. I, of course, took a tour of the facility.
The views of the power plant and river were stunning, but I actually left the facility slightly irritated by the entire experience. Understandably, the dam's operators created a tour designed to celebrate their architectural achievements while completely ignoring more controversial aspects of the project. For instance, no one mentioned that its construction destroyed a series of waterfalls once considered larger and grander than Iguazu Falls. Nor did anyone note that Paraguayans pay ludicrously large amounts for electricity due to an unfair accord with Brazil involving the dam's electricity production. Moreover, rolling blackouts still plague Paraguay. We've already had three today...and its only a little before 7:00.
After spending the next few hours exploring some unremarkable museums and zoos in the area, I finally hoped onto a bus returning to Asuncion eager to spend a night resting in my own bed. My adventure, I foolishly believed, was over. Within fifteen minutes of entering my empty house, I realized I had been sorely mistaken. I had locked the bathroom door when using it. No big deal...right?
Unfortunately, it was a very big deal. The lock managed to break while I was inside and I couldn't escape. I tried everything: picking the lock, screaming, etc. Yet, I was still sitting in the sweltering bathroom almost three hours later when Izas finally returned home. Upon hearing my pleas for help, she too began fighting with the door. After an hour, she finally called the fire department. There was absolutely nothing else we could do.
Although the fire department indicated that they believed it was an emergency (they arrived with lights flashing after all), they didn't charge up the stairs to rescue me until nearly an hour later. Six firefighters kicked down the door at approximately 4:00 AM. Por fin.
Pictures of Iguazu and Itaipu have been posted on Picasa.
25.1.10
"Tranquilo, Tranquilo"
In the months following my arrival in South America, I enjoyed countless exciting adventures, hours of laughter, and some excellent empanadas. It was, however, also a difficult adjustment in some ways. I moved from a nation in which I could easily express myself to a country in which even the most basic conversations could be frusteratingly difficult. Even today, after 6+ months of Spanish immersion, I still struggle to express nuanced thoughts. My Spanish vocabulary remains somewhat more limited than my English one after all.
Words can obviously be quite powerful. They suggest mood; they convey attitude. Most importantly perhaps, they imply a manner of looking at the world. For instance, I've noticed differences in how most individuals from the United States (myself included) and Chileans/Paraguayan refer to mundane weekends in which they simply relax at home or complete other routine activities as opposed to doing something out of the ordinary. Those from the United States generally say that such a weekend was "boring." In Chile and Paraguay, on the other hand, spending Saturday and Sunday relaxing at home is considered "tranquilo" or calm. Obviously the second has a much more positive connotation.
Do those from the United States care less about their friends and families than their Latin American counterparts? I would argue that we attach similar value to those around us. We just have a tendency to expect more excitement in our lives. Why? My immediate hypothesis involved media influences, but those same forces inundate Latin Americans as well. Unfortunately, I cannot pinpoint any other "answer," but this slightly different attitude has already infiltrated my mindset.
After all, when asked about last weekend, I responded tranquilo. Nothing was particularly remarkable, but it was quite enjoyable nonetheless. Friday night brought an asadito with the other interns (from Spain and Italia) and a few Paraguayan friends. Saturday involved a movie marathon and some shopping in the markets of Luque (a suburb of Asuncion), which may very well be my future home thanks to the abundance of heladerias selling two scoops of scrumptious flavors for only 20 cents. Needless to say, I stopped at least once. Once again, I journeyed outside Asuncion to the suburb of Ita on Sunday to sit in a charming little park and sip terere with some friends while fending off overzealous vendors selling everything from bolos (friend puffs of dough filled with dulce de leche) to mosto helado (sugar cane juice. think rum before it ferments).
In the end, a mundane yet excellent weekend that fully embodies the word tranquilo.
Words can obviously be quite powerful. They suggest mood; they convey attitude. Most importantly perhaps, they imply a manner of looking at the world. For instance, I've noticed differences in how most individuals from the United States (myself included) and Chileans/Paraguayan refer to mundane weekends in which they simply relax at home or complete other routine activities as opposed to doing something out of the ordinary. Those from the United States generally say that such a weekend was "boring." In Chile and Paraguay, on the other hand, spending Saturday and Sunday relaxing at home is considered "tranquilo" or calm. Obviously the second has a much more positive connotation.
Do those from the United States care less about their friends and families than their Latin American counterparts? I would argue that we attach similar value to those around us. We just have a tendency to expect more excitement in our lives. Why? My immediate hypothesis involved media influences, but those same forces inundate Latin Americans as well. Unfortunately, I cannot pinpoint any other "answer," but this slightly different attitude has already infiltrated my mindset.
After all, when asked about last weekend, I responded tranquilo. Nothing was particularly remarkable, but it was quite enjoyable nonetheless. Friday night brought an asadito with the other interns (from Spain and Italia) and a few Paraguayan friends. Saturday involved a movie marathon and some shopping in the markets of Luque (a suburb of Asuncion), which may very well be my future home thanks to the abundance of heladerias selling two scoops of scrumptious flavors for only 20 cents. Needless to say, I stopped at least once. Once again, I journeyed outside Asuncion to the suburb of Ita on Sunday to sit in a charming little park and sip terere with some friends while fending off overzealous vendors selling everything from bolos (friend puffs of dough filled with dulce de leche) to mosto helado (sugar cane juice. think rum before it ferments).
In the end, a mundane yet excellent weekend that fully embodies the word tranquilo.
18.1.10
La Vida Abajo del Sol Paraguayo
When blogging about both Chile and Paraguay, I tend to focus on my adventures and events varying from the expected norms. Rarely, if ever, do I discuss the mundane routine of everyday life. Yet, its the daily activities that prove the most educational. Living in a foreign country is, after all, a very different experience than visiting in the midst of a whirlwind vacation. Yet, it's still an adventure and I've found that I never know what to expect.
Transportation in Asuncion may be the best example. Like most other large metropolises, the city boasts a system of diesel-spewing public buses with routes denoted by numbers. I cannot, however, determine whether there is any way to actually know which buses go where without asking the drivers. There is no list or map posted anywhere online or in the city. This isn't too inconvenient when going somewhere near a main road. If I need to switch buses, however, it can be impossible. Fortunately, it has given me the opportunity to meet countless bus drivers once I'm hopelessly lost and see numerous parts of the city to which I never would have intentionally ventured. And, I must admit, I often suspect the system is vaguely Harry Potter-esque in that the 31 definately changes its route on Thursdays.
Luckily, I almost always find my way evenutally. While my most frequent destinations (Fundacion Paraguaya's main office, the supermarket, various ice cream shops) lie within walking distance of my house, most of my more interesting adventures occur outside the Villa Mora and Los Laureles neighborhoods. The bus rides are, therefore, necessary and certainly worthwhile.
For instance, last week I had the opportunity to visit the office in Luque, a suburb of Asuncion known for its silver jewelry. I didn't dwell in the city for long though; as soon as I arrived, Mercedes and I trekked into the countryside the meet with a committee de mujeres. While meeting with the Foundacion's clients has become a daily occurance, this trip would leave a particularly strong impression on me.
As soon as we climbed off the colectivo, we were warmly greeted by Marta and ushered to her house. At first,the village seemed relatively well-off, at least by Paraguayan standards. Most of the houses appeared to be made of brick with running water. Yet, Marta's home, as I soon learned, was a shanty built from wood, and tin scraps without running water. Although I have certainly seen poverty throughout the past six months, additional exposure to it still remains somewhat jarring. Perhaps this is a good thing; I'm not numb to it.
After a brief conversation, I learned that Marta's committee was struggling to persuade a woman to pay for her share of the loan. This women, Miguela, was not slacking however. About a month ago, she had fallen ill and could not leave her bed. We, therefore, needed to speak to Miguela before making any recommendations.
Upon arrival at her house, it initially seemed as if Miguela was one of the luckier members of the community. An expansive shaded garden surrounded her neat brick house. Yet, it was soon apparent that this women desperately needed help. As she couldn't leave her bed to open the door, we needed to talk to her through an open window. She quickly explained that she couldn't pay the installment due to her disease. After all, she couldn't sell anything from her room.
As she was clearly desperately ill, I began to wonder why she was not at a hospital. President Lugo recently decreed that all healthcare needs including medicine and surgery would be covered by the state, so she certainly had access. However, I also realized that this access only exists on paper. Without any family except an overworked daughter who just gave birth, Miguela had no one to bring her to the hospital. Walking to the bus about a half mile down the road was certainly not an option.
Even if she did arrive at the hospital, she most likely would not have experienced excellent care. Due to the free healthcare, all public hospitals and clinics are overrun with patients. Newspapers report that hospital have seen a 23% jump in patients since the law was passed. This isn't surprising; thousands of people with long-time medical conditions now have access to treatment. Unfortunately, it also means that anyone hoping for help must arrive around 4:00AM in order to receive a deli number and hope for treatment that day. If time runs out, they must return and wait once again the next day. Given the obvious problems plaguing these hospitals, its unsurprising that anyone with money chooses to utilize private clinics and hospitals.
Universal healthcare does not, therefore, necessarily denote that all can receive medical care when needed. Seeing the system firsthand has made it evident that it is not a successful means of ensuring that all possess the same basic human right to health (or possess the opportunity to enjoy it to the largest extent that is technologically possible). While the word for health and healthcare is the same in spanish (salud), it's becoming very clear that salud =/= salud or free healthcare =/= improved health.
Anyways, we soon needed to return to Marta's house to discuss the situation. It was evident that Miguela was teetering on the edge of death. Yet, accoridng to Fundacion Paraguaya's rules, the committee was still responsible for paying her debt whether she was healthy, sick, or dead. At first, I was appalled. Was Fundacion Paraguaya, ostensibly an organization designed to help the poor, actually going to ask these impoverished women to assume another's debt?
Unfortunately, microfinance is ultimately a business, as the head of Accion pointed out in a recent interview. Although the organizations do provide impoverished communities with the credit necessary to build their economies, they also function like banks. With too much loan foregiveness, they would lose all capital and close. They would also fail in their mission of allowing poorer individuals to eventually access credit through regular banks since no loan officers would trust that the microfinance program functioned like a profitable bank.
Regardless, I left the meeting feeling slightly guilty. Not only had our visit potentially increased each women's financial strain, but we also left a sick women alone in her bed. Guiltily, I asked Mercedes what we could do for Miguela. Nothing, she answered, unless we buy a car and take her to the hospital. Unfortunately, this is not exactly an option. Hopefully, she'll miraculously improve before my next trek out to Luque.
Fortunately, not all my visits are that depressing. We often meet with groups of entrepreneurs who have successfully repaid small loans, expanded their businesses, and our receiving more money to continue the process. They happily show their goods while eagerly beginning the weekly lesson in finanical literacy. Microfinance has, after all, proven very successful in many part of Paraguay.
In addition to meeting with successful committees at work, I also have the opportunity to enjoy la vida paraguaya on a daily basis. Whether wandering through the local farmers' market and sampling the delicious fare, bargaining for exquisite artisan crafts in the open air market downtown, running through the sweltering heat on the Ciclovia or in Parque Nu Guazu, reading in the elegant jardin botanico, or sipping terere during a torrential downpour breaking the aforementioned heat, good times certainly abound. I eagerly await the opportunity to explore more of the city... I just have to find my way on the buses...somehow.
Transportation in Asuncion may be the best example. Like most other large metropolises, the city boasts a system of diesel-spewing public buses with routes denoted by numbers. I cannot, however, determine whether there is any way to actually know which buses go where without asking the drivers. There is no list or map posted anywhere online or in the city. This isn't too inconvenient when going somewhere near a main road. If I need to switch buses, however, it can be impossible. Fortunately, it has given me the opportunity to meet countless bus drivers once I'm hopelessly lost and see numerous parts of the city to which I never would have intentionally ventured. And, I must admit, I often suspect the system is vaguely Harry Potter-esque in that the 31 definately changes its route on Thursdays.
Luckily, I almost always find my way evenutally. While my most frequent destinations (Fundacion Paraguaya's main office, the supermarket, various ice cream shops) lie within walking distance of my house, most of my more interesting adventures occur outside the Villa Mora and Los Laureles neighborhoods. The bus rides are, therefore, necessary and certainly worthwhile.
For instance, last week I had the opportunity to visit the office in Luque, a suburb of Asuncion known for its silver jewelry. I didn't dwell in the city for long though; as soon as I arrived, Mercedes and I trekked into the countryside the meet with a committee de mujeres. While meeting with the Foundacion's clients has become a daily occurance, this trip would leave a particularly strong impression on me.
As soon as we climbed off the colectivo, we were warmly greeted by Marta and ushered to her house. At first,the village seemed relatively well-off, at least by Paraguayan standards. Most of the houses appeared to be made of brick with running water. Yet, Marta's home, as I soon learned, was a shanty built from wood, and tin scraps without running water. Although I have certainly seen poverty throughout the past six months, additional exposure to it still remains somewhat jarring. Perhaps this is a good thing; I'm not numb to it.
After a brief conversation, I learned that Marta's committee was struggling to persuade a woman to pay for her share of the loan. This women, Miguela, was not slacking however. About a month ago, she had fallen ill and could not leave her bed. We, therefore, needed to speak to Miguela before making any recommendations.
Upon arrival at her house, it initially seemed as if Miguela was one of the luckier members of the community. An expansive shaded garden surrounded her neat brick house. Yet, it was soon apparent that this women desperately needed help. As she couldn't leave her bed to open the door, we needed to talk to her through an open window. She quickly explained that she couldn't pay the installment due to her disease. After all, she couldn't sell anything from her room.
As she was clearly desperately ill, I began to wonder why she was not at a hospital. President Lugo recently decreed that all healthcare needs including medicine and surgery would be covered by the state, so she certainly had access. However, I also realized that this access only exists on paper. Without any family except an overworked daughter who just gave birth, Miguela had no one to bring her to the hospital. Walking to the bus about a half mile down the road was certainly not an option.
Even if she did arrive at the hospital, she most likely would not have experienced excellent care. Due to the free healthcare, all public hospitals and clinics are overrun with patients. Newspapers report that hospital have seen a 23% jump in patients since the law was passed. This isn't surprising; thousands of people with long-time medical conditions now have access to treatment. Unfortunately, it also means that anyone hoping for help must arrive around 4:00AM in order to receive a deli number and hope for treatment that day. If time runs out, they must return and wait once again the next day. Given the obvious problems plaguing these hospitals, its unsurprising that anyone with money chooses to utilize private clinics and hospitals.
Universal healthcare does not, therefore, necessarily denote that all can receive medical care when needed. Seeing the system firsthand has made it evident that it is not a successful means of ensuring that all possess the same basic human right to health (or possess the opportunity to enjoy it to the largest extent that is technologically possible). While the word for health and healthcare is the same in spanish (salud), it's becoming very clear that salud =/= salud or free healthcare =/= improved health.
Anyways, we soon needed to return to Marta's house to discuss the situation. It was evident that Miguela was teetering on the edge of death. Yet, accoridng to Fundacion Paraguaya's rules, the committee was still responsible for paying her debt whether she was healthy, sick, or dead. At first, I was appalled. Was Fundacion Paraguaya, ostensibly an organization designed to help the poor, actually going to ask these impoverished women to assume another's debt?
Unfortunately, microfinance is ultimately a business, as the head of Accion pointed out in a recent interview. Although the organizations do provide impoverished communities with the credit necessary to build their economies, they also function like banks. With too much loan foregiveness, they would lose all capital and close. They would also fail in their mission of allowing poorer individuals to eventually access credit through regular banks since no loan officers would trust that the microfinance program functioned like a profitable bank.
Regardless, I left the meeting feeling slightly guilty. Not only had our visit potentially increased each women's financial strain, but we also left a sick women alone in her bed. Guiltily, I asked Mercedes what we could do for Miguela. Nothing, she answered, unless we buy a car and take her to the hospital. Unfortunately, this is not exactly an option. Hopefully, she'll miraculously improve before my next trek out to Luque.
Fortunately, not all my visits are that depressing. We often meet with groups of entrepreneurs who have successfully repaid small loans, expanded their businesses, and our receiving more money to continue the process. They happily show their goods while eagerly beginning the weekly lesson in finanical literacy. Microfinance has, after all, proven very successful in many part of Paraguay.
In addition to meeting with successful committees at work, I also have the opportunity to enjoy la vida paraguaya on a daily basis. Whether wandering through the local farmers' market and sampling the delicious fare, bargaining for exquisite artisan crafts in the open air market downtown, running through the sweltering heat on the Ciclovia or in Parque Nu Guazu, reading in the elegant jardin botanico, or sipping terere during a torrential downpour breaking the aforementioned heat, good times certainly abound. I eagerly await the opportunity to explore more of the city... I just have to find my way on the buses...somehow.
13.1.10
El Amanecer del Año Nuevo
When reflecting on 2009, the first adjective to spring to mind is new. New continents. New languages. New friends.
Fittingly, it also ended with an entirely new experience: a weekend spent on a rural farm in the department of San Pedro. Rather than spending the new year in Asunción, I joined a co-worker on her trek to her parents home roughly 4 hours from the city. Well, four hours in a functioning vehicle. Unfortunately, her car broke down upwards of five times direction, so we spent hours languishing on the side of the road. On the bright side, this provided an excellent opportunity to sample local farmers' produce including memón, acerola, mburukuyu, and carambola.
We finally reached our destination about an hour before midnight. After meeting dozens of family members and promptly forgetting most names, we just relaxed, sipped terere, and prepared for the upcoming festivites. When midnight struck, the hillside erupted in noise. Some launched fireworks; others descended upon a long table overflowing with beef (from a former cow), freshly picked mantioca, and other treats. Regardless of the amount of food being consumed, conversation never ceased. By the end of the meal, I was struggling to learnn some Guarani, fending off marriage requests and trying to explain the significance of Rihanna's song "Polkerface" in Spanish. Looking back at that night nearly two weeks later, I still cannot stop laughing.
As no one tumbled into bed until nearly 2:00 AM at the earliest, I was absolutely stunned when everyone arose before dawn. The cows, after all, still needed to be milked and the crops tended to before it was dangerously hot. By noon, we were all relaxing in the shade of a mango tree, sipping terere, and munching on watermelon while intermittantly venturing into the sun to play fierce games of volleyball and soccer. Slightly before beginning evening chores, we wandered to a neighbor's house for a neighborhood prayer and blessing on the new year. I did not understand a word of the Guarani, but the community sentiment certainly made an impact on me.
Rather than relaxing on the farm during the heat of the following day, we ventured to a nearby river to swim, float in the current, and play even more volleyball while surrounded by the rainforest and swarms of butterflies. Yet another excellent day minus the massive sunburn I acquired.
While I do want to spend some weekends in Asuncion, I ventured from the city once again last weekend. This time, however, I went to the southern border town of Encarnacion. The city itself proved relatively unremarkable. Aging buildings line most roads, dilapidated buses from the 1960s spew black fumes, and omnipresent vendors harrass anyone in their path. Yet, the trip was certainly worthwhile in that I had the opportunity to visit the aging Jesuit ruins in nearby Trinidad and Jesus.
Soon after the Spanish conquered the "new" world, Jesuit missionaries began streaming across the Atlantic in order to convert indigenous groups to Christianity. As part of this process, they built gigantic settlements consisting of churches, homes, farms, and even more churches. The settlements thrived, but fell into disrepair when the missionaries were expelled at the end of the eighteenth century. Today, only the shells of the building survive creating an eerily haunted environment.
Regardless of the settlement's condition, the ruins easily constitute one of the coolest places that I have ever ventured in my life. The sprawling red clay structures contrast sharply with the lush Paraguayan countryside. Moreover, unlike many similar sites, they have not been overrun by the tourist industry. When visiting, there were often no more than 2 or 3 others on each site making it much easier to imagine I was living in the settlement during its heyday.
My time in Paraguay has not solely consisted of travel, however. As expected, I spend the majority of my time at my internship designing a program to educate women to advocate for their own rights. As I enjoy my work, I actually look forward to my short trek to the office each morning, although I admit I prefer the days when my project takes me into the field. Even the simplest tasks often become adventures because, as I am quickly learning, nothing ever goes as expected in Paraguay.
Two weeks ago, for instance, Lourdes and I had a relatively simple assignment. We needed to drive to the village of Villa Ygatimi in the Departmento de Canindeyu, collect a rural microfinance committee's payment and deposit it in the bank before the close of business. Easy, right?
Although we expected a smooth trip, the problems began about 45 kilometers outside Villa Ygatimi in the midst of a small storm. At this point, the only road leading to the village changes into a dirt road. On a sunny day, this certainly isn't a problem as the red clay makes an excellent surface. Rain, however, turns the road into an impassable muddy pit. As the village is located in the rain forest, this is a relatively frequent occurance.
As we needed to collect the money that day, Lourdes and I continued forward anyways. Our progress was slow; we constantly had to climb into the mid to push the car and adjust the tires. Fortunately, we finally arrived at our destination a little dirtier and quite a bit later than expected. Along the way, we saw numerous trucks that were not as lucky. Often from multinational logging companies or other groups extracting the areas resources, the large vehicles simply could not navigate the mud while some of the desperately poor children living in the area sat on the ridges laughing. Poetic justice if you will; the companies take the resources and leave very little of their profits to help the local communities but the children have the last laugh.
Unlike the truckers, we did reach Villa Ygatimi at our destination. Upon arriving, we were warmly welcomed by a rural microfinance committee, or a group of unrelated farmers receiving loans collectively. While each man will receive his own capital, all accept responsibility for the group’s debt. If one man cannot afford his monthly payment, then the others must repay his debt or risk incurring more interest.
In this case, the men needed to pay before December 30, 2009 to avoid incurring more interest. After collecting the money, we gave them the money from their next loan and explained the conditions. Each man actively took an interest in the proceedings by asking questions and determining each man’s monthly payment.
Unfortunately, we needed to end the meeting abruptly in order to deposit their payment. We needed to return along the same seemingly impassable road before the banks closed at 4:00PM. Miraculously, the road had improved significantly throughout the past few hours and we made it back to paved roads in only half the time we needed to arrive. Once we arrived on the asphalt and in the town of Curuguaty, we believed we had succeeded. The clock had just struck 2:00 and the local bank did not close until 4:45 or so the sign suggested. However, as we soon learned, this did not necessarily matter. According to the man inside, the bank closed at 2:00 and there was absolutely no way he could serve us. Would we be able to deposit the money on time?
As there were no other banks with which Fundación Paraguaya has an account in the town, we needed to continue onward and find one that actually helped clients until its posted close. Lourdes soon realized that the nearest one could be found in “nearby” Santani, only two hours away. Although unsure if we could arrive on time, we knew we had to try. Driving just at the speed limit, we hurtled through farmlands, rainforest, and yet another storm. Somehow, we managed to arrive with a few moments to spare after our harrowing trip. SUCCESS.
Not every trip proves as exciting. Regardless, venturing into the field easily constitutes my favorite part of my internship and I cannot wait to embark on more trips in the coming weeks.
Pictures have, of course, been posted.
Fittingly, it also ended with an entirely new experience: a weekend spent on a rural farm in the department of San Pedro. Rather than spending the new year in Asunción, I joined a co-worker on her trek to her parents home roughly 4 hours from the city. Well, four hours in a functioning vehicle. Unfortunately, her car broke down upwards of five times direction, so we spent hours languishing on the side of the road. On the bright side, this provided an excellent opportunity to sample local farmers' produce including memón, acerola, mburukuyu, and carambola.
We finally reached our destination about an hour before midnight. After meeting dozens of family members and promptly forgetting most names, we just relaxed, sipped terere, and prepared for the upcoming festivites. When midnight struck, the hillside erupted in noise. Some launched fireworks; others descended upon a long table overflowing with beef (from a former cow), freshly picked mantioca, and other treats. Regardless of the amount of food being consumed, conversation never ceased. By the end of the meal, I was struggling to learnn some Guarani, fending off marriage requests and trying to explain the significance of Rihanna's song "Polkerface" in Spanish. Looking back at that night nearly two weeks later, I still cannot stop laughing.
As no one tumbled into bed until nearly 2:00 AM at the earliest, I was absolutely stunned when everyone arose before dawn. The cows, after all, still needed to be milked and the crops tended to before it was dangerously hot. By noon, we were all relaxing in the shade of a mango tree, sipping terere, and munching on watermelon while intermittantly venturing into the sun to play fierce games of volleyball and soccer. Slightly before beginning evening chores, we wandered to a neighbor's house for a neighborhood prayer and blessing on the new year. I did not understand a word of the Guarani, but the community sentiment certainly made an impact on me.
Rather than relaxing on the farm during the heat of the following day, we ventured to a nearby river to swim, float in the current, and play even more volleyball while surrounded by the rainforest and swarms of butterflies. Yet another excellent day minus the massive sunburn I acquired.
While I do want to spend some weekends in Asuncion, I ventured from the city once again last weekend. This time, however, I went to the southern border town of Encarnacion. The city itself proved relatively unremarkable. Aging buildings line most roads, dilapidated buses from the 1960s spew black fumes, and omnipresent vendors harrass anyone in their path. Yet, the trip was certainly worthwhile in that I had the opportunity to visit the aging Jesuit ruins in nearby Trinidad and Jesus.
Soon after the Spanish conquered the "new" world, Jesuit missionaries began streaming across the Atlantic in order to convert indigenous groups to Christianity. As part of this process, they built gigantic settlements consisting of churches, homes, farms, and even more churches. The settlements thrived, but fell into disrepair when the missionaries were expelled at the end of the eighteenth century. Today, only the shells of the building survive creating an eerily haunted environment.
Regardless of the settlement's condition, the ruins easily constitute one of the coolest places that I have ever ventured in my life. The sprawling red clay structures contrast sharply with the lush Paraguayan countryside. Moreover, unlike many similar sites, they have not been overrun by the tourist industry. When visiting, there were often no more than 2 or 3 others on each site making it much easier to imagine I was living in the settlement during its heyday.
My time in Paraguay has not solely consisted of travel, however. As expected, I spend the majority of my time at my internship designing a program to educate women to advocate for their own rights. As I enjoy my work, I actually look forward to my short trek to the office each morning, although I admit I prefer the days when my project takes me into the field. Even the simplest tasks often become adventures because, as I am quickly learning, nothing ever goes as expected in Paraguay.
Two weeks ago, for instance, Lourdes and I had a relatively simple assignment. We needed to drive to the village of Villa Ygatimi in the Departmento de Canindeyu, collect a rural microfinance committee's payment and deposit it in the bank before the close of business. Easy, right?
Although we expected a smooth trip, the problems began about 45 kilometers outside Villa Ygatimi in the midst of a small storm. At this point, the only road leading to the village changes into a dirt road. On a sunny day, this certainly isn't a problem as the red clay makes an excellent surface. Rain, however, turns the road into an impassable muddy pit. As the village is located in the rain forest, this is a relatively frequent occurance.
As we needed to collect the money that day, Lourdes and I continued forward anyways. Our progress was slow; we constantly had to climb into the mid to push the car and adjust the tires. Fortunately, we finally arrived at our destination a little dirtier and quite a bit later than expected. Along the way, we saw numerous trucks that were not as lucky. Often from multinational logging companies or other groups extracting the areas resources, the large vehicles simply could not navigate the mud while some of the desperately poor children living in the area sat on the ridges laughing. Poetic justice if you will; the companies take the resources and leave very little of their profits to help the local communities but the children have the last laugh.
Unlike the truckers, we did reach Villa Ygatimi at our destination. Upon arriving, we were warmly welcomed by a rural microfinance committee, or a group of unrelated farmers receiving loans collectively. While each man will receive his own capital, all accept responsibility for the group’s debt. If one man cannot afford his monthly payment, then the others must repay his debt or risk incurring more interest.
In this case, the men needed to pay before December 30, 2009 to avoid incurring more interest. After collecting the money, we gave them the money from their next loan and explained the conditions. Each man actively took an interest in the proceedings by asking questions and determining each man’s monthly payment.
Unfortunately, we needed to end the meeting abruptly in order to deposit their payment. We needed to return along the same seemingly impassable road before the banks closed at 4:00PM. Miraculously, the road had improved significantly throughout the past few hours and we made it back to paved roads in only half the time we needed to arrive. Once we arrived on the asphalt and in the town of Curuguaty, we believed we had succeeded. The clock had just struck 2:00 and the local bank did not close until 4:45 or so the sign suggested. However, as we soon learned, this did not necessarily matter. According to the man inside, the bank closed at 2:00 and there was absolutely no way he could serve us. Would we be able to deposit the money on time?
As there were no other banks with which Fundación Paraguaya has an account in the town, we needed to continue onward and find one that actually helped clients until its posted close. Lourdes soon realized that the nearest one could be found in “nearby” Santani, only two hours away. Although unsure if we could arrive on time, we knew we had to try. Driving just at the speed limit, we hurtled through farmlands, rainforest, and yet another storm. Somehow, we managed to arrive with a few moments to spare after our harrowing trip. SUCCESS.
Not every trip proves as exciting. Regardless, venturing into the field easily constitutes my favorite part of my internship and I cannot wait to embark on more trips in the coming weeks.
Pictures have, of course, been posted.
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