Cortomentrajes: Friday Night in August

Blood of the Gringo: Film Culture in Antofagasta

I have been to two "Film Festivals" since arriving in Antofagasta over two months ago (and there's another one coming up next week - AntofaDocs - which sounds interesting). Both were scarcely attended but the fact that there even exist a film culture in such an industry heavy city like Antofagasta, I find impressive and inspiring. And, as it turns out, Antofagastians are into some pretty weird shit.

Before attending either of these events I had to meet my first Antofa cinefile. And that happened at a American 4th of July BBQ (hosted by a collection of English Pedagogy students, naturally). One of the first names that came up in discussion with this particular(ly cute, intelligent, opinionated) student of cinema was Emir Kusturica, a Serbian filmmaker whose English-Language debut, Arizona Dream, is the only film of his I've seen. It is a delirious trip that stars Johnny Depp, Jerry Lewis, Faye Dunaway, Lili Tomlin and Vincent Gallo. Melodramatic, slapstick, absurd, heartbreaking, Arizona Dream is a thing to behold. Apparently, I need to watch his other films as he has developed a bit of a cult following in Chile. Another friend of mine here told me that Kusturica's musician/composer friend (who has scored 3 of Kusturica's films - including Arizona Dream), Goran Bregovic, came to Antofagasta a couple of years ago and blew the roof off the stadium with his riotous Balkan beats.

After discussing Kusturica and (my cinefilic fallback) François Truffaut, she told me about an upcoming "film festival". I expressed some overenthusiastic interest and we made a date. I checked the festival's schedule when I got home and decided I wanted to see the Chilean independent film, Velódromo. Said girl, told me she hated Chilean cinema but she'd come along.

A week later I was sitting in a small theater in the basement of a private mining foundation building waiting for the projectionist to press play on the DVD. There were less than 10 people in the theatre. The theme of the festival was Creative Commons and featured speakers, debates and film screenings all week long. I caught the tail end of a presentation but the only thing I got out of it was a new way to say "Understand me?" ("Me sigues?" or "You follow me?"). I did not follow (nor did I follow Velódromo except for the constant barrage of "weon"s that ended every statement in the film) but found the experience interesting, all the same.

Of course, said girl hated the film. But we made plans to see Vincent Moon's South-American travelogue Esperando el Tsunami later in the week. Our conversations on the bus to and from the screenings were stop-and-go, full of awkward miscommunications and oddly standoffish dances around movies/things one liked that the other hated. And Esperando el Tsunami didn't help anything. It was boring and pretentious with "pretty" cinematography and occasional live music performances that were, actually, quite wonderful. After that I promised her the next movie we saw together would be a good one. Must be a good one.

We have not seen a movie together since.

But I did go to another film festival, this one held in a Government Works building in a slightly larger theater (though equally lacking in attendance). It featured a tribute to Bolivian cinema and in particular the films of Jorge Sanjinés. The first night I went, I saw Sangre de Condor made by Sanjinés in 1967, with some Mapuche non-actors. It was phenomenal. Devastating. And one of the center pieces of evil in the film? Gringos. Specifically the American Peace Corps, who - a few years later - were kicked out of Bolivia indefinitely (and are still to this day not allowed in to the country). Damn gringos. The film itself felt more like a South-American cousin of The Bicycle Thief in its gloom and hopelessness in the face of modern society's bureaucratic lack of compassion and/or fairness. And as the only gringo in the audience that night, I felt awfully guilty and (though this was surely imagined) like I was being eyed suspiciously by the rest of Chileans there. Is this gringo trying to take our babies and eggs and egg-babies away from us? "No, no," I would say. "I just get an odd satisfaction from white guilt and self-loathing."

I've met a number of people interested in filmmaking here in Chile (actors, directors, people with cameras, -makers, etc.), I only wish that there were more support for it. More people coming out to watch these films. More theaters than the two grande CineMundos in the Mall and Líder. There's obviously some interest. They just need some dedicated folks, a dedicated space, and some naive enthusiasm. And maybe there's room for a big, dumb, evil gringo in there, too.

Dos Messes: Primera Vuelta: Música en Español

Here. My experience thus far, set to tunes in Español, from various Spanish speaking countries around the world.

DISFRUTEN.

Open the m3u file first to (hopefully) make it play in the proper - and thoroughly thought out (not really) - order.

Playlist:

01 - Silvio Rodríguez - "Pequeña Serenata Diurna"
02 - Víctor Jara - "Quien Mato a Carmencita"
03 - Violeta Parra - "Hace Falta un Guerrillero"
04 - Los Punsetes - "Alférez Provisional"
05 - Los Bunkers - "Fantasias Animadas de Ayer y Hoy"
06 - Los Prisioneros - "Quien Mate a Marilyn"
07 - Camila Moreno - "Cae y Calla"
08 - Los Bunkers - "Culpable"
09 - Pascuala Ilabaca y Fauna - "Lamenta La Canela"
10 - Calle 13 - "Baile de los Pobres"
11 - Ondatropica (ft. Anita Tijoux) - "Suena"
12 - Instituto Mexicano del Sonido - "México"
13 - Natalia Lafourcade - "Diente Blanco, No Te Vayas"
14 - Los Punsetes - "Tus Amigos"
15 - Los Bunkers - "Sueño Con Serpientes"
16 - Almendra - "Muchacha (Ojos de Papel)"
17 - Silvio Rodríguez - "La Verguenza"
18 - Pescado Rabioso - "Las Habladurías del Mundo"
19 - Los Bunkers - No Me Hablas de Sufrir"
20 - Anita Tijoux - "1977"
21 - Calle 13 - "Muerte en Hawaii"
22 - 31 Minutos - "Diente Blanco, No Te Vayas"

The music that has helped me to survive over the course of dos meses (2 months) in Chile. Not just survive, but, you know… vivir, no mas.

The 6AM Colectivo

Another Chilenismo for you - Carretear: to party. It has become a joke at my homestay that whenever I say I'm going out (Voy de carrete) - because they seem to think I do it so often - my host sister or host mom will respond, "a la iglesia, si?" To church, yes? "Por supuesto." Of course.

To carrete in Chile is no joke, though. I recently went to a birthday party where the birthday boy rented out a room in a club, booked a DJ and invited 100+ people to party well into the wee hours. It was intense. I met a friend of a friend who was nicknamed after Clumsy Smurf (in Spanish, Pitufo Tontín) and who had brought some cocaine from Santiago. Cool guy, if a bit twitchy. Not as clumsy as I would have hoped. Nor as dumb, either.

These parties can last til 5 or 6 in the morning. And THEN, there's the after - which needs not explaining. I have never made it to an after. Instead I usually peel off from the group between the party and after and find a late night colectivo home. But nighttime colectivos can get expensive. I wonder if that's why my friends go to an after in the first place. To stay up long enough to grab a micro home in the early morning. Though my friends have numerous stories of falling asleep on micros after an after and waking up in the Northern outskirts of the city.

After midnight Colectivo prices nearly triple in price. Taking advantage of the drunken masses, I suppose. Also, these prices are entirely at the discretion of the individual driver. I don't usually get in to a colectivo without asking the price and when it's 3.000 pesos for what is usually 1.500, I throw out a "salado!" (Spanish for "salty" but Chilean for "really expensive") and shut the door. They try and rip off us gringos a lot. I don't really mind. Eventually we find a decent guy who gives us a fair price. It may just take 20 minutes and 5 cars to get to that decent guy.

Other than the price issue, I really enjoy late night colectivo rides. The clientele is usually drunk and amiable. The drivers - the decent ones - are friendly and usually curious to ask the gringo about gringo things (e.g. "Why are you Antofagasta??). And I feel a real sense of accomplishment on the ride back. After having kept up with a group Chilean drinkers and smokers til 5 or 6 in the morning, then catching a cab home at a fair rate, I feel like I'm almost a genuine Antofagastan. Or at least the gringo version of one.

On the night of the aforementioned Birthday Party/Club Scene, I ended up in a cab with a young Bolivian driver. He asked me why I wanted to come to Chile. I gave my stock answer, "the culture, the history, but specifically, the music." I listed a couple of examples, "Los Bunkers, Anita Tijoux." He hadn't heard of Anita Tijoux. I turned to the back seat to ask the pretty-looking Chilean girl if she knew her. She did. I turned back around, hoping that I looked I cool to this Chilean girl I would never see again. The Gringo who knew Anita Tijoux. Then she tested my coolness, "Do you know Camila Moreno?" Who? I had her repeat the name several times so that I could cement it in my mind. I told her I'd check her out. Then we were at my street. I said my farewells and stumbled goofily out of the car.

It took me a couple of weeks but I kept the name in my head. And when I finally listened to Camila Moreno, I fell in love. She's a Chilean folk singer who screams passionately when her words and beautiful melodies can't accurately express her desperation, her love, her confusion. She is, thus far, my favorite discovery in Chile. So this my belated "gracias" to that girl - and that driver for being a decent guy and giving me a fair price.

A Quiet Moment at 2AM Outside A Karaoke Bar Overlooking the Sea (or FUCKLMFAO)

My head fucking hurts. My fucking head hurts. Fuck, my head hurts. It's Friday night and I'm smoking a cigarette outside a bar. You can smoke inside the bar (in Chile, you can smoke just about anywhere) but I needed some air. I'm exhausted from a full day of half-understood conversations and overindulging in alcohol, et al. And then, just five minutes ago, the hype man/MC at this karaoke bar threw on some LMFAO and shoved the mic into my face. I do not know any LMFAO lyrics. I doubt the dumbasses in the group are even conscious of the words they excrete nightly. And then everyone was disappointed that the gringo didn't know the words to the gringo song. The friends that I was with sang "Otherside" by Red Hot Chili Peppers and the crowd soon forgot the fome gringo and his telling lack of sexiness and awareness of said sexiness.

I can't hear the ocean over the music/hype man in the bar. I wish he would shut the fuck up. I think about going down to the water but it's too cold. It's so cold in Antofagasta at night. I am frozen in the parking lot with a rapidly fading cigarette I'm holding an inch from my mouth.

Things got weird after lunch. All the staff at my school went out to a Brazilian restaurant where the main course was 3 types of meat fresh off the sword. Stuffed and wanting to

siesta the afternoon away, I somehow fell in to a car with 3 Chileans from work and off we went on a vuelta (round) of Antofa. We headed East, up the hill, and stopped at a market for a 6 pack of beer and cigarettes. The driver handled the stick shift, the cerveza and the stereo with stunning grace. He flew up the hill and caught a main street that went north. The music selection was great. Weezer, Oasis, Pixies and all sorts of Latin American music that I'd never heard before. Hip-hop, folk, cumbia. He knew the words to all the English songs. "This… how I learn English," he told me.

He did not play any LMFAO.

The drinking and smoking and attempted conversation continued as we went further north; through the poorer neighborhoods up on the hill, past grassless parks and a farmer's market. The view from above the city was amazing. The rich have the beach (which is mostly inaccessible), but the poor have the view. The living conditions up there were worse than in the city, though not devastating. The children played in dirty clothes without shoes. 15 minutes into the vuelta my driver asked me if I had any problems with him smoking some weed. At first I thought he was offering. "No paragua*," I told him. He laughed and said if it bothered me that he smoked. "No, no. Esta bien," I assured him. "Pero, yo-" I pointed to myself, "prefero el natural." A few turns later and we were on a desolate street of deteriorating buildings and broken down vehicles. We pulled up to a group of ominous looking youth (flaites, as they're called here), my amigo extended a 2.000 bill, some mutterings were exchanged, hands touched hands and we were peeling away before I realized what had gone down. The whole transaction lasted less than 5 seconds.

The vuelta continued. The city of Antofagasta is buffered by the coast on one side and mountains on the other (Cerro El Ancla). In this way, like the country itself, it is one long thin line stretching north and south. We were about 25-30 minutes north when we decided to head back towards the center. And there was still more "Antofagasta" to the north. But we were out of beer so we headed to a bar in downtown.

And the stilted conversation continued. They tried to teach me slang. Laughed when I repeated it with my mouth-full-of-marbles English accent. We were into our second pitcher of beer when they tried to jokingly tell our, admittedly, cute waitress that I was in love her. To which she responded, "No me gusta los gringos." More laughter.

Feeling the need to escape home for a bit (and having killed the last of the pitcher) I told them I had to be home to eat dinner with mi familia. They insisted on one more drink. But at a different bar. We hit the street, only to dive into a place called "Chikas Bar" directly across the way. We walked up a flight of stairs, passed through a red velvet curtain and were in the middle of a sad, cramped strip club. The room fit about 20 men in a circle around a single platform with a pole. You had to buy a beer before the performer took the stage. My giddy, giggling amigos gladly covered the expense. When it was time for the "show" to start, a beautiful black woman (most likely from Columbia) stepped up to the stage. Her expression was indignant, hardly suppressed - her moves well rehearsed. The music that accompanied her turned the whole situation into a wonderfully depressing piece of comedy.** A faintly British, male voice crooned over and over on the sound system, "When I see you smile…" Her face looked as if it hadn't smiled in decades. The whole situation was further perverted by the fact that the three Chilean men I was with kept staring at my face, making sure the gringo was enjoying the "show". The song eventually found the decency to end and the woman indifferently descended the stage. I had fulfilled my promise of one more drink. And besides they didn't really want to pay for another overpriced Corona. We made our exit.

And that was earlier this afternoon. Here I was in the south of Antofagasta, 5 minutes after 2 in the morning. Smoking a cigarette. Alone. A different group of Chilean friends still inside, singing some Chilean rock ballad I didn't know and couldn't understand. It was so loud in there. My head hurts. This cigarette isn't helping. Did I think it would? I thought about just going home. But I liked this group of University kids. At least it was less depressing than a strip club.

I didn't know then but that night was just beginning to unfold. I sucked my cigarette to the filter, slapped myself a couple of times to sharpen up and went back inside. Luckily, we left shortly thereafter and moved on to an after (Chilean-English slang for an after-party, usually at someone's house) that was much more low-key and enjoyable and LMFAO-less.

That Friday just happened to be a 13th, too.


*There are two basic types of marijuana in Chile. The most common and cheaper of the two is known as paragua (the spanish word for "umbrella"). It appears brown and is laced with chemicals in order to sell more quantity - like cutting cocaine with baking soda. It is an immediate, oppressive headache. Still it seems to be preferred, if only because it is inexpensive (in the above story, $4USD bought a gram). The other, more costly alternative is known as natural (filete ["steak"] is the slang term for it). It is grown in the country and although it pales in comparison to it's North American equivalent, is a far more pleasant experience.

**I was struck by how similar the thick vibe of melancholy was in this strip club to the strip clubs I've been to in the States. Well, I guess if I'm being honest, the strip club. Still there were men here - just like there were men there - who seemed to be able to ignore the clear resentment in the eyes of these women and laugh and drink and be merry, as it were. Maybe the trick is to focus one's attention less on the annoyed face and more on the, uh, curves. The perfected-in-a-doctor's-office curves. Oof.

El Rey De Lagarto

I passed the didgeridoo-ers at first but quickly doubled back. The rest of the gringos had gone home. I was alone at 7:00 at night in the beautiful city of La Serena and my bus home to Antofa didn't leave until 10:30. After a week-long vacation of drinking and smoking and eating and sleeping in a cabaña with a group of friends from my program, I had blown through a month's worth of my budget. I didn't have the money to hide out in a bar or restaurant. Why not just hang out with some Chilean skateboarders playing a didgeridoo in a park?

As I approached I heard a high pitched ring. It's source caught my eye before anything else. Miguel explained to me that it was a Tibetan Bowl - a small bowl made of metal that one struck with a inch thick dowel then traced the outer edge with said dowel to sustain the subtle, mesmerizing ring. Miguel passed it to me and told me to try it out. It was the aural equivalent of watching a merry-go-round spin but in silent black-and-white and slow motion and instead of horses there were buddhas and I've lost the thread…

It was bacán.

Miguel is studying Psychology at the Universidad de La Serena. At least, I think that's what he said. Whenever I repeated the word in English he made an effort (in Spanish) to draw a distinction between what he studied and Psychology but… I didn't quite catch the difference. He played the a steady note on the didgeridoo while I played the bowl and we enjoyed a couple minutes of spinning in place.

He then introduced me to his friends: Eduardo - the skateboarder; Daniela - la sola chica; and finally, Lizard King. Lizard King owned the didgeridoo and the Tibetan Bowl. During the summer, Lizard King goes up to Valle de Elqui and plays his didgeridoo for the tourists and makes a pretty penny. But during the winter he hangs out in the park Saturday night with his friends and plays for anyone who cares to listen. I cared to listen. And even recorded a bit.

Listen:

Then, a man selling bright pink flowers showed up to listen to Lizard King play. He was astounded and his wide grin showed he was missing some teeth. Lizard King asked if he wanted to play and he spent a good 10 minutes blowing foul noises into the thing without much success. We laughed. He laughed. He started making barking noises through the didgeridoo at a dog across the park. We all laughed. Then Lizard King told the man to stand up so he could play the didgeridoo into his back. He played a steady, slowly fluctuating note while Miguel spun around him with Tibetan Bowl. Lizard King moved the instrument to the back of the pink flower man's head and his grin widened even further. Lizard King ran out of breath and lowered the didgeridoo. The man turned around and practically shouted, "BACAAAAAN!"

To be honest, I had spent most of that Saturday bummed and mopey about the prospect of disbanding our little Serena crew and returning to our respective "homes". We had had such a great week listening to each other's experiences thus far (the family situation, the school situation, the city situation), talking about the things we missed from home (space heaters, In-N-Out, REAL COFFEE) and drinking away any complaints we had til we were all dancing to whatever happened to be on the stereo at that point in the night.* It was therapeutic, relaxing and a helluva good time. It's hard to say goodbye to that level of comfort and familiarity.

But in that park with Miguel and Lizard King and the didgeridoo and the Pink Flower Man I remembered why I came to Chile. For Chile. For the people. For the music. For the culture. And as nice as it was to feel a bit of home for a week (removed, as it was - a piece of home from Santiago a month ago), I knew it was time to go back. I still had a lot of Chile to experience. And a lot of Spanish to learn. Por ejemplo: Como se dice "Lizard King" en Español?


*It was only me that was dancing and, if memory serves me well, it was Michael Jackson or Katy Perry.

The Magic Bus

Antofagasta has three forms of public transportation. Micros, Colectivos and taxis. Taxis are the most expensive (naturally), the micros the cheapest and the colectivos land somewhere in the middle. The Micros - micro buses - follow "specified routes" that are "predetermined" and "make sense". I really wouldn't know as there is no map, electronic or otherwise, that exists to show their exact paths. The locals just seem to know. Meanwhile, the colectivos "follow" - approximately - the routes of their corresponding micros but can veer slightly off course for the benefit of their passengers.*

The micro - pronounced mee-crow - experience varies greatly from driver to driver. I've come to the conclusion that each bus is owned individually and ran under very little regulation (except for the price, which hovers randomly under a $1). Some drivers are assholes, some drivers drive slow, some drivers throw their bus around the streets like it's a MINI and their in a Hollywood chase scene, some drivers are kind and helpful. It all depends. But one thing that is consistent on every bus is the driver's truly incredible ability to make change. Any bill or number of coins you give them, a few swipes at their cashbox and you've got exact change in your hand. All while they're actively avoiding pedestrians, other cars and obeying traffic laws (mostly).

But there is a darkside to these mad geniuses. I get passed by buses several times a week. At first I chalked this up to racism ("JA! Gringo!") but I'm starting to see a more explicit reason: Micro drivers don't give a shit. They do what they want. They are the masters of their universe and we are the helpless krill along for the ride. This goes to their heads - like a cop whose full of himself and his personal sense of "right" and "wrong" - and their curt attitude towards the passengers is sometimes really disrespectful and entirely unnecessary. Though I think some of them just don't want to pick up the Gringo because he's a Gringo and they probably don't want to deal with my Gringo stupidity. Understandable.

Colectivos have an even more explicit personalized vibe to their ride. Each car is self-owned and don't even think about touching their stereo. The price is only 50 cents more than the micro in the day time but can go up to (see below) $4 at night (after 12). It's a pretty great deal. You share with up to 3 other people so there are less stops making it faster and more direct. And they run all the time whereas the micro stops around 11-11:30 during the week and around 12:00 during the weekend.

MARK MY WORDS: I will create some sort of map of as many of Antofagasta's micros as I can before I leave this country. And I will post it here, for all future Antofa-Gringos to make use of and expand on.

Until then, the 103 works pretty good.


*Por ejemplo: One more-fun-than-it-should-have-been-for-a-school-night night, I was out drinking with some friends at a friend-of-a-friend's house (listening to music, a bit of BBQ-ing [I distinctly remember trying to share a track off of Frank Ocean's latest album Channel Orange but was usurped after about 30 seconds with a dismissive "Que fome/Booooring"]) and around 3 in the AM I decided to return home. I stumbled down to Parque Brasil to catch a colectivo. "2.000 pesos" answered the driver. 4 bucks. Fair enough. When he realized I could understand a bit of Spanish he began talking very rapidly and very passionately. About what? I have no idea. I was drunk and simply tired of hearing the language (not to mention tired of failing at it for the last couple of hours with kind and generous young people who were patient with my kindergarden speaking level unlike this flabbyflibbertygibbit). I nodded my way half the way home when we picked up a couple who lived on the opposite side of town from me. He asked if it was okay with me if he took them home first. Real quick, he assured me. No problem. My whole life in Chile requires a lot of going with the flow. We drove up to Avenida Argentina and headed South. The view of the city from this far up the hill was a nice late-night sight. I rolled down the window a bit and took it in. We dropped them off and turned around. Again, I managed to nod and "Si" myself half the way to my house when he stopped to pick up another couple. This time an extremely drunk Columbian man and his short, chunky Chilean girlfriend. They jumped in and when the man told the driver where he was going he explained to me that it was again in the opposite direction but very close. Real quick, he reassured. The Columbian man jumped in with a slurred "Es MUY cerca" when the cab driver explained my situation (American, lives north of here, already accompanied another couple south, has school in the morning). Off we went. The Columbian gentleman was throwing various English words my way with a drunken slur and heavy accent that made them sound more Canadian French - or something worse. We eventually dropped them off (the Columbian man clutching my shoulder, "Buyh! Buyh! Buyh!") and I asked, as politely as I could, "Nadie mas, por favor, ya?" He agreed and kept talking. Less passionately (I guess that conversation came to a conclusion at some point) but still very very quickly. I understood none of it. But nodded and "Si... Si"-ed all the way home.