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.

Anto-Angeles

During my program's orientation in Santiago, us volunteers were told (perhaps more accurately, "warned") of the warmth of the Chilean people. Women and men greet with a kiss on the right cheek, for instance. The bubble of personal space we observe in the States is much smaller here. It is considered rude if you enter a room and don't greet those in your immediate vicinity with an "Hola" and a "Como estas?" (even if you saw them an hour before, in the same room. The teacher's lounge, for example…) Americans are often perceived as very distant and cold. Stiff. With our handshakes and rapid walking pace. Even our strict sense of time is off-putting. Chileans are often running behind schedule because they consider it rude to cut a conversation short just because of a godforsaken clock. What freaks, Americans! In a hurry all the time! Chasing the dollar! Always checking their clocks!

But this is not the case in Antofagasta.

Antofagasta is a city of 300,000 people. And it's become clear to me over the last couple of weeks that it shares some similarities to Los Angeles. For one, the traffic. There are A LOT of cars in this city. The streets in the mornings and afternoons are jam-packed with cars and micros and colectivos. And the car is definitely a power symbol as I've seen BMWs and Mustangs crawling around as well as BIG trucks and little cars.

But while I was walking around one night recently, near the Center in the late evening, I realized that perhaps the thing that Antofagastans share in common with the Los Angelinos THE MOST is this: City Fatigue. Most everyone hates it here. I mean, yes, it is home and of course they love their home but all the people, all the traffic, and it's so fucking expensive! This love/hate relationship to the city is all too familiar to me. It's exciting at first (there's so much happening! so many people! so much to do!) but wears thin after a while (please, everyone, go away. all I want is a parking space and to sit on my couch, beer in hand.).

So the people in Antofagasta are somewhat lacking in the rumored Chilean warmth department (though I get warmth in spades from my amazing family. And the few 20-somethings Chileans I have met have been ceaselessly kind. So, not all of Antofagasta is lacking). But, no matter. I get it. It sucks living in an overpopulated, expensive, traffic-ridden urban area. I get it, Antofagasta. Let's be friends.

And by "friends" I mean, let me join your tired, huddled masses. It's cold and we could learn a thing or two from penguins. Warmth in numbers. Now please stop staring at me like I'm from outerspace.

My Daily Morning Dance

Water is scarce in the desert. This fact has been both very obvious to me (growing up in the Mojave desert of California) and very abstract (never has it's scarcity affected my daily life; if I needed water, well, there's the tap, the bottle, the dispenser on the fridge, etc.). But every morning in Antofagasta, I'm reminded of this simple fact of life. Shocked by it even.

Not just water, but fruits, vegetables, wine, certain types of meat - all imports - are expensive in Antofagasta. It's a pretty expensive city in general, mainly because the copper mining in the region is so gangbusters that there's just a lot of money (plata) in people's pockets. This really sucks for a volunteer on a once-every-two-months stipend of $120 USD. But I digress.

Water is too be used sparingly in the city because it is so expensive. It's not uncommon to see toilets in public restrooms with stale pee in the bowl. It's a waste of a flush, you know? Unlike the U.S., where we have an abundance of all kinds of resources (and where I also feel like we waste A LOT), Chile has no choice but to conserve it's resources. Waste not, because you don't have all that much to begin with.

Oh, yes, but my mornings. I have to wake up at 6:30 every day so that I can make it to my bus stop by 7:20. After I manage to get my feet out from under the warmth of my bedsheets, I walk downstairs to the califone (hot water heater) turn it on and run the kitchen faucet to pre-heat the water (otherwise it takes a good 15 minutes for the water to get hot in the shower). And once I'm finally in the shower - well, here's the rub. The califone has two modes: Make Water Hotter OR Off. It cannot sustain an average level of warmth. Once it's turned on it can only make the water hotter and hotter. And when you try and add some cold water to balance it out, the califone seems to think that you no longer want ANY hot water at all and simply shuts off. So the two extremes of my shower are scalding hot or freezing cold.

My first morning in Antofagasta, I simply didn't realize the califone had to be turned on and I experienced one of the coldest showers of my adult life (to give you an idea of how cold, at night it has gotten as low as 6℃ [or 42℉]). That was followed by the second coldest shower of my life the next morning when I accidentally turned the califone OFF instead of ON. D'oh. My current system involves catching the 20 second sweet spot when the califone is just kicking in and the water is going from freezing to scalding. It's a two-phase process as the first sweet spot gives me enough time to soap - then I have to turn on the cold water, go back to zero and start over. The second sweet spot is enough time to shampoo/condition. As Kanye would say, #ITSAPROCESS. But it'll do for the next 5 months.

…Yeah, it'll do.

Toilet Talk

(Some rough language follows so if you're averse to that sort of thing… I don't know, read it, and then get shocked or embarrassed or whatever.)

I have taken some mean poops since arriving in Chile 3 weeks ago. Food is different down here. The water is different down here. I'm drinking the tap water because I like free water.* But there's different bacteria… I don't know, I'm not going to pretend like I know what I'm talking about, I'm just saying that the body must adjust to the new diet. And that takes time. And a lot of mean poops, apparently.

Did you know that in Chile, and many other developing or less affluent countries than the U.S. of A., you're not supposed to throw away your toilet paper in the toilet? Their pipes can't support it or something (perhaps I should do some research into the plumbing practices in South America to better understand this situation). So every bathroom (public or otherwise) comes equipped with a little trashcan for all your shit-stained T.P. Convenient. I still forget sometimes. I've had friends who have been brave enough to retrieve their toilet paper from pee-filled bowls when they forget, but me… I'm just to lazy or urine-fearing to do that.

But my whole diet has had to go through a transformation down here. For instance, THE EATING SCHEDULE: The Chilean meal schedule features a light breakfast of pan (bread), buttered with a slice of pork (that more closely resembles spam in my school's case) and tea. They drink a lot of tea here. And put a lot of sugar in their tea. This exacerbates their already rapid pace of speaking making it even more difficult for me to understand them after tea time. Almuerzo (lunch) is the biggest meal. It usually involves salad, more pan and some potatoes or pasta and some meat. There's also a lot of mayonnaise. Kind of dry and a little boring, but the big portions at lunch are certainly filling. Then dinner is essentially the same as breakfast: pan with butter, pork slice and cheese. And tea, of course. Chileans are not big on spicy food I've come to realize. And as an addict of taco trucks back in the States I was kind of disappointed by this. I need some spice, some Tapatío, something. But the bread is plentiful and delicious, so that's something. At least I can fill up on carbs.

During our first week of orientation in Santiago, when I went out for lunch I found two signature dishes at most restaurants: the Completo (a hot dog with tomatoes, avocado and mayonnaise) and the Churrasco (a burger-like sandwich with meat, tomatoes, avocado and mayonnaise). I think that the meat in Churrasco is lamb but I'm really not sure at all. Over the course of that first week my stomach fought with each piece of meat I presented it with. And expelled each with fervor. The meat is good going down, don't get me wrong (obviously depends on the restaurant, too), but the body simply has to adjust from all the fake nutrients and fake taste injected into food in America. It's a process of acclimation. And something I was determined to get through in that first week.

I was brazen and stupid my first two nights in Santiago. Here is an unfortunate admission: My second night in Santiago - my second night in Chile - I shit myself. THE SCENE: Our group was in between bars and I had drank too much beer and needed to relieve myself pronto. So I found an alley and a dark corner while my friend's waited on the main street. The beer was giving me gas and I tried to pass a bit of fragrance into the alley. Instead, I got poop in my pants. I zipped myself up went to the nearest bar, found the bathroom, locked the door, and stared at myself for a good 5 minutes. This is what I said:

"Fuck. You. You Fuck. You Fucking Fuck. How old are you? What is your fucking problem? You're a fucking moron. How do you expect to survive in a foreign country where you don't know the language, where you stick out like a bruised and bloody thumb and you're shitting yourself like a goddamn baby in the street?! Get your shit together. Yeah, literally, asshole. You dumb piece of shit. And stop peeing in public you fucking idiot. You're going to get beat up, robbed, OR WORSE, some cute girls going to see you. I think getting beat up would be the OR WORSE in that lineup. FINE. JUST GET IT TOGETHER, OK? Okay, okay…"

After I was finished with the schizophrenic self-loathing, I removed my shit filled undergarments and threw them in the T.P. trash can.

Well, I wasn't going to flush them, was I?


*My first night in Santiago a bunch of us volunteers went out drinking on Avenida Brasil. After a couple of big bottles of Escudo (local lager) at a place called GOODDRINKS I left the group and went up to the bar in hopes of getting some tap water. My first couple of days in Santiago featured some really awkward beginner Spanish. Not the worst of which was when I stepped up to this mostly empty bar and asked for some "agua libre, por favor." "Libre" is "free" in the sense that America is bringing "Freedom" to the Middle East. "Free" like personal freedom and not "free" meaning "for no money." That would be "gratis". So at the time, buzzed and happy as I was, my repeated asking for "agua libre" was met with a lot of confusion and laughter from the genial Chilean bartenders of GOODDRINKS. Eventually I got my tap water. But what they must of thought when this fucking gringo kept repeating "freedom water, please!" at them over and over again. I think they got a kick out of it. Or at the very least I reinforced American Ignorance for them. Win-win, I guess.

Lider: America-Mart

We did it! We finally did it! Hooray America! Years after we tried to prop up a dictatorship to defeat Socialism in Chile, we're finally back on track. We've got a Wal-Mart in Antofagasta! Sweet sweet capitalist consumerism! Happy 4th!

(FULL DISCLOSURE: I come here (Lider, as it's known but it's clearly a Wal-Mart clone) about once a week because it's some of the cheapest prices for wine and... other stuff, I'm sure, in an already needlessly expensive city. Hard to argue with a system that works. And the citizens of Antofagasta come here in droves. Last Monday (a holiday) my host mother and sister went to buy some groceries and the place was PACKED and entirely sold out of eggs. There's an entire aisle in this place for eggs. And they were SOLD OUT. All hail the free market.)

The Dog-Girl Is Not A Bitch

Mi familia here in Antofagasta is amazing. The way my program works is we are assigned to a family in our respective cities and they're supposed to house us, feed us and look after our well-being so that we can at least make it to class to teach our "well-planned" lessons on time and in good health. My situation is somewhat unique. My host mother - I'll call her Maria for simplicity's sake - actually works in Santiago during the week so she has to fly out of Antofagasta at 5:00AM every Monday morning, work during the week (she stays in a hotel that her company pays for) and then fly back Friday night. It sounds hellish but she doesn't complain much. Last Friday night her mother (mi abuela) and a friend came by around 10:00, had tacos, smoked cigarettes and chatted til after 1:00AM in the backyard. I joined for a bit and tried to keep up in the conversation but it was too quick for me. I got a laugh with a bit of Chilean slang (they love it when the gringos catch on) and then followed up with a dumb aside/joke but apparently the word "punchline" doesn't translate. The awkward silence that followed got a big pity laugh and a couple of "Oh, Daren"s. I took them without shame.

More to the point, during the week, it is just me and her daughter - Patricia, again for simplicity - a dancer, who had to leave her studies at University last year when she tore a muscle in her leg. Patricia is incredibly sweet and patient with my horrendous Spanish and I have dinner with her and her pololo (boyfriend) most nights and we talk about politics, 90s music and rental rates in the States. It's good practice. And whenever we hit a road block Carlos is there with Google translate on his phone to clear up any confusion. Oh shit, Carlos is his real name. Well, I guess that's as simple as it gets.

My situation allows me a lot of independence and freedom that I don't feel many of the other volunteers have the opportunity to enjoy. I am grateful. You see, I'm a very solitudinous (not a word) person and I need my alone time. Not too much of it, mind you. It's a delicate balance. Depression is always right around the corner. But I'm on a good wave right now. Also, the time that I spend with mi familia is wonderful and fills me with warm fuzzies. POR EJEMPLO:

Last weekend was my host mother's sister's birthday. My host mother and I grabbed a micro to the north of city in the evening. Lisa (my host mother's sister) and her husband and her two daughters and her little gordito baby boy live in a neighborhood comprised mostly of carabineros (police - pacos if you want to get slang-y about it). When we arrived the whole family was sitting around the table. Abuelo, abuela, daughters, et al. Son-in-law was on the couch watching TV. After extending my "Hola"s around the table (complete with the Greeting Cheek-Kiss) a sharp noise came tumbling down the stairs. The grandchildren.

To back up momentarily, Eddie, 10 - my host mom's youngest sister's son - and I are cool. My first Sunday in Antofagasta we went over to mi abuela's (where said youngest sister and son live) and we played some Mario games on his Wii. My spanish may be bad but my video games skillz are much worse. Still, Eddie was patient and friendly and laughed hard whenever I lost the Yoshi because I did something stupid.

Then the temblor down the stairs. I saw Eddie first and we exchanged a friendly fist bump. But then, I came face-to-face with a 8-year-old girl in dog makeup. She looked at me, well, less looked and more squinted suspiciously. She said something in Spanish I didn't quite catch. But trying to make light of the situation I said, "Oh! Quien es el perro?" My mind still in self-correcting Spanish mode, I adjusted the gender, "I mean, la perra." A sharp silence. It didn't last long but there were a couple of voices who tapped in from the nearby table, "El perrito. No es perra. El perrito." Although no one brought it up afterwards, I think in that moment I called this 8-year-old girl in dog makeup that I was meeting for the first time, in her house, in front of her entire family, a "bitch."

Maculine-Feminine-Innocent-Dumb. The first of many faux-pas, I can assure you.

But the dinner that followed was filled with warmth and smiles and delicious peanut butter and jelly Chocolate cake. So my embarrassment soon faded. And I got lost in the rhythms of Chilean Spanish, that I'm still trying to make sense of. Through trial-and-error, and much offense, I will prevail. Right now I'm just enjoying the sounds. And the laughs - especially those of mi abuela. I have a sneaking suspicion that she's hilarious. But I have no real evidence of this quite yet. In due time.

Intro De Flow

I arrived in Antofagasta on June 24th - a Sunday - after a 19 hour bus ride from Santiago. The entertainment on the bus consisted of several American films: Zookeeper, Something Borrowed, Cowboys & Aliens and finally Source Code. I slept a lot. Waking up only to see the vast desert landscapes shift hues every couple of hours. But as we drove up into Antofagasta, I was in awe. "Comfortable" may actually be a better word. "I can do this," I said to myself multiple times. "I can do this." And then, "This is going to be easy."

Antofagasta is a city on the sea. It's beautiful to behold from the coast. It has two malls. Beautiful and bountiful graffiti. A complicated public transportation system ("micros" y "colectivos" but more on that later). A couple different universities. A futbol stadium. Bars. Couple of cafes. Couple of parks. And a helluva lot of people. And, not dissimilar to my "home", Los Angeles, way too many cars.

But these are all first impressions. I'll be picking this city apart, piece by piece, at this address for the next 5 months. Short reflections, photos of the amazing graffiti, and whatever else I can think of. Watch Darn struggle. Watch Darn do. Watch Darn learn life lessons and decry the greed and over-consumption of the American system. With humor and love, of course. Because I wouldn't be able to come down here without that system. My value as a native English speaker wouldn't exist without that system. Watch Darn contradict.

Nos vemos,
-Darn