earthquake journal

Linares, Chile 2/27/2010

The moon and mosquitoes were out in full force the night of the earthquake. Huddling together in small groups of families my neighborhood migrated to safer ground, where we stood in a large open field waiting with sleepy eyes for our nerves to calm down and for the sun to come up. It was 3:30AM when the earthquake hit Linares, and I was amidst a deep sleep, like most nights. Although I was woken to my bed shaking, as if I was on a turbulent plane or driving over a washboard road, I was determined to keep sleeping, unaware of the earthquake enormity. Two frantic family members, my host-sister and host-mom barged into my room yelling in Spanish, “Come Elena! Get out of the house!” I grabbed my jacket and stumbled into the moonlight, where Spanish words were flying like lightening in the air around me. As the sun began to rise, my host-dad collected blankets from inside, and we curled up on the front porch to rest our eyes. Yunuen, the other IDIP student here in Linares, walked to my house with her family, bringing information that our weekend trip to Santiago was officially canceled; the Pan-American Highway had suffered several bridge collapses.

The following day was a mixture of shock and calm vacancy in downtown Linares; nothing was open, electricity and water were cut off, and few cars drove on the streets. People walked everywhere, taking pictures, observing the damage, and sharing stories about their night. In my neighborhood the houses are fairly new and made of cement with metal roofs and so there was no damage, however it was a different scene in the town center where most businesses are old structures made from adobe and clay shingles.

Many roofs were fractured and glass from shattered windows was everywhere, however the majority of buildings in Linares withstood the quake. While Intermittent structures sat destroyed, as if a bomb had been dropped right on top of them, Linares experienced minor damage and few deaths compared to many other places in Chile.

I stood in a line waiting for bread (a staple part of every Chilean’s diet) with my host-sister. We could only find one store that was open and they were allotting one bag of freshly made bread per person at double the normal price, 1,000 pesos ($2). Most people in Chile eat fresh and seasonal produce and cupboards are not stacked with preserved foods like they are back in the U.S. Additionally, many Chileans are paid a daily wage for work instead of bi-weekly like in the States. Because of this, grocery shopping in Linares is a daily chore and a single day without open stores can cause major alarm for families whose survival mode gets kicked into high gear.

In the days that followed the quake, everyone in Linares seemed to be waiting; routines were put on hold, nerves were high, families stayed close together, people were overly alert to every tremor and aftershock, and the uncertainty of when the water and electricity would come back on began to cause chaos. Essentials like candles, water, and bread were sold at triple the value, and everyone was frantic to get in contact with their loved ones. Without electricity we had no contact with other parts of Chile, and we still didn’t know the extent of destruction and the strength of the earthquake.

On Sunday, the river behind my house was filled with people bathing, the church down the block was holding a baptism and a funeral at the same time, and news spread that a water truck was coming to my neighborhood, creating a frenzy of people who flocked to the streets. I stood on the outside from all this, not only as a foreigner but because my host-family was extremely prepared and in the best of conditions. The one radio in town functioning off a generator announced that the tap water, which is always potable in Chile, would come on for 15 minutes between 2-3PM. When my family, sitting around a table outside listening intently to our small portable radio, heard this news every person situated themselves at a faucet with empty bottles, ready to collect. We moved all of the mattresses into the living room, close to the door, and slept together for the first three nights. We all slept with our clothes on and our shoes at our beds, fully prepared to jump up and out of the house in case of another strong tremor.

On Sunday night, the radio station set up a TV outside powered by a generator and people crowded around to capture some information about the rest of the country. Images of entire beach towns in rubble, places I had visited just weeks before, boats and cars flipped on their sides and washed to shore, and traumatized faces began to flood in. The radio crew, San Antonio De Padua, worked ceaselessly and heroically, transmitting information, answering phone-calls, organizing the community, and sending words across the airwaves of hope, solidarity, and support. By Monday morning, power and electricity had been restored in Linares and a new phase had begun: the phase of reconstruction and emergency aid.

Although Linares was taking care of itself and starting to operate again, using police to manage the traffic, military to control the supermarkets, workers to clean up the wreckage, and busy residents to cleanout their homes, the call for help among places more affected intensified. Since our time in Chile, Yunuen and I have both been working on internships with Caritas International, a social development foundation that establishes programs to benefit low-income communities. Following the earthquake, the Caritas office in Linares became the principal organizer, sending aid relief to destroyed areas. Caritas immediately started receiving donations; bags of cloths, sacks of food, bottles of water, trucks to transport, and volunteers to give their time. Whether it was a carload full of food, or a small bag of rice, it all added up, it continues to add up, and every bit of help is vital and life giving. Yunuen and I made a trip to Cuaquenes bringing water, food, and clothes to communities still without electricity and running water, 5 days after the quake. In the plaza eager volunteers from the local church youth group greeted our team from Caritas.

The strength and determination to bring help, to rebuild their country, to support their friends and family is overwhelming among the Chilean community. After watching two days of painful news, the Chilean government started making deliveries to coastal towns and places accessible only by air. I know that the news, especially international news, often focuses on the most devastating negative situations, but I can’t emphasize enough the generosity and continual acts of kindness and compassion that are occurring right now in Chile. For every looting you see on the news, thousands of people are compiling clothes, donating money and spending devoted time in solidarity with their country.

Walking around my neighborhood today I see that everyone has brought out their flags, and they are hanging with hope and courage from every windowsill. Cars, buses, taxis all have “Fuerza Chile!” written all over them, and the plaza is filled with volunteers collecting food. Yes, it will take years to reconstruct Chile, and a lifetime to heal the devastated hearts, but right now Chile is standing on its own two feet in the most beautiful of ways, by helping itself, “Chile ayuda Chile”, and trying its hardest to respond to every voice that needs support. I have been taken care of and looked after in this community for two months, and although I am eager to get home and be with my own family, I will be sad to leave behind my host-family, the Caritas community, and a country amidst the restoration process of such a crisis.

Bomberos alarm

In Chile, everyone knows when it is noontime. When I first heard the siren makes its announcement, I was startled and surprised, holding my ears as if to escape the sound of a loud ambulance passing by. What is that awful noise, I asked? It wasn’t until I bought a watch and asked a few people what the sound was, that I realized in all of Chile, in every city, town, or village, the local fire station sets their siren to alarm at noon everyday, as if to have a community timekeeper or an alarm clock broadcasting the time. In between the high-pitched siren that happens to go off only 2 blocks away from the Caritas office, where I work, one can hear the faint melody of church bells competing for air space.

Not surprisingly the church bells aren’t as strong and don’t last as long as the fire siren, and only if one strains can they hear the sacred drone. I found it particularly interesting when I asked my supervisor why it was a custom in Chile to have a loud siren at noon, and she said that it’s derived from religious traditions. She explained that only recently has Chile become more secular within public life, but that many Catholic and religious traditions are still maintained out of custom and habit, within the community. Historically speaking, the Church rings it bells at noon everyday to pray to the Angeles. The Chilean culture is so accustomed to being notified when it is noontime, because of the Church, that they have made it into an everyday, nonreligious aspect of life. It’s interesting how traditions get started and how quickly we forget or loose site of their beginnings, also interesting how humans adapt, so effortlessly, without being conscious of it, as gradual changes soon become habitual norms.

What would the Chileans do without their noontime alarm? I have grown to appreciate it and smile, no longer being annoyed. I also have grown to have huge respect for all of the Firefighters here. Every firefighter in Chile is a volunteer; there is not ONE firefighter that gets paid for their work. That just baffles me. How can a job as valuable and necessary as a firefighter not be paid, when plastic surgeons, and strippers rake in the money?! Well, I know the answer to that, hormonelocura, but it still seems a bit absurd.

Another tradition, known to many Latin cultures, that is exercised daily here in Linares, is Almuerzo. The much anticipated, needed, and respected time of the day where everything and everyone rests and goes on break. It makes sense eating the largest meal during the day and a small meal at night, my mom always said it was the healthiest (thanks mom for the healthy tips!), and even though I always get afternoon sueño it seems important to take a break during the heat of the day. From 1PM to 3PM everyday I return home from downtown Linares, which is a 15-minute colectivo ride that costs me 290 pesos, 50 cents, and is shared with other people who are also returning to the Huapi neighborhood. Passing buses, taxis and other colectivos, we zoom through the exhaust filled streets and over the train tracks. On the shoulder of the street dozens of exhausted workers are riding home on their bikes to refuel, eat some lunch, and then return to work, probably doing construction or picking fruit. On the way to the Huapi, my humble and comfortable neighborhood, we pass buildings sprayed with graffiti murals and expressive words, and the gypsy tents, I can’t leave out the gypsy block.

Chile has many gypsies. I don’t know a lot about their history, where the came from originally, and how long they’ve been around, but they are certainly a stronghold in Linares and in most cities in the Central Valley. They are a very interested group of people that move from place to place, carrying their home everywhere they go, just like the classic nomadic gypsy image everyone has in their head. In Linares they take up an entire vacant block to the entrance of my neighborhood.

My family and the Chileans in general don’t seem to have a strong opinion about them because they aren’t apart of the community. Yet everyone finds them intriguing and mysterious, and a bit of a nuisance. They are kind of like aliens that people ogle at from afar and tighten with protective reactions when they come close. They are known for stealing from people, from private homes, and even cutting power lines from the streets to wire their TV’s and stereos. They all live in colorful circus looking tents and the groups vary from 3-8 tents. In the central plaza I’ve had several opportunities to observe their pattern of begging. The women walk around with long colorful dresses with fanny packs and naked babies hanging from their sides. They strut up to you, stick out their hand forcefully and say in Spanish “give me money” with an earnest and commanding voice. Some offer a palm reading in exchange for “Plata”, but others just get to the point.

When I’m ready to get out of the Colectivo I ask to be dropped on the corner, “me deja en la vuelta”, and I walk past a small creek murky with trash and smelling of unpleasant bathroom aroma, and a giant concrete Catholic church before coming to my quiet street filled with loose chickens and 3-dogs to every house. At the end of the block is my house with a small rose bush and a blooming nectarine tree out front. I enter the gate, knock on the locked door, and escape into the dark and cool house, ready to eat a combination of the following; tomatoes, beans, lettuce, bread, corn, and meat. I sit, always with the TV on, in the dark kitchen and eat with my host-mom, brother, and grandmother, and on the weekend everyone, including the sister and father, eats together. This is the almuerzo tradition. Something I will surely miss once I go back to long days where I forget to eat until its dark. In Chile, I never forget to eat. Food and family gatherings always find me, they are what people work for and wait for, and expect day in and day out.

Picking Blueberries

Although they still picked twice as fast as me, their wrinkled and brown hands swiftly moving as if this rhythmic motion had been imprinted into them, I still like to think that my first day of blueberry picking was successful- and there’s no doubt that picking tomatoes on The Thirsty Goose Farm on San Juan Island helped me: my durability to work in heat, my desire to get the best product and to please, my soft hands careful not to destroy the fragile and perfectly round crop oozing with juice, and my utmost respect and admiration for the hard work put in by farmers. My hands were slower, yes, but I don’t pick blueberries for a living 6 days a week for 3 months straight. No, I don’t, but today I got a slice, just a small flavor of what 150 women (a few men), including my host mom do for a living, hoping to make enough during the summer months to last in the winter when there is no fruit to pick- and this was only one farm among hundreds in this area that export, potatoes, flowers, corn (grain), raspberries, nectarines, wine, etc. Picking blueberries all day in the scorching sun, blueberries that will be sent around the world, exported primarily to China and the United States. We woke up at 6AM, Saturday, just like everyday for Rebecca, my Chilean mom. The mornings here in Linares (central valley) are cold and crisp. We walked out together, water bottles and lunches in hand, wearing all the layers that I brought on this trip. As we walked 20 minutes into the agricultural fields that surround this city for miles, the clouds slowly began to light up behind the mountains, filling the sky with a soft blue color. I was introduced to everyone as the American student, coming to work in the Blueberry fields for the day to get a better understanding of their daily work. Soft smiles, shy smiles, and sleepy smiles- all very sweet smiles gazing back at me. Maybe 3 men, at the most, stood in the crowd. Women of every size, shape, color and age put their sunscreen on, their hats on, their layers (soon to be shed), and geared up with buckets strapped around their waist. Each picker got assigned to specific rows, to ensure fairness and efficiency. Like everyone- they each had their own style of working. Some were quiet, some didn’t stop talking, some continuously yelled across the field of blueberry rows making jokes and laughing, sending good energy into the air. The scene was focused let lighthearted. I worked with Rebecca, who has an allergic reaction to all the chemicals they use on the Blueberries. She, like everyone, has developed a persistent rash, especially on her knees from crawling to get the low-hangers. We dug our hands into the huge bushes, delicately fingering at the powdery blue balls and dropping them into our buckets. Conversations flew around me, mostly questioning fellow workers about family members, discussing Haiti and how awful and sad it is, talking about money gained, lost, and needed, and talking about how cold it was. In two hours everyone was over-heating and sweating, hoping to pick from the shade and trying to avoid the 90-degree sun. On Saturdays she only works a half-day, because she has another job on the weekends. We finished at 12. We had picked 15 buckets all together, each big enough to fill a large crate of blueberries, and each worth $1. On a good day she gets 20 buckets, $20. I think about what we buy blueberries for in the U.S., I think about all the middlemen and where and how the money is distributed in the process of exportation, I think about how this is not a sufficient wage for them. I think about the usage of chemicals- what it does for the animals that share habitats, the bodies of humans, the plants, what it does to farming in general. In our global world, how far, and through how may processing plants, does our food go through to get to our plate? Who will eat those blueberries I picked today? Fascinating world we live in.

IDIP reflection

I arrived in Linares, Chile on January 16^th, the eve before Chile held its presidential elections. A momentous shift in Chile’s political administration took place the following day as the candidate, a Harvard graduate and businessman, from the conservative right, was elected into office. Since the dictatorship of Pinochet, Chile has maintained a center-leftist coalition called the Concertación, and this recent election marked the first change in 20 years. For some Chileans, this is an exciting and refreshing juncture, for others, it is a suspicious change that feels uncomfortably similar to Pinochet’s conservative party. Either way, my first full day in Linares was filled with honking horns, celebratory smiles, and music in the streets, and it was powerful to watch a thriving and functioning democracy of people cast their votes - generations of women holding hands, marching to the ballet box, and freely expressing their opinions in a country that experienced 16 years of dictatorship. The elected President, Piñera, is Chile’s third richest man, owning a TV channel, an international airline, and a national Fútbol team, among others, and it is disputed among his opponents that his billionaire wealth is not a healthy mix in Chilean politics. Fascinated by politics, and as an outsider, I’m excited to be here for the transition and the sequence of opinions that will surely follow.

Back to Linares. When I arrived I was welcomed-in by a smiling family of six, who live on the outskirts of town; their house is bordered by blueberry and agricultural fields on one side, and a crowded and active neighborhood on the other. It took me a while to get comfortable with the unfamiliar idioms of Chilean Spanish, and it has become a daily routine to study them, but my host-family was relaxed and everso gracious. The Chileans are very clam and light-hearted, and I immediately felt comfortable in my new home. Now, it has become customary to return home for almuerzo (lunch) everyday in a collectivo (a 50-cent shared taxi service), and eat “once” (dinner) together every night as a family. My host-parents are hard-working laborers, working construction and picking fruit everyday. Last weekend I got to work in the fruit fields with 75 other women, who make $20 tops a day. It was interesting to gain an insight into the hard work they do day-in and day-out, picking products that will all be exported. Located in the central valley, in the heart of Chile’s fertile land, Linares is surrounded by fields of every type of fruit, corn, wheat, rice, flowers and much more. The central industry here is transparently dependent on foreign demand and cheap labor. This brings me to my internship and scope of work.

Yuni and myself are both in Linares working with a social organization called Caritas. Briefly, Caritas is an International Catholic Organization that focuses on working with and providing opportunities and services to the most marginalized and poor communities. Here in Linares they work in close connection with the Chilean Government, where the majority of the funds come from. One interesting thing about Chile and working with Caritas is how integrated the Catholic Church and the Government are. Collaborating together on every social service, these two forces are constantly at work in the Caritas office. The first two weeks in Linares we received a full and broad introduction to each program, employee, and project. We spent the mornings conversing with program coordinators, and frequently went into the “terreno” during the afternoons. A few of their projects include, housing for children who are victims of abuse in their homes, micro-loans for small businesses, job-training for unemployed youth, and cooperatives for temporary fruit pickers. One of my favorite days “in the field” was spent cultivating honey from a bee farm with two families and a Caritas employee. The honey project provides families, that have no reliable income and who are considered to be below the poverty line, with the necessary equipment and information needed for a bee-farm. For example, this family was able to harvest enough honey to be sold in a small roadside stand to keep them going financially throughout the year.

Although we’ve visited and experienced many programs, the one that I have chosen to focus my project on is working with the “Temporeras”, the temporary fruit pickers. Currently working on a project to organize the women into groups and unions, Caritas intention is to help educate the women on both their legal and human rights as fruit pickers. Basic rights, such as the right to a bathroom, a lunch-break, and cold water, and a living wage, are not recognized in most companies here; the workers voices are not respected nor heard. Exporting all of its products to places like the United States and Europe, Chile boasts its open market, yet the repercussions felt in the field are devastating. For the next two months my intention is to work with Hermana Fuesanta (the program coordinator), record the stories and experiences of these women, and help to compile the information into a pamphlet. The days in Linares feel comfortable and routine, as if I was heading to and from my house and office in Seattle. Mobility is smooth, and I enjoy drinking Nescafe with a spoon-full of sugar every morning in Caritas, watching goofy reality shows in Spanish with my family, and taking public transportation wherever I go.

arriving in Linares

2/5/2010: I have already been in Linares for three weeks; it feels like home as I greet neighbors, meet up with friends, and walk through my daily routine- where has the time gone? After splitting with my parents in Pucon I arrived in Linares feeling excited for the unknown and wondering what this new home and internship would be like. I’ve traveled a lot and normally I enjoy taking adventures alone and delving into a completely foreign environment, but for some reason on this day I was feeling vulnerable and attached to the comfort of traveling with my parents. I had to transfer buses in an nondescript town in order to get to Linares. Standing at the ticket window was a somber looking man who refused to smile. I asked him how much the bus was to Linares and where I needed to catch it and he responded in what sounded to me like a jumble of incoherent words, which slid unnoticed through his closed mouth. I asked if he could repeat what he said and please say it more slowing, and he repeated just as fast and this time looking annoyed. After asking around and only getting curious-stares as if asking, who is this foreigner? and fingers that pointed in the direction of his ticket window, I returned, I failed, and I started to cry. I was shocked at first at how easily the tears came. Sometimes, for no real reason, if enough time has elapsed without releasing these power drops, something small will trigger my emotionally side, and there they come, like a tsunami. My core felt unsettled and I didn’t feel strong, the cold temper of this one man had infected me. How strange, how unfair I thought. After sitting down, I took a few deep breaths, telling myself this was part of travel, this was part of speaking a different language. Within minutes a women was helping me get the directions, speaking in a soft and understandable Spanish, she sighed when I told her about the unhelpful man, and she said, “Yes, unfortunately there are people like this everywhere in the world, but luckily they’re the minority.” Thank you, I said. Energy is a powerful thing, especially when you’re speaking a language that isn’t native because you rely on body language and perceptions to give you feedback when words fail. Simple circumstances like this teach me that my actions, my tone, my energy, affect people in ways that I am not aware of. It made me think about his circumstances of which I didn’t know, and I dwelled on the possibility of being him in situations that I wasn’t even aware of. Did he know that I felt like I was shrinking as his hand gestures and words flashed in front of me, if he knew would he have been more patient or cared, does it matter? All I know is that if one person has bad energy, a cycle begins, and it’s incredible how quick the mood changes and how fast communication barriers build. Last week I listened to a paramount speech given by Obama; his Q & A time with the Conservative House. His underlying message was about tone, being careful with rhetoric, and getting problems solved in a healthy debate rather than attacking one another and pointing fingers. I was impressed, like usual, by Obama’s insight; the truth he was speaking was so simple yet so difficult for the collective human, or American politics, to put into everyday action. Why is there a need to attack others to boost the confidence or support of oneself? On a side note of language, this experience, and numerous others down here in South America, where the vernacular Spanish is unfamiliar to me and laden with slang, has heightened my recognition and appreciation of people who have difficulty learning English in the United States. The mental demand and inner discipline that is required to learn a new language is hard to understand until you’re living it.

Travels with my parents

Hello! Although I'm usually bad at communicating while I travel and I keep no promises as to how often this Blog will be updated and maintained, as part of a New Year ambition I'm attempting to keep a record of my 3-month journey in South America. First off, I want to welcome everyone to 2010; the year awaits us with exciting changes and valuable continuations. For myself, 2010 is a year of possibilities and open space as graduation comes closer.

After a snowy Christmas spent with my sister and her crew in Tahoe, I took off for Buenos Aires with my geared-up and giddy parents. Before jumping to South America, here's a few pictures of Tahoe in December- pictures are from Diamonds Peak and Heavenly.

In true Porten Weston fashion, my parents jumped on the chance of traveling to South America when they learned I was studying in Chile winter quarter. They are two hearty travelers, backpacks and all, and I’m grateful for their time, energy, mobility, shared passions, and friendship.

We flew into the humid capital of Buenos Aires, on December 28^th. From the high altitudes of the Sierra Nevada to Buenos Aires in the height of summer, my skin experienced a pleasant shock as we immersed ourselves into the heat, soaking up vitamin D and enjoying the everlasting daylight. For the sake of catching up to the present, I must briefly describe Argentina, although it deserves much more. I quickly fell in love with Argentina and the Argentines. They are open, loud, calm, generous, and night owls. The three days we spent in Buenos Aires were filled with late night tango halls, deliciously cheesy empanadas, coca-cola and Fernet, yerba maté delight, the most fantastic carne asada I’ve ever tasted, and endless weaving walks through the streets (getting lost with Heather!). We visited the Casa Rosada, the equivalent to our White House, and got a flavor for the various districts as we walked around the old Italian district called La Boca. Buenos Aires is a city of ex-patriots and immigrants. Distinct neighborhoods separate the immigrant communities into a variety of colors, customs, backgrounds, religions, and foods.

La Casa Rosada- Where Eva de Peron gave her famous speech in 1950

Gifted graffiti artists fill the streets with color.

Skyping with my Sister!

There are a few things that struck me about Argentina immediately. First off, the Spanish in Argentina and Chile is way different from anything I’m used to. In Argentina everyone uses the vos form instead of tu, and they pronounce yo like Joe, also they speak with a strong Italian-sounding accent. It became a running joke that with my dad’s commendable yet rusty attempts at speaking Spanish he persistently got confused over peoples names. He would ask people what their name was, and because they always needed to clarify his question, they would answer, “yo (pronounced Joe)?” My dad thought that everyone he was meeting was named Joe. Love it. Secondly, the Argentines don’t sleep! I literally don’t understand how this city, this country, functions. People, young and old alike, walk the streets at 12, 1, 2, 3AM. Some bars and restaurants don’t even open until 12AM, and then people don’t go out until 2AM and don’t return around 5 or 6AM. I adapted quickly, because it’s the norm, but I was always baffled when we’d get back to our hostel or to Heathers house and it was 3AM and everything was still open and the streets were still crowded. It would be hard to persistently function on this schedule, at least for me, if you enjoy the daylight that is.

After drinking Maté during the mornings we spent our afternoons walking. Cheese, wine, bread, and meat delight everywhere we walked- our favorite! The plazas here in Chile and Argentina are green and filled with trees. Compared to Mexico, the plaza architecture is noticeably different. Grassy lawns and well-maintained gardens scatter this city. Lovers, musicians, soccer players, families, friends, sit outside on the grass and the benches, sharing this common space in the heart of the city - so Latin. At night we’d get a hint as to where the best tango event was. We'd spent an hour searching for a name, an obscure street, hoping that we were going in an accurate direction. Eventually, just when we were about to give up, as our surroundings became more indistinct and dark, we’d hear music, we’d climb stairs to a seemingly disserted building, we’d see dim lights and a few people standing outside a door, and then we’d enter. The tango halls were like old disserted barns that came alive at night, with high ceilings and dangling chandeliers. A 8-man band, including 4 lively accordionists stood on the stage, as the romantic and sensual dance floor moved swiftly and suavely. Watching tango dancers in underground dance halls in BA is definitely a highlight of this trip. Incredible movements, passionate looks, crowded dance floors, young and old celebrating this dance.

When the time came to leave Buenos Aires, I was ready. The constant activity in the city was fascinating and stimulating, but I need to breath fresh air, I need to see mountains, lakes, the ocean, I need the countryside. Too much time in a cement world drives me crazy, although the late-night dance halls and electric pulse of the city I will miss.

The Lake District:

From Buenos Aires, we caught a 23 hour bus ride to San Carlos de Bariloche, in the northern part of Patagonia called the Lake District. The bus was a double-decker, like all buses here, and because buses are the main form of transportation, it was packed full. Air-conditioned and comfortable, we were served trays upon trays of airplane-type food and of course Coca-Cola. The consumption of coca-cola and soda here is incredible....If I'm not careful I'm going to have a mouthful of cavities when I return! As my mom wrote in an email, our bus ride to Bariloche can be described as The 23 Hour Village. From the reiki healers who soothed a young girl panicking with car-sickness, to the two professors on summer break who were visiting their daughters, to the man with his 3 year old son, the community was strong and unique, always keeping a watchful eye.

Bariloche is beautiful. Travelers from around the world seek-out this outdoor haven. River rafting, kayaking, mountain climbing, skiing, mountain biking, and sailing are among some of the activities here. Like the Northwest it is surrounded by mountains, forest, and water. The landscape is green and lush, and the mountains are jagged and rough. We stayed in a wonderful hostel called, Hostel 1004, for two nights before busing south to El Bolson. While my parents hiked the mountains, I rented a bike and took an adventure around the lake, making friends with Brazilians, Israelites, Panamanians, and Italians along the way and drinking from fresh mountain creeks. Swimming in the cold water and exercising was refreshing and much needed after the long bus ride.

From Bariloche we traveled to El Bolson, a smaller town surrounded by mountains, fields of hop vines, waterfalls, Refugios (small cabins where you can camp), backpackers, street musicians, artesian markets, and happy hippies. The Hostel was stayed in was amazing, in fact ALL of the Hostels in Argentina are very impressive. Fully equipped with dorms, private rooms, clean communal kitchens, friendly and helpful staff, interesting travelers, bars, etc. etc. Hostels are the way to go!

El Bolson: The bus driver dropped us off alongside the road as we came near to El Bolson. We walked down a quiet dirt road for 20 minutes, wondering if we had the correct directions to the hostel, El Pueblitio. We were greeted in front of an intricately carved wooden sign by two Oregonians, one German (the owner), and an Irish- behind the house was 4 hammocks, 3 small dormitory cabins, a river, and a large vegetable garden. After orienting ourselves, we jammed off on bikes and headed for the mountains were we encountered a plastic bottle greenhouse and a waterfall just big enough to stand under and let the cold-water rush down on our heads. Two nights in wonderful El Bolson and we were off to Trevelin.

Trevelin and the border crossing: We traveled to Trevelin in southern Patagonia, hoping to cross over to Chile and work our way up from the southern part of Chiloé Island. Little did we know the border would be closed for two days due to strikes on the Chilean border- the custom agents were demanding higher wages. Additionally, we learned that a huge volcano erupted the year before and parts of the Highway Austral and the Pan-American Highway were still closed because of severe flood destruction. We went out to a delicious carne dinner, however, with Kylie’s wonderful Argentinean host-family. After one night in El Trevelin we decided to head back up to Bariloche, a 6-hour bus ride. My dad nearly got arrested at the border because he forgot about an avocado that was in his backpack and he didn’t declare it- it was a very serious border crossing. The custom agents were diligent about making sure NOTHING foreign was entering Chile. I’ve heard some Chileans refer to their country as an island because it’s so well protected: mountains to the east, ocean to the west, Antarctic to the south, and desert to the north. When we crossed over to Chile the fog was so thick you couldn’t see 10-feet ahead. The Andes became less jagged and sharp, smoothing out along green agricultural fields. The bus drivers, who were Chilean, turned up the music as soon as we entered Chile, as if to say, YES we’ve made it! The music sounded traditional, something similar to Mexican music, and the Spanish changed from Italian accents to Chilean idioms. I have to say, the Chilean Spanish is incredibly hard to understand. The people speak so fast, so quiet, and they drop all of their endings while leaving no room between the words. It is an endless task to learn all of the unique Chilean phrases, dichos. Here, words like bean, corn, and avocado, have entirely different Spanish names than in Mexico. We arrived in Puerto Varays, a beautiful port looking out at Chiloé Island just in time to watch a traditional Chilean Cueca dance, where the women flickered their handkerchiefs and twirled in dresses around the men.

Chiloé Island, Valdivia, and Pucon: After renting a car, we caught a 20-min ferry to Chiloé where we stayed for two nights. Chiloé is the biggest island in Chile and numerous small islands surround it. It reminded me a lot of Ireland- green rolling hills, herds of sheep, cows, and horses everywhere. Small farm houses scattering the land with bogs and swamps hiding on the surface. The island is full of mystical characters, and the forests can be described as primeval. Unfortunately it was too windy to visit the penguin colony, so instead we hiked through the National Park and admired the color of every house that stood on stilts overlooking the bay. We stayed in a beautiful hostel called, Hostel Palafito, in Castro, the capital of Chiloé. I was grateful that I had brought warm cloths on this trip. The southern part of Chile rains everyday and the wind brings bitter coldness into your skin. The Chileans say that you can experience every season in one day here. Wind slams against you one minute, while the sun shines down the next, just as dark rain clouds tumble in from the depths of the Pacific Ocean.

With time demanding our departure we left Chiloé with a hunger for sun and the lively hostels that we had grown to love in Argentina. Chile does not yet have the Hostel network that Argentina does. I don’t know if this is because fewer budget backpackers travel to Chile or if it has something to do with the culture, but so far, the hostels in Chile are hard to find and more expensive. Another thing that is interesting is that Chile is very tuned into the TV and radio- everyone owns a TV and it seems to be at the center of community and family gatherings. Before heading to Pucon we spent one night in the seaport city of Valdivia where we watched, mesmerized, as the fisherman threw their scrapes behind them to the hungry and snorting Sea Lions. The port scene in Valdivia was fun to observe. A long row of fishermen working hard to please their customers and cut the perfect fillet of 10+ varieties of glistening fish. Sea-birds and gulls flew over-head, circling the scene hoping to get a slice of it, as the enormous Sea Lions with thick whiskers and tough skin waited in the water or on the cement outcroppings for fish guts to come flying their way. Although I love sea-food, and I have enjoyed eating it a few times on this trip, these huge sea-food markets always disturb me, as if I was standing in front of a slaughter house of cows or pigs, except in the case of cows and pigs there isn’t hungry whales, or sea lions, or other mammals competing for the food source. The proportions we take from the sea for human consumption is mind-blowing, especially when you think about everything within the sea that is dependent on this source of food for survival. We can live without fish, but the whales and seals can’t- I’d much rather consider myself a vegetarian that only occasionally eats chicken and red meat than a vegetarian that only occasionally eats seafood. Anyways, back to Chile.

From Valdivia we headed to Pucon, the most notorious tourist destination for Chileans during the summer months. Families from Santiago and across this country come equipped with tents, loaded cars, bikes, and Pisco Sour, to enjoy the mountains and the fresh lakes. My dad and I decided to splurge and pay the $80 to hike Volcán Vilarrica. We departed with a group of 8, including 3 Israelis, 2 French, and 3 guides, at 6AM on a clear morning. Crampons, helmets, wind gear, sunglasses and the much needed sunscreen, and hiking boots- we were fully equipped to make the 5 hour climb followed by the 45 min. decent where we sledded down on our butts. The volcano is very active and it was spouting sulfur gases that forced everyone to collapse and hide their face until it passed. Standing at the top of the volcano, not daring to look too far in, we enjoyed the clear skies, the outstanding view of the lakes and hills below, and the contagious smiles of triumphant hikers.

Odes to Common Things

We've been trying to read a bit of poetry everyday from the famous and brilliant Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda. His Odes to Common Things, is a beautiful piece of work. After arriving in Linares and eating tomatoes every meal with my host-family, I have grown more in love with his words and this specific poem: Ode to Tomatoes

The street 
filled with tomatoes 
midday, 
 summer, 
 light is
 halved 
like
 a
 tomato, 
 its juice 
runs
 through the streets. 
 In December, 
 unabated, 
 the tomato 
invades 
the kitchen, 
 it enters at lunch time, 
takes
 its ease 
on countertops, 
 among glasses, 
 butter dishes, 
 blue salt cellars. 
 It sheds 
its own light, 
 benign majesty. 
 Unfortunately, we must 
murder it: 
the knife
 sinks
 into living flesh, 
 red
 viscera, 
 a cool
 sun, 
 profound, 
 inexhaustible, 
 populates the salads
 of Chile, 
 happily, it is wed
 to the clear onion, 
and to celebrate the union 
we 
pour
 oil, 
 essential
 child of the olive, 
 onto its halved hemispheres, 
 pepper adds its fragrance, 
 salt, its magnetism; it is the wedding of the day, parsley hoists its flag, potatoes bubble vigorously, the aroma of the roast knocks 
at the door, it’s time! come on! and, on 
the table, at the midpoint of summer, the tomato, star of earth, recurrent and fertile star, displays its convolutions, its canals, its remarkable amplitude and abundance, no pit, no husk, no leaves or thorns, the tomato offers its gift of fiery color and cool completeness.