This is the last post from Chile, reflection on two months, learning, living, observing. With no need for a number system, family ranks first, followed by school and the rest. As previously noted, the family was bumped hard by the sudden death of the father, an enjoyable character, opinionated, but loved to hear the other view as well, as point of departure for hardy discussion. My position changed accordingly, becoming more than just a foreign student guest. Marcela, the mother, is one of those Spanish maternal jewels I have come to expect here in S.America. She manages three jobs, mothers students, as well as her own daughter, and other in-and-out family members. She is always enjoyable, helpful, supportive. She truly represents the best of mothers. It is my hope that we shall remain friends.
Language here has been a challenge. The school provided me with four excellent teachers, finally climbed one fence of grammatical understanding, though there are several others beyond. If, if, I can only continue to study before all is filtered out by English interference. Chileno is not easy to understand. Final s and sometimes entire ending syllables are dropped. Tonal quality disappears at the most inopportune times. There is the abnormal number of unique national vocabulary words found no other place. Chilenos, many, maybe most, fully admit to their dialect being the worst of all latin speaking countries. I find myself outside controlled situations and pull back in fear, only to constantly find myself in discussions, where the best I can do is look intensely at the speaker, and politely nod frequently. Yet, the speakers seem to think I am understanding it all.
As for the rest, Chile is different and the same, but it shall have its own unique chapter to my experiences. Modern, stable, economic progress, yet still dealing with the past, significant issues that all latin countries share, such as income disparity and unequal education, and that conflict between national pride, but lack of national identity. It is easily a loveable place, a people that will easily include you. As I write in a café, with my bear and papas fritas, surrounded by portraits of Hemingway and reproductions of Diego Rivera, a gentleman initiates a conversation, then invites me to share a table with him and his friend. In times past I would have been suspicious, doubtful, and politely declined. But, I seldom if ever, reject offerings now. Our banter begins with the gentleman wondering about my sitting solo in a Santiago bar, how that could possibly be. I try to explain the lack of options makes it mandatory. His friend takes up my defense. As it turns out, the friend is Poli Delano, an important literary figure in Chile, given the name Poli by no other than the most famous of Chilean greats, Pablo Neruda himself. Once we get over the topic of being solo, we move to topics such as lack of Chilean identity, the derivation of Chifa for Chinese food, department living versus home ownership. I even learn a new word, huevon, a term used interchangeably between a term of endearment or a personal insult, depending on the intonation and expression. With me I am assured it is the first. I become more comfortable as our group talks for two hours.
And so it has been. I am left with the memories of:
Tall modern glass buildings, high rise apartments, colorful shacks on hillsides or resting on seaside. Four-mile high mountains, enormous clean lakes, snow capped volcanoes. Beautiful children with their round faces and full brown eyes bring joy to the parents, beautiful Spanish ladies with their long-hair, tight slacks, and stylish boots, plastic surgery. Efficient and clean metros, often packed, driving respect for lanes and pedestrians, dodging bicycles on sidewalks, and skaters rumbing from behind, and stepping over leashed dogs. And, street dogs. A most impressive orchestrated changing of the guard at the presidential Casa de Moneda, accompanied by street dogs, in front of the edifice that was bombed by Chilean armies, the coup of Pinochet, the suicide of Allende, the disappearance of 10 thousand, departure of intelligent minds, possible poisoning of Pablo Neruda, the intellectual recovery. The houses of Pablo, his collections, the view of the coast, the black rocks, the blue-green waves. Street dogs, pampered by strangers with food and pet clothes. Packed night clubs of younthful energy, smokers, too many, late hours. Pisco sour, red wine, and Kuntzman beer. And, street dogs. Patient teachers, Spanish lessons, subjunctive tense, Chileno for taco, huevon, pasto, 30 minute walk to school. Children and families of burns, somehow giving a smile and a laugh, supportive professionals, attachment, hurt and joy, a surprise gift, a tearful departure. A family that became my own, a connection, helping, being present, a place found.
And, now I leave, once again trying to sense the impact, how I have been changed, or will. Should I slow down, or continue, look back or focus forward. It is all much more than a travel adventure. A life event, another mark on the soul, a justification for hope, for challenge, for effort, for contribution, for impact, to make a difference, at least to try. At least to try.
I’m just wondering, how we know where we belong
In a song that’s left behind
In a dream I couldn’t wake from
Could I have felt the brush of a soul that’s passing on
Somewhere in between here and gone.
Up above me, wayward angels, a blur of wings and grace
One for courage, one for safety, one for just in case
I thought a light went out, but now the candle shines
I thought my tears wouldn’t stop and I dried my eyes
And after all of this, the truth that holds me here
Is that this emptiness is something not to fear.
And, I’ll keep wondering how we know where we belong
After all the journeys made, and the journeys yet to come
And I feel like giving up instead of going on
Somewhere in between here and gone.
(MC Carpenter)
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