Laura Ruch • Chile
Dear Globalization,
You should be ashamed of yourself.
In a country of Latinos, practically every billboard model in Chile nowadays resembles the blonde-hair, blue-eyed look of Heidi Klum or Cameron Diaz. Waiting at the bus stop, I frequently see advertisements for McDonalds newest Latin American burger—the McFiesta (I can just picture McDonalds executives sitting around a boardroom coming up with this awful name). I can hardly walk a few blocks in downtown Santiago without happening upon a Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts, and I’ve learned to categorize people on the socioeconomic ladder based upon whether they are sporting a Northface jacket or a knockoff fleece. Was this what you had in mind when you shamelessly promoted free trade and integrated societies?
“Will the real Chilean culture please stand up?” I want to yell. Surely I should be experiencing more of a culture shock than this, considering Santiago is a further distance from Chicago than Moscow is. Yet the longer I’m here, the more I bear witness to your misguided effects and the introduction of American companies, from Nike to Victoria’s Secret, Ruby Tuesdays to Blockbuster. I can’t ride on the metro longer than 20 minutes without a Miley Cyrus or Beyonce music video playing on the inter-car TV screens. It’s not just American culture that’s taken root here, either – every other street corner houses a red and green Chinese restaurant, strung lanterns and all. Yet, as an American, it’s the way technology shapes Chileans perception of America that really irks me – from TV shows like “My Super Sweet 16” and “South Park” to websites like TMZ. It’s hard to know how to respond when my host sister asks me questions like, “Do most American teenagers get Hummers for their birthday?”
Now I’m not totally trying to bash your work, Globalization. I’m not naïve enough to think that international economic integration isn’t essential for combating poverty and allowing a country to move from developing into developed. It’s true – no nation has ever developed over the long term without increasing its global trade. Chile has become the wealthiest Latin American country only after implementing free trade agreements with powerful world economies such as the US, EU, and South Korea. However, with a soaring economy came soaring inequality. Wealth has been distributed largely among the small, upper class of Chileans, most of whom work in big business. Pinochet’s strategies of increasing exports disproportionally left out the poor, and today Chile has one of the highest Gini coefficients (measure of income inequality) in the world.
Furthermore, I wonder how much your drive towards rapid development and American economic interest has hurt Chile. There’s no denying that smog is a real problem in Santiago; at times, the Andes are practically invisible through the thick, gray blanket of air pollution. This problem began with rapid industrialization in the 70’s, and its increasing presence has mirrored the country’s economic growth and world trade for the last several decades. Also, I can’t help but wonder how sustainable Chile’s good fortune will be considering that the vast majority of its exports – copper, wood, fish – are nonrenewable resources (or threatened by viruses and overfishing, as is the case with salmon, the main fish export). The government currently subsidizes companies that are cutting down large amounts of trees for wood chips, and as a result, the industry is rapidly deforesting the nation.
The average Chilean, however, especially of the younger set, has embraced the cultural shifts that are occurring in the country, thanks to you. The vast majority of students, particularly those that attend wealthier schools, are required to study the English language through a governmental program called “English Opens Doors,” created in 2003 under former President Michelle Bachelet, which requires elementary and high school students to be able to pass a standardized listening and reading test. Just the other day, a little girl walked up to me on the street, tapped me on the thigh and, to the amusement of her mother, asked me “How are you and what is your name?” Many students study abroad in the US or Canada for a semester during high school. Every Wednesday, a celebration called “Miercoles Po” is held in honor of gringos visiting Chile. Americans can almost always get in for free and are rarely asked for their ID, while Chileans sometimes can’t get in at all. Tell a Chilean guy at a discotheque that you’re American, and you’ll be sure he’ll want to dance with you the rest of the night.
Chile has retained its distinct identity in certain ways despite your strong influence. There are still Mapuche communities, where the people dress in traditional garb and speak their native language. Both young and old people know how to dance the cueca, and they do so on national holidays. My host family took me to a folklore celebration one Saturday night, where a large part of the community gathered to celebrate traditional music, dance, and oratory. Still, I can’t help but wonder what the country would feel like had your glamorization of American culture not taken root here. Would I be more surprised by the customs and values I have encountered? Would I feel further from home?
All I ask of you, Globalization, is this: please use a little sound judgment and consideration before you start uprooting and entire nation’s way of life. I’m glad you want everyone to be friends and share resources and ideas, but stop disproportionally emphasizing the ideas of wealthier nations alone, and start recognizing that all cultures, traditions, and languages are interesting and relevant to the 21st century and the improvement of our world.
One more thing, please stop promoting this ridiculous rumor that Americans love mayo. It’s embarrassing! We actually all pretty much hate it.
Thanks,
Laura
Six weeks, dozens of women, and numerous hour long metro rides later, my research has wrapped up, and I realize I’ve learned about a lot more than what I set out to understand. Our project focused on how women can have a positive labor experience and what can be done to alleviate excessive pain during childbirth. Some of our “findings” were pretty obvious – epidurals do the trick, so long as they are administered quickly enough. The most painful part of labor is the “big shabang,” the dar de la luz. Also, when they are holding a brand new, healthy baby in their arms, most women will tell you they were pretty happy with their labor experience. However, I couldn’t help but notice the staggering inequalities between the public and private hospitals here. Chile has the 10th worst rating in the world for countries with the biggest income gaps, so it comes as no surprise that the quality of healthcare shows a broad range. While the upper class women give birth in meticulously clean hospitals with all the latest technology, similar to those in the US, the public hospitals have a whole different standard of care.
While nothing like so called “hospitals” I’ve seen in Guatemala, public hospitals in Chile don’t have that antibacterial, iodine smell that I’ve grown so used to in US hospitals. There are no potted plants, no automatic doors, no soft melodies playing out of mounted speakers to lighten the mood in a place often filled with mourning. Exhausted and alone, new mothers generally wait five hours or more until they can hold and feed their newborns. To me, the salas de postpartum feel crowded and stressful; the nurses go down the factory line of unadjustable beds, doling out dinners of pan and powered jugo.
There is a new option, however. A team of truly amazing public health workers has managed to get the funding to build a new ward in the hospital through a program called MASIP. Here, each patient has her own brightly painted room, complete with a Jacuzzi, private bathroom, adjustable bed, boom box, and scented candles. Perhaps even more importantly, her family can visit her almost all day long, and the nurses are highly trained in giving emotional support. The benefits of this program are tremendous, although right now it only admits “low risk” women. While many women here don’t receive any anesthesia, all of those we talked to gushed about their experience in the program. Their mothers affirmed that there was simply no comparison between their own labor experiences, in a normal public hospital setting, and those of their daughters. And the best part? The program actually saves the hospital money because women don’t have to keep changing rooms, the same health care workers treat them during their entire stay, and they are almost always able to go home sooner due to a quicker recovery time.
To summarize, I came to a few perhaps basic, yet still personally interesting realizations. First of all, pain is relative. A woman who knows the feeling of say, dislocating a shoulder, will likely not describe childbirth as being as painful of an experience as a woman who’s never dealt with serious pain before. Secondly, just like with our other senses, we can distract ourselves from the feeling of pain. Here is where the calming environment and supportive staff at MASIP play an important part for women going through labor. Finally, I was reminded that our life experiences, and the way we perceive them, are shaped in a large way by our mindset going into them. Those women with higher self-esteem and confidence, and those who really wanted to have a child, ultimately had a more positive, comfortable labor experience, no matter how many of their nerve endings were fired in the process.
Reflecting on these observations, I’ve realized that I’ve been thinking about health care the wrong way for a long time. I’ve always believed in the power of medicine, in the power of the physician, to serve as the backbone for a healthy society. I’ve forgotten about the power of the patient. What Chile really needs, and perhaps what lots of societies need, in order to improve the health of its people, is to empower them even before they require medical attention. It’s going to take a long time and a lot of economic development before the Chilean public hospitals will mirror the extravagance of the private ones. In the meantime, great strides can be made in improving the health care system by altering the mentality of the community. For the particular issue of maternal health, this means addressing the social forces behind the medicine. Women need to be treated as persons deserving of high quality, individualized care. They need to develop, at a young age, the self-esteem to realize they should ask for, or rather demand, that their needs be met. Finally, society should set the bar high for women, encouraging them to develop lofty goals and pursue their dreams rather than burden them with raising a family at a young age. That way, when a woman is ready to have a child, she will be excited and prepared, more confident and more capable.
“Towards Atacama, near the deserted coast, you see a land without men, where there is not a bird, not a beast, nor a tree, nor any vegetation.” -La Araucana by Alonso de Ercilla, 1569 (the national epic poem of Chile)
I read this rather dreary description of the Atacama desert the night before jetting off to San Pedro, and unenthusiastically wondered what in the world I was going to do once I got there. ”Due to its otherworldly appearance, the Atacama has been used as a location for filming Mars scenes, most notably in the television series Space Odyssey: Voyage to the Planets” Wikipedia told me. Atacama is the driest place on earth. I have aesthetically pleasing crocodile cracked skin to prove it.
As it turned out, my initial fears were unfounded. I came across men, birds, beasts, trees, and yes, even vegetation on my desert voyage. I’ve come to the realization that perhaps the most effective way I can recount this experience for you is through song, so here goes:
“Laura’s Feel Good, Make You Wanna Get Up and Dance, Atacama Desert Playlist”
Track 1: “Starman” by David Bowie. I didn’t actually meet the Starman Bowie refers to, but my mind was seriously blown as I stepped off the airplane stairs under a blanket of the most dazzling stars and the blackest sky I’ve ever seen. The complete lack of clouds or city lights, high altitude, and dry air give Atacama its title as “the best view of the stars in all of South America.” Two large observatories are here, one of which houses the accurately named Very Large Telescope (VLT). I had to take a minute to lay down on top of my duffel and just gawk. This trip has turned me into a nature enthusiast!
Track 2: “Mamma Mia” by ABBA. After getting into Calama airport late Thursday night, we had to take an hour bus ride to San Pedro, a quaint town in the desert’s oasis. By “town” I mean a single street with some restaurants, tourist agencies, and souvenir shops, along with an array of hostels. Just when the ride was in danger of becoming a doze session, the gringos recognized a perfect opportunity for karaoke. It started with a few of us trying to remember all of the Catholic prayers, then all of the Catholic hymns, then the next thing we know all ten of us are cracking our voices in unison, belting out Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer.” While I’m sure we didn’t look half as cool as Billy Crudup or Kate Hudson in “Almost Famous,” our faces showed the pained ecstasy of delirious rock stars as we carried melody after melody on a very bumpy, twisted, desert highway.
Track 3 – “Let’s Get Physical” by Olivia Newton-John. Friday morning, after a typical Chilean breakfast of bread, jam, and instant coffee, three amigas and I rented bikes and set out for Valle de la Luna. I led the way, pedaling hard down the carless highway and enjoying the chance to stretch my legs alongside the incredible backdrop of the Andes. While we didn’t know exactly where we headed or what to expect, one thing was for sure: we were going to enjoy the ride. When we stopped for water, my friends told me I was flying and that they were straining to keep up. I apologized, not yet realizing that I would soon be paying the price for my over-eagerness…As we rode into Valle de la Luna, I treated each steep hill as a personal challenge, racing against no one but myself to reach the peak. Needless to say, it wasn’t too long before I felt the burn. My body was talking. After two hours, it was cursing. Let’s just say I was definitely not leading the way on the return trip. Rather, I tried to calculate the probability of someone picking me up in a car if I passed out on the deserted highway. I figured dying of thirst would be more likely, so I somehow finished the journey and waddled about the rest of the evening.
Track 4 – “Yellow Brick Road” by Captain Beefhart. You know those times in your life when, considering whether to open yourself up and try something risky, you think to yourself, “this might not work out, but hell, let’s give it a go?!” I’ve been having a lot of those lately. I’ve discovered that adventures worth having can go a number of ways, from life-alteringly wonderful to soul-crushingly bad, and more often than not, they go the former route. This belief will probably cost me my life or a limb someday, but for now, I’m enjoying perceiving the world from a more poignant, magical side. My recently incessant spirit of adventure coerced me into inching my way, lying flat on my back, into a pitch black cave, barely wide enough for me to lift my head slightly so I could see my toes. Flashing my camera every few seconds so I could avoid the jutting rocks above me, I tuned out the hum of uncertainty in my head and continued to follow the black abyss in front of me. After what felt like an hour, but couldn’t have been more than 10 minutes, the yellow brick road reached the Emerald City, and I found myself in a centuries old cavern. I crept around stealthily, feeling as though I’d broken into an abandoned warehouse and the cops were after me. My photos didn’t turn out so well, but I’m sure I won’t forget the way the light peeked through the crevices like laser beams or how my voice ricochetted off the walls over and over again. In the driest, most Mars resembling place on Earth, with virtually no one else around except my few friends, I promised myself I’ll never let my life become too monotonous. How do you know you are alive if you never feel the blood rush through your veins?
Track 5 – “Sunshine Superman” by Donovan. Woke up Saturday more adept at walking than I expected! We took a bus tour with a bunch of Chileans to Salar de Atacama, a salt flat that is habitat for flamingos and brine shrimp, Laguna Miscanti, a deep blue, heart shaped lake cinched between two active volcanoes, and Llano de Chajnantor Observatory, which hosts some of the most expensive telescopes in the world. We also saw El Tatio (“The Grandfather”), one of the highest elevation geysers on earth. Those that were eager enough woke up at 3 am to see them go off at dawn!
Track 6 – “Long May You Run” by Neil Young. Sunday came all too quickly, and we reluctantly packed our dusty clothes into our suitcases. I had my most satisfying empanada yet, with fresh squeezed jugo de durazno. The last few hours in San Pedro were spent picking up gifts, mingling among the hippies, and providing the local gelato shop with more business than they were prepared for. As I picked up my boarding and walked through airport security (shoes on!), I sighed thinking about how these sorts of trips are always too brief. While flipping through photos and laughing over recounted stories with my friends, the lyrics of this song ran through my head. There’s no reason to be despondent; as Neil so vividly reminds us, there are “trunks of memories still to come.”
What a weekend! The group traveled to Pucón, a city about 800 km South of Santiago, in the Province of Cautín, the Araucanía Region of Chile. A city beloved by adventure enthusiasts, Pucón helped me tap into my radical side. On Thursday, we took an overnight 9 hour bus ride, armed with plenty of (seriously addictive) chilingos and a box of fiberlicious Quadritos for sustenance. We all slept surprisingly well in our semi-camas and arrived around 9 am the following morning ready for action. After checking into our cozy hostel, I grabbed my camera and my trekking shoes and hopped in another bus with a few friends for Parque Nacional Huerquehue, aka Narnia. The place was gorgeous! We marveled at the myriad of lakes and waterfalls, snowy trails and Araucaria trees, gorging ourselves on the fresh air (after weeks of Santiago’s smog). We stopped for groups shots at Lake Toro’s plunging cascada and enjoyed Super Ochos on some benches overlooking Carburgua Lake. As we hiked back towards the entrance, I could hear a faint whistling. Half expecting the White Which pull up in her sleigh, I looked over my shoulder only to see the faintest spec of a canoe on the other side of the lake far below us. I realized then how incredibly silent the place was, aside from the sounds of moving water, and I marveled at the ability of the mountains to amplify even the small sound of one man’s whistle.
The next day we got up bright and early at 5:30, ventured out into the dark, and met our guides for the day. We dressed in bulky waterproof outerwear, heavy boots, and hard hats. Piling in a van, groaning over our lack of sleep, we drove for about a half hour and stepped, mouths ajar, out at the base of our pursuit – Volcan Villarrica, a 2,840 meter high (~10,000 feet) volcano which just so happens to be the most active in all of South America. Chileans sometimes call it Rucapillán, a Mapuche word meaning “House of the Pillan” (a Pillan is a powerful spirit in Mapuche mythology which can cause disasters). Needless to say, ascending this baby was no easy task. Without my Crampons and ice pick I actually think I would have died. I kind of felt like a warrior on my way to slay orcs on Mount Doom. While our guides wouldn’t let us go further than halfway up, due to the intense winds that day, I found a few lava rocks and took in the grandest view I’ve seen in my life. When we stopped for sandwiches and champagne (happy birthday Annsa!), I turned around to discover the world had become surreal. I wish I had the words to describe how incredibly spectacular it was – none of my photos do it justice. I have a newfound respect for mountaineers like Greg Mortenson (co-author of Three Cups of Tea, which I just read on this trip) who would probably consider this volcano an ant hill in comparison to K2. I consider myself in good shape and had to stop to catch my breath several times! Note to self/readers: Come here during the summer months!
By the time Sunday rolled around, we all had gumby legs. ”Not to fear,” our guide assured us, “Pucón has a natural remedy for this common malady- hot springs!” Trying not to have too high of expectations (heat doesn’t really exist in Chile during the winter), we took another bus to Parque Thermal Manetue, a little place tucked away next to a river, obscured from the road by trees and boulders. When I saw the steam rising from the clear, sparkling water, I grinned ear to ear and wasted no time stripping down to my swimsuit for a relaxing soak. We spent the whole day soothing our muscles, catching rays, and getting to know each other even better. Once our fingers were sufficiently pruned and a Chilean with “lamb chops” wearing only tightie whities came in to join us, we decided to call it a day and headed back to the hostel. We shared childhood memories and laughed a lot over a nutritious dinner of empanadas and chocolate milk, paid our hostel owner for the faucet we broke (sorry for partying), and took yet another bus, back to Santiago. Unfortunately, this one didn’t have semi camas and had a distinct “rosy urine” odor…I don’t think anyone slept more than a couple of hours. I got in around 7 am, fought for a spot on the insanely packed metro, took the fastest shower of my life, and met the group back at school for a reality check…
Breaking news: time travels faster in Chile. According to my American watch, I’ve been here for three weeks, but I’ve definitely only been here for one MAX. All I can say is that I hope my returning flight ticket works on Chile time, because only five more weeks here just won’t do.
Yesterday was rather ironic. I began my morning meeting with my research group and going to one of the public hospitals for the first time. We learned about our project, which explores different methods of labor and postpartum care for mothers. Essentially, there is a push right now to convert to a more modern style, where the woman stays in the same room through labor, delivery, and recovery, and she can have family and friends visit as she wishes. In contrast, in public hospitals here, women are in one room for labor, another for delivery, and yet another for ~48 hours afterwards. Rather than having their own room, they share one large space with 10 or so other new mothers. When I walked into one of these rooms yesterday, I was shocked to see six new mothers on either side of me, of all ages, all total strangers. As I talked to them, rather than dwelling on their lack of privacy, they celebrated being surrounded by other women all in the same boat. They laughed with each other and admired one another’s guaguas (Chilean for “babies”). They all had that aura of pride and hopefulness in the possibilities for their child’s future, even though many of the mothers were poor, young, and single.
After class the same day, we went on an excursion to the Cementerio General, the oldest and largest cemetery in Chile. I normally hate cemeteries (who doesn’t?), but the overawing beauty of this place overrode the creepiness factor. Almost all the graves were above ground, made of stone, and impressive looking. There were wide paths, palm trees, and colorful flowers and vines. A four meter wide stone wall separated the graves of Catholics from the non-Catholics, for fear of uncleansed souls contaminating the pious ones (I’m glad they decided to err on the side of caution – everybody knows that the souls of the deceased can cross three, but not four, feet wide stone walls). Almost all of the Chilean presidents were buried in this cemetery, including Salvador Allende, the first democratically elected Socialist. He was overthrown in 1973 (with the help of Nixon and the CIA) by Pinochet, and committed suicide on September 11. Beside his majestic white grave, where his wife and daughter were also buried, a plaque read a few lines from his farewell speech, given hours before his death, in which he said, ”They have force and will be able to dominate us, but social progresses can be arrested by neither crime nor force. History is ours, and people make history.”
However, just like at the hospital, space was limited in the cemetery. Only a few inches were left between tombs, so it again felt like the emphasis lay in the collective whole, in the memory of the entire community, rather than the individuals. Only this time, corpses rather than newborns lay side by side. In a broader perspective, this speaks to me about the cultural differences between Chile and the US. At home, I value my privacy. I like to spend a bit of time every day by myself- reading, running, playing music, etc. While I still do that here, the culture places a bigger emphasis on being with family and working in groups. I’ve always heard that Americans tend to think of themselves as individuals, while in other countries, individuals view themselves in light of their community, and for the first time, I have really felt that difference.
After a week in Santiago, I’ve gained some peace of mind. I have always assumed that my family is weird because we never manage to get through a meal together without delving into some controversial topic of discussion or turning a tidbit of the news into a launching pad for a heated philosophical debate. To my great surprise, however, we’re not the only ones with this ridiculous need to rationalize everything! My host family shares this same love of confronting complex questions and bickering with each other. If it wasn’t for the alfajores on my plate, I’d forget I was in a foreign country. I’ll break down some of the more interesting and comical arguments we’ve gotten into so far:
1. Michael Jackson en general. The mom and sister in my family adore him, as do most Chileans, and believe that his sickness caused his skin to lighten and also that he needed the medication he was taking. ”Me encanta Michael Jackson” is the general reaction you’d get from asking Chileans what they think about him. My host dad disagrees, and while he admires his singing, he thinks MJ led a dishonorable life. When he mentioned that he believes MJ did bad things with little boys, my host mom slapped him with a piece of pan.
2. A neighborhood where only Germans live, on the outskirts of Santiago, should not allow Chileans to live there. This argument came from my host mom. She claims that Germans keep their houses very clean and beautiful and that Chileans, including herself, would make it ugly and dirty. I claimed they are rich and have maids and gardeners, but she refuted this, “Cleanliness is in their sangre.” My host sister rolled her eyes, “She only wishes she was German so she could be blonde.”
3. The cause of poverty. I’m currently reading “The End of Poverty” by Jeffery Sachs, and my host dad asked me about it. I started blabbing about growth rates and technology, but he stopped me mid blab. He sincerely explained to me that he feels the majority of poverty is caused by people not working hard enough or getting into drugs and that the economists are trying to place the blame on things that are out of their control. This was an especially hard conversation for me because I am strongly against this view. I think so many people see the poverty in their own cities, en los barrios bajos, and perhaps know about gangs or certain types of people that live there, and project this view onto the rest of the world.
4. Many Chileans have differing opinions about Augusto Pinochet, their dictator from 1973 until 1998. As far as I can remember, everything I’ve learned about him in classes focused on the people that were killed and went missing during his rule and all of the injustices that he committed. My host parents are pretty conservative, while my host sister and I are more liberal. We were watching the news the night after Chile found out they’d be advancing in the World Cup (against Brazil, who ended up beating them 3-0…que triste!), and heard about a stabbing in La Plaza de Armas, a big central square where a ton of people (including myself) were celebrating after the game. My host mom shook her head and said, “This sort of thing never happened when Pinochet was in charge.” My jaw dropped. This sparked a pretty lengthy lecture about how Pinochet was the reason for the “miracle of Chile,” their continued economic growth in the last few decades, as well as the peace and order in the country at the time. Maybe it’s just me, but peace and order created out of fear of being tortured seems like a pretty twisted sort of peace. I tried to state my opinions without insulting my host parents. The conversation ended when my host dad said, “All he wanted was to be remembered well by his country.”
5. On Saturday, the NU group took a road trip to Valparaiso, a seaport and incredibly beautiful city southwest of Santiago, where we visited one of the houses of Pablo Neruda, a poet who won one of only two Chilean Nobel prizes. Among other quirky behaviors, he loved collecting things- ships in bottles, pipes, horse heads, whale teeth, piano rests, sea shells, etc. I walked through his house totally fascinated and making a mental note to start some more collections of my own, but later at dinner, my host mom expressed disgust at all the clutter and useless trinkets Pablo Neruda kept in his house. ”No tiene una funcion,” she quipped. ”Es materialistica.” We agreed to disagree!
“Gooooooallll!”
Chi Chi Le Le Chile Chile Chile!
I scream, you scream, we all scream for…Chile! After almost 20 hours of travel, a crisp, new indigo stamp on my passport, and a menacing reprimand from an airport security women upon attempting to eat my “imported” apple, I finally got my first waft of some Santiago aire. We couldn’t have arrived at a more perfect time, given that Chile was head to head with Switzerland in their second game of the World Cup as we drove to meet our host families. I felt my own excitement mounting as I perched on the edge of my van seat, gawking at the Andes on the horizon to my left and attempting to understand the radio announcers supersonic Spanish.
As it turned out, it didn’t really matter that I didn’t catch every word because it was QUITE clear that Chile scored a goal when every car in the street started honking and my driver began screaming and giving me multiple high-fives. Perhaps I ought to place the blame on my disoriented state of sleep deprivation and culture shock, but at that moment, I felt a complete sense of belonging. The same waves of sweet satisfaction washed over me at that moment as did when the Detroit Pistons killed LA in the ’04 NBA championship, even though I had been in Chile a mere hour and a half.
We won the game 1-0, which meant all the Chileans were in especially friendly moods, even towards us Gringos (which is actually not an offensive word here). In fact, judging from my experiences so far, Chilenos are an especially welcoming community, and they seem to even LIKE Americans (imagine that). Yesterday, as I stood squinting at a street sign with a bewildered look on my face, a women came up to me with a knowing smile and offered to help with directions. Last night a taxi driver got out of the car and came to the rescue for a friend of mine as he unsuccessfully fiddled with the door lock for several humorous minutes. A complete stranger on the metro explained to me about the infamous Chilean pickpocketers and how I can avoid falling prey to their skills.
For the most part, I’ve been surrounded by my American friends when I’m not in my house, but I live the furthest from the school, so I have to take a bus by myself every morning and evening. Its during these times that I feel most like an outsider. At a borderline gigantic 5’10″ tall, wearing my American clothing and not yet having mastered staying upright on the rollicking buses, I can feel curious pairs of eyes sizing me up. I try to fall back on my nonchalant demeanor to mask my foreignness, even when I’m internally freaking out that maybe I jumped on the wrong bus. Unfortunately, I got my mother’s sense of direction, which is to say, I didn’t get one at all. My attitude really is just that, though- a mask. Despite the fact that our genetic code is 99.9% identical, standing shoulder to shoulder con un hombre Chileno, I can feel the full weight of our cultural differences more so than our similarities. As he chats with his friend, I try to follow their conversation, but find it difficult with the lack of eses and all the Chilenismos.
When I see my landmark, the large Catholic church to my left, I press a button for the driver to stop and make my way towards the door of the crowed bus. ”Con permiso,” I say to to the other riders, trying to sound authentic, but feeling like a fake. ”Ay, pues,” I think, straightening my shoulders, “fingue hasta que lo haces” (“fake it until you make it”).
For many people, Ohio conjures up stereotypical images of the Midwest–cornfields and cows. For me, it really is the “heart of it all.” I grew up in Toledo and spent the summers swimming in quarries, blowing up stuffed animals in a field near my house (you think I’m kidding), and hanging out in familiar smelling libraries and record stores.
The older I get, however, the more antsy I grow to explore a greater part of the world than the one I know. I’ve traveled to Ireland, portions of Eastern Europe, and Aruba, but the place I’ve learned the most about myself, I’d say, and the most about both beauty and injustice, is Guatemala, where my adopted sister grew up and my family runs a clinic. Since my first trip in eighth grade, I’ve been back five times, and have become both mystified by the alarming lifestyles of the world’s poorest and fascinated by how culturally and socially rich they truly are.
At Northwestern, I’m a biology and science in human culture major, with a minor in global health, and I plan to go to medical school and work in Central or South America someday. I love playing the piano and guitar, trying new foods, road trips, and distance running. This summer, I’ll be romping around Santiago, Chile for eight weeks on what I hope will be an eye-opening and productive journey. While I’ll be taking classes and conducting public health research, I expect to learn the most from the Chilean people, sharing stories and seeing life through their eyes. When I board the plane back to the states, I hope to carry with me, in addition to some exquisite “Lapis lazuli” craftwork, a greater sense of self and expanded worldview.
