La aventura en Mendoza

Remind me never to travel by bus during the night when there is border crossing involved!

Plans to go across to Argentina to renew my visa were made well in advance and we thought we would cleverly save time by voyaging while we slept but oh what a mistake. My lovely Chilean and I left the never-sleeping Santiago at 22:00 on a semi-cama bus, exhausted from that day’s work yet full of keen hope to relax and disfrutar our time in Mendoza. As our tired eyes finally closed into a struggling sleep we were woken at la frontera where we were to then stand in the freezing Andean night for at least 45 minutes. Then we sleep walked back onto the bus only to arrive at our destination a mere 3 hours later. The worst thing was that we were to do it all again on the way home!

Exhausted, we piled into a taxi and at our hostal we desperately pleaded the receptionist to give us our room even though it was 05:00 and check-in wasn’t until 14:00. We grabbed at the key and agreed to give 100% in the survey at the end of our stay. We didn’t awake until well into the afternoon when our stomachs rang out their wake up call. First thing though we had to change our money, which happened to be a rewarding experience because the Chilean peso is currently worth more than the Argentinean Peso so all of a sudden we were richer.

We ate the most mouth-watering, succulent Bife de Chorizo accompanied with salad and Andean beer inside the local food markets. As I am now well informed, because Argentina is such a flat country their cows are lazy and have no need to wonder far for food. On the contrast, Chilean cows build up their muscles climbing the mountains and hills in search of green pastures and as a result their meat is far more tough and chewy. So, although both Chilean and Argentineans cook muchos barbeques, Argentinean beef is just to die for. Even with bursting stomachs we just couldn’t resist visiting Havana, my favourite Argentinean café, afterwards to have a rich expresso and chocolate alfajor. With so much food inside of us we just had to sleep some more.

In the usual South American way, the shops in Mendoza don’t close until 21-22:00 but are closed over lunch and are mostly closed on Sundays, except for restaurants. And so after lots of descanso we had the chance to soak in all the leather and clothes and copious amounts of shoes. One could grow terribly obsessed with fashion here and to make it worse, it’s relatively cheap. God bless Argentina’s strong Italian influence! That evening we relaxed in our hostal eating rough, cheap cheese and crackers, and drinking cheap Malbec wine.

Early morning we were collected by some locals who drove us towards the hills where we were to then jump off and paraglide down to the bottom. Running towards the edge as the wind picked up the parachute and with my guide/flyer safely attached behind me, he accidentally stepped on the back of my shoe making it slip off. I stumbled along as he yelled for me to keep running. Once in the air I held onto my shoe for it’s dear life and managed to slide it back on as metres past below me. Only then could I take in the sheer emotion of what I was doing. As if I had wings, I was soaring through the sky and my lovely Chilean was not far away doing the same thing. Behind me came the voice, “Are you scared or are you just cold?” I was freezing! Although I was in leggings, I only wore a t-shirt on top and the wind was giving me terrible shivers.

Off in the distance we could see the other couple flying swiftly in figure eights and all of a sudden so were we. Gravity pulled my stomach along, up and down, side to side, as if I were on a roller coaster high in the clear sky. Little screams of enjoyment sprang from my mouth but died away as we approached the ground for I concentrated on landing probably. I had nothing to worry about though and la tierra approached smoothly. I looked up to see the others still high above us, as apparently they had lost track of time chasing a poor bird. To catch up they suddenly circled their way closer to earth as if they were being flushed down a toilet. They had gone so fast that my lovely Chilean could barely move his head during the process. Effortlessly they landed.

Back in town we had some very odd pizza for lunch. It was more like thick bread with cheese melted on top but we ate it anyway and gave our leftovers to one of the many strugglers who desperately plead for money from people eating in cafés and restaurants along the street. We later saw this particular struggler give the pizza slices to her tiny son who scoffed it down with undeniable hunger. It is also common for strugglers, far too young to be seeking money, to place items on your table for you to look at and then will come back asking if you want to buy it. However, most of the time it is useless junk like a page of fairy stickers, probably stolen from elsewhere.

In the Mendozean heat (as for some reason the other side of the Andes gets much hotter) we walked to the big park at the far side of town. Apparently there is a zoo at the end of the park but we only made it to the ugly man-made lake and rested under the shade of a tree. The park was a far cry from the main square back in the centre of town, which is spotted with beautiful, big and shady trees and in the evenings it is covered with artisan markets and local musicians. It is just the most peaceful place to relax. Back in the park though, we heard ice cream calling out to us and sitting beside the vendor of Italian prepared helado we were met by the Belgian couple who had been paragliding with us that morning. We chatted for quite some time about our experiences in Latin America before we went our separate ways.

We ate a light meal in the pedestrian only street before going to check out the artisan markets once again. Mendoza has that great European influence of eating outside under umbrellas if necessary, rather than like the Chileans, who prefer to sit inside even during the most spectacular weather. We very much enjoyed Argentina’s hunger for gastronomy and the pleasures of life. Chilean’s can often become workaholics even at the best of times.

Almuerzo en Cajón del Maipo

One sunny day two couples - one young and in love, and the other, the in-laws - ventured out to an Andean canyon just outside of Santiago called Cajón del Maipo. Now this narrow valley which entrenches the Maipo River, has many beautiful natural landscapes to explore (mostly by foot) but their main purpose of coming here was for pure gastronomy.

Although small, this valley encompasses a forest of restaurants of various cultures to choose from. The two couples passed through the gates of La Petite France, a divine French restaurant run by a French chef and his Chilean wife. Outside under a canopy of trees, the couples sipped on kir royales and broke off pieces of baguette, which they dipped in oils and salsa.

First course alone justified the distance travelled, for each sip of crème de pumpkin up turned their lips more and more into a smile of complete satisfaction. Then succulent beef with potato bake and a taste of ratatouille blended together with local wine to create a heavenly sensation in their mouths. Finally, their bliss peaked with the crack of sugar as they began their dessert of true, old-fashioned, French crème brûlée.

Walking around the restaurant garden with gluttonous stomachs, they soaked in the strange view of a mountainous countryside, not too uncommon to the Andes’ sister ranges across the world, except for its acne of cactus – a consist reminder of being on the South American continent.

The couples drove further along the windy road to the small town of San José de Maipo, where they wondered around the artisan markets before climbing back into the car to carry on their tour of the canyon. They ventured far enough to reach the bridge that crosses the river and then they continued along the other side, heading back in the direction of Santiago.

The other side is very much less populated and little cottages sit encased in flora, the perfect place for a weekend get away or retirement from the hustle and bustle of city life. At the end of the quiet road begins one of the poorer neighbourhoods of Santiago. The couples locked the doors of the car as they drove from nature’s peacefulness into nature’s weakness.

Viña del Mar

Mi amigo who lives by the seashore handily has two single beds in his room of his rented apartment in Viña del Mar. He's from the south of Chile and always seems to have people over to visit that he decided to install two beds and is quite the hospitable host. We decided to visit him one not so warm, spring weekend.

We planned our trip a few days in advance. We bought a bus ticket for early Saturday morning, only, in our effort to be organised, we ended up being more disorganised and left the house too late. We missed the bus by two minutes, but not to worry, we could buy another cheap ticket at the terminal; we only had to wait in the never-ending queue of every woman, man and dog that lives in Santiago. Ok, I exaggerate and the wait was not too long, although we did have to intercept someone who tried to subtly push into the line (not so subtle for our keen eyes), and there was no wait for the next bus.

Viña del Mar is about 2 hours without traffic from Santiago, towards the Pacific coast. It is one of the most popular beach destinations for Santiaguinos as it’s so close. However, I am yet to meet someone who thinks that the Pacific Ocean isn’t too freezing cold to swim in. Chileans all tell me that one or two kilometres from shore the sea floor suddenly and sheerly drops, so much so that the sun cannot possibly heat all the water.

After walking around the conveniently compact town centre, we had lunch at a picada, which is basically a restaurant that embodies the three Bs: Bueno, Bonito y Barato (Good, Beautiful and Cheap). This picada was Italian and it certainly wasn’t very big but the food was mouth watering homemade and the place was full as soon as it opened. The walls were covered with pictures and posters from Italian popular culture as well as tourist highlights. I soaked in the ambiance and gulped down gnocchi, while my lovely Chilean tasted heavenly pesto ravioli. Note: it is very rare to find good pesto in Chile and if you find a jar of it in the supermarket, it is way too expensive to even consider purchasing. Pre-made sauces in general have yet to make a big hit here and so most people buy the raw ingredients and just make their own salsa.

With our bellies jolly and satisfied, we walked off to meet mi amigo. His ‘pad’ is opposite the beach, where we didn’t waste any time in getting to. A little bit of wind didn’t stop us from taking off our shoes but it did seem to stop everyone from actually going into the water. I don’t think I saw even one person attempt. Mi amigo, on the other hand, joined in to play beach volleyball. The white sand crept in between our toes as we watched them play, but soon we left the scene to check out the stalls of knick-knacks that run all down the beach. We had to fight our way down the path for all the people. Can you just imagine what it is like in peak summer?

That evening, groups of young students, not yet mature enough to prune away their delinquent tendencies, came over in honour of our visit. We headed off to la discoteca soon after the clocks changed into summertime. In the end no one wanted to pay the cover charge and we grew sick of waiting for the ‘friend of a friend’ who was meant to let us in for free that the three of us strayed from the group and heading to Café Journal.

Now Café Journal is my favourite hub in Viña del Mar. I hold many fond memories of this place from my last visits to this coastal town and after four years of separation, I was not disappointed. Nothing had changed. The place still offered multiple rooms to sit in and a courtyard on the upper level that is rich in character. On its far wall is painted a façade of overlooking townhouses and an actual verandah has been attached to give the appearance of sitting out in some European alleyway and yet the Chilean music and voices hovering past your ear gives the place that exotic, latino touch. The pizzas are yummy and a jug of beer is cheap.

Again talking food, lunch the following day meant empanadas and not just your typical empanadas. This restaurant offered empanadas filled with unusual blends of ingredients and had around 30 combinations to choose from. Cheese, prawns and Merkén would have to be my favourite, mostly because I have this new, found obsession with the Mapuche spice.

We said our warm goodbyes to my dear hospitable amigo as he left us to study and we headed to another of my friend’s place, who also studies and also comes from the south. We sat in her spacious, heritage apartment for once (afternoon tea) and caught up on some very overdue gossip.

Then it was back on the bus and back to chain ‘smogging’ in Santiago, and work the next day. That is the beauty of this skinny country; you can easily escape into nature on your weekends.

Los mineros

"Do it the Chilean way"; the new campaign to entice foreign investment. Designed by the Foreign Minister, this revamped campaign is the result of Chile's response to the earthquake earlier this year as well as the recent rescue of the 33 miners in the north.

Over the dinner table, when this campaign was mentioned, the Chileans I was with just rolled their eyes and laughed. Despite the global applause, Chileans are not unlike other citizens of the world's nations who are disappointed, expect more or even despise their own federal governments.

That having been said, I have found Chile to be quite the patriot country, unified in their effort to support their people (a weak statement this may be to some, as this particularly excludes the indigenous and the disabled, but all the same, generally true). Geography determined this skinny and desert/mountain-challenged country to develop as an isolated nation but with the onset of improved technologies, Chile is finally making an appearance on the world map. More and more people choose to visit each year as tourists, and the exposure gained from the “Los 33” can only benefit foreign investment, if it has not already done so.

Yet the question should also be asked as to why the mine collapsed in the first place? While everyone grabs at the opportunity to be photographed with the miners since their rescue, it has been quite the contrast to get people to commit to policy change. President Piñera has commissioned proposals into improving workplace healthy and safety in Chile, as a direct result of the mining accident. So far the proposals have be unable to discover a clear picture on job safety. The final report is due to be delivered on the 22nd November.

Despite his denial, the mine's owner has been accused of ignoring warnings from the miners (including some of the rescued miners) concerning the mine’s safety prior to its collapse. One of "Los 33" reported, “What made me sad was that people were dying because the company did not want to have something safer and only thought about money.”* Yet not all the blame can be placed on the owning company because the government inspectors were unable to detect any potential danger as well, even though the miners claim they flooded them with reports.

All in all, Chile did a fantastic job in collaborating with other nations around the world to successfully rescue the men who were merely 'just doing their job' and it was so inspiring to see people stop what they were doing or miss out of sleep so that they could catch a glimpse of one of the miners coming out of the ground in that claustrophobic capsule (the first miner was rescued at midnight and some of my students stayed up until 4am as one miner was delivered each hour, only to wake up at 6am for work). It was a wonderful feeling to be amongst people who truly believe in themselves, not necessarily their government, but the individuals that share their cultural values and make up the nation in which they live.

For this reason, I believe Chile deserves all the attention it is getting and more.

* http://santiagotimes.cl/news/human-rights/20056-chiles-commission-on-work-safety-delivers-preliminary-report-to-president-sebastian-pinera

Soy profesora de Ingles

Another day, another week, another cancelled class. This is the story of my teaching life here in Santiago, although my circumstance is not a common one.

I am an English teacher for professionals and I travel to them for our classes, they don't come to me at the institute. The idea is that they buy a package that suits their timetable and learning capabilities. This means my classes take place during the sleepy hours of the early morning, the hungry hours of lunchtime or the hours just after work. Unfortunately for me, this also means I have big gapping breaks between classes when I am rendered with nothing to do. If the gap is small enough, I usually go for a coffee and read my book or if the gap is long enough, I go home. It's great when the gap in the mornings is long so that, seeing as I woke up so early, I can then go home and catch up on some much needed sleep.

I usually take the metro six times a day, back and forth, back and forth.

However, as I work according to the agenda of my students, it also means my classes are often suspended due to the reality of a busy work schedule that often gets in the way of my students desires to improve their English. The best situation is when they cancel their class that same day and it means I still get paid. The worst is when I turn up to their office (after usually having travelled an hour to get there) only to learn that the class has been cancelled and I have to then return all the way back home or they cancel with 24 hours notice and I don't get paid.

On the brighter side of things, I am meeting some very interesting people from both Chile and Argentina. I feel sorry for my student who elected to have class at 7:45 am because I am not fully awake at this time, and so I feel as if my classes with him aren't as entertaining as my other classes. I like to think that I adapt my style of teaching according to my students needs, whether that be for a class of one student or for a class of three.

For my alumnos that already speak almost fluently, our classes are very conversational-based and we often lapse into dialogue about our differing countries and cultures. For my mid-level students, we practise their writing skills and for my students whose English is indeed very basic, I often I need to use my translation abilities to keep the momentum going and consequently I get to practise my Spanish.

All the same, each and every student of mine is very nice. I have even been invited to sushi to have a class. We tried dainty selections of tempura as my student practised his conversational skills in English. For all my cursos, I have the useful prop of an English textbook and CD, although for this instance, there was just no room on our table to use the book; I think that's why he has only ever invited me once to lunch. I guess learning English efficiently is more important to him than feeding me. I can't complain really!

And so, for the moment English teaching occupies my days and my mind. No matter how disorganised my organisation may be at times, I am still enjoying this unusual experience of teaching my native tongue in a foreign land.

Las Fiestas Patrias

My long weekend started with an intense odour of barbequed meat. Preparations for the family asado had begun the weekend before when kilos of meat had been purchased on sale for the occasion. The following Friday lunchtime various members of the family came to join us in drinking Pisco Sour and stuffing ourselves silly with food. Jolly and nostalgic souls sat around the table to celebrate not only the country's history but also this special occasion which allows families the chance to spend time together.

In the early hours of Saturday morning, my lovely Chilean and I left the quiet, sleeping house to make our way to the bus terminal. It was here that our adventure really began. Our bus was to leave at 8:20am but the metro was not due to open until 8:30am. How were we ever going to find a taxi this early on a public holiday? Well, luckily we did and we paid the necessary fortune to make it across town to our delayed bus. 40 minutes after standing around waiting (apparently the staff on the bus had quit and so the company had to desperately find replacements), we left Santiago and started our journey down south to Chillán.

A very scenic five hours later we arrived in town and encountered the same dilemma: where were we going to find a taxi in the middle of a public holiday when everyone is most definitely at some asado or Fonda or just plain getting drunk somewhere? Well, luckily we did and as we sat in the car, wondering where we were going, we listened to strange 80's music that profusely repeated the lyrics "People are still having sex. This Aids thing has not caught on. People are still having sex!" We paid even more of a fortune but at least we had finally arrived at our destination – the country house of our dear friend – and we were finally rid of that terrible music!

The old shingles of the roof sat neatly against the fence as we walked into the property. The earthquake had shook with such force that those shingles that had not fallen to the ground were now replaced with sturdy tin sheets. Yet the house was still beautiful and old and typical of the country houses in the area, with its large double French doors and curved archways. An uncultivated vegetable/herb garden cushioned one of its sides, while the other opened out to large fields of fruit trees. All the land used to belong to this family but since her husband had died and her child moved away, the grandmother had sold those acres and farming was no longer the family trade.

We took a walk down to the river and climbed along the rocks of the water's edge. We giggled in the sunlight and soaked in nature’s calm surroundings. Upon returning, we ate homemade empanadas as well as longaniza, the local sausage speciality. The afternoon was spent sitting around the fireplace and listening to old Chilean folk songs being played on the acoustic guitar, with all the family singing along and inhaling the perfume of burning fresh wood. The tunes carried on long into the darkening sky. At night, when the old and the young had gone to bed, the middle folk continued the tunes under the soft light of candles.

The following morning, my poor, lovely Chilean awoke with an awful flu. We left the country house and travelled back into the heart of Chillán. After lunch in the auntie’s house, we went to a tradition Chilean rodeo. We lasted half an hour watching the Huasos (cowboys) ram poor cattle into the fence, only to let the cattle go and run to the other side of the half moon arena so it could be rammed once again into the fence. The idea is that ramming different parts of the cow's body gains different points; ramming the cow's backside first into fence gains more points than ramming the cow's neck first into the fence. The poor animal ends up utterly exhausted and morally defeated. We walked back through town to the auntie's house where we ate homemade bread, fresh out of the oven.

On our last day in Chillán we ventured through the artisan markets and ate lunch amidst the food markets. By this time, my poor, lovely Chilean could hardly eat anything at all. As we said goodbye to the little town of Chillán, we also said farewell to a household of sick Chileans – the flu having wiped its dirty hands across the mouths of most of our friends. 8 hours pushing our way through people returning home after a long weekend of celebrations, we arrived back at the bus terminal in Santiago, but not before the metro had closed for the day. We found a taxi easily and again, paid the necessary fortune back to our house. Exhausted and dehydrated, my poor, lovely Chilean slept away his sorrows as I reminisced about the adventure I had just undertaken.

El Bicentenario de Chile

September delivers Chile from the cold breath of winter and with the onset of spring, also comes a multitude of days that celebrate Chile's independence from Spain. Before and after the 18th September, Chileans of all backgrounds pull out their dusty national flags and fly them high in their front gardens with a sense of momentary patriotism.

This year in particular, Chile's people have stood firmly together as a nation, now choosing to drink, eat and dance in honour of their collective courage throughout the earthquake and the rescuing of those poor miners trapped 700 metres in the depths of this earth.

2010 is even more cause for celebration as it is the Bicentenary of this long and thin country, which has already endured many trials and tribulations ever since that day, two hundred years ago, when Chileans and the Mapuche joined together to evict the royal crown. However, for some, the natives never really approved of this juncture even as traces of white blood began to flow heavily in their indigenous veins; a story not uncommon to colonial history.

The anniversary began days before it's actual date, with many people inviting amigos to fiestas or Fondas (public parties that spring up in various parks, universities and open spaces around the country so that Chileans can leave their work habits to spread the conviviality of nation pride).

On a darkening Thursday night before the 18th of September the "spectacular" light show began at the Government Palace, La Moneda. Thousands entered the area with hours to spare until the show was to commence. We were four, weaving delicately into the blanket of human bodies, trying not to be rude yet trying hard to make our way closer to the centre in order to see at least something of the monument. However, despite our efforts, the event was severely ill-prepared for the excess of people that arrived only minutes before it was due to start. A lone screen stood to the right-hand side, forcing people entering from that direction to push hard into the left to get a view. There were no emergency exits, there were no officers stopping people from coming in because the area was dangerously overcrowded, and there were no extra screens down the street so that no one could relax and watch the lights, except for the few lucky people on the balconies in the apartments above us.

In our spot, which had once been tight but bearable, stood little children screaming for their mothers as dirty hands pushed from all directions, making the crowd swirl into a deep current. There was no way out. Air vanished into the depths of the crowd and a sudden sense of panic filled my lungs. I began to sob quietly as I looked up to the sky in search of breath. My tears mixed with more tears and soon I was completely consumed with fear. There was no way out! Those around looked upon me with worried eyes and began to push me slowly and painfully through the crowd. They shouted, "there's a girl in trouble, there's a girl in trouble. Let her through!" Half way my legs caved and I fell into the arms of my lovely Chilean who was guiding my softly from behind. All I wanted was for it all to be over. Unconsciousness did not come over me and I managed to continue for half and hour out of the sweat and cries of uncomfortable people.

Away, in one of the side streets, I was able to control my heartbeat and recuperate command of my exhausted body. We saw nothing of the lights but it didn't matter. We were all happy to get away. Back at our friend's apartment, we drank Pisco and laughed about the occasion. The next day we heard nothing of injured people or suffocated children. We did find out though that the show had started 40 minutes late. I cringe even now at the thought of those poor people standing there that whole time. Let the festivities begin!