Sheaves of wheat and dioramas

This past weekend, the Virgin Mary intervened directly in my life (albeit indirectly) and kept me in Santiago for two days longer than intended.

I am referring to December 8th, Catholocism's day to recognize the Immaculate Conception. All across Latin America, different countries take a different spin on the eigth. In Columbia, candles are lit simultaneously in all (participating) houses, representing light of Christ and also solidarity amongst families and neighbors. In Mexico, the day blends with the Saint Day of Juan Diego Cuauhtlatoatzin, an indigenous Mexican canonized in 2002 for being the witness of the apparition of Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe, who is celebrated herself later this week on the 12th. Worshippers also turn out to visit the Virgen de Juquila, in Oaxaca, pledging various numbers of future visits in return for favors and miracles. In Paraguay, the faithful make their way to see the Virgen de Caacupé, a sculpture of Mary made in the 1800s. The legend holds that the artist was wandering outside the city, looking for suitable materials for his work, when he was surrounded by a hostile tribe from the area. He promised to create a statue in honor of the Virgen if she would save his life, and upon emerging from the situation without harm, immediately did so.

In Chile, or at least in the Central Valley, there are two main celebrations on December 8th. The first is far more famous and is the culprit behind my long weekend. Each year, Route 68, which connects Santiago to Valparaiso, is closed for the majority of its distance to make room for several hundred thousand pilgrims who make the 60-kilometers or so walk from Santiago to the temple of La Virgen de Lo Vasquez. The temple is located just outside the small town of Casablanca, about 30 kilometers south-east of Valparaiso. This pilgrimage attracts yearly media coverage, as it is a popular show of penance amongst the most deliriously devoted to crawl the last few kilometers along the concrete to the shrine.

The other celebration takes place within Santiago, in the Quinta Normal area. This is where the impressively large Santuario de Lourdes, officially designated as a "minor basilica," maintains a forceful if not exactly graceful posture over the surrounding residential neighborhood. Across from the church's entrance, a man-made grotto holds images of the Virgen, and a near-by fountain pumps out holy water by the gallon.

Riding the bus to Santiago on Saturday, pilgirms were already in evidence along the road. One young couple waved at the bus and pumped a Chilean flag with a surface area close to that of my dining room table. Families had set up tents and were lounging after hours on the road. Small children swam and played in the trickle of a river that runs alongside the road, in the midst of horses grazing and plastic bags floating along. At the turn off for the Sanctuary, every available spot on the grass was already filled with tents and vendors' collapsible stalls. I began to see that my return was going to be more complicated than I thought. On my arrival, I confirmed it: I could get back, but it was going to take several hours due to the road closure.

After an interesting and enjoyable Santiago weekend, I awoke on Monday determined to make it to Lo Vasquez. First, though, I needed to eat. I had taken a room near La Moneda, so I wandered into the pedestrian streets near Plaza de Armas. Normally packed with people shopping and eating, even performing illegal lip-syncing shows, the streets were filled with one shuttered store after another. Interestingly enough, while going to the mall or stopping in at a restaurant are apparently not appropriate activities for a holy day, major stores Paris and Ripley seem convinced that the Virgin won't take offense if you stop in at their electronic branches to pick up a new TV. It also seems that completos and other fast food are the preferred nutrition for such a day.

I began to get a little bit desperate for some sort of food with at least a minor vitamin content when I had a flash of inspiration. Where, in the United States, is it always possible to eat on Christmas? Chinese food! I rushed off to one that I knew of and was happily enjoying a veggie chop suey within half an hour.

Following this (and an ice cream, and a lounge in the Parque Forestal--I'm not Catholic, after all, and I expect a bit of relaxation from my days off no matter what the cause) I took the metro out to Quinto Normal. After asking around, it had become apparent that if I wanted to go to Lo Vasquez from Santiago, I was going to have to walk it. My curiousity was not that strong, so at the end of the metro line I walked through the park and arrived on Calle Lourdes.

The scene was not what I expected. All along the street, people had set up tents and camper vans, as in Casablanca. These were not pilgrims, however; they were vendors. And oh what vendors--used clothing, cosmetics in bulk, cheaply made shoes, antique or simply worn down knick-knacks, it was all there. In fact, it was not much different from Valparaiso's weekend flea market on Avenida Argentina, where it is guaranteed that any strange missing part from any given appliance can be found if you have enough patience.

Once I entered the church yard, the scene was equally tacky but with a bit more religious flavor. Here, one can obtain a bottle for holy water in the shape of the Virgin Mary, with a screw cap perched oddly on the top of her head. There are also, of course, plastic statues of the lady of all variety of sizes, ranging from dashboard to lawn shrine, in my estimation. The same vendors offered diorama-esque representations of the Virgin appearing in a grotto, with a surprised plastic doll saint gazing upon her in wonder. These were also available in desktop through display case sizes.


One ubiquitous product that seemed a bit more pure of heart was small sheaves of wheat, affixed with a small card with an image of Mary. I approached a man to ask about the significance.

"It's wheat," he answered. I was aware, I told him, but could he tell me what it was used for?

With a helpful but confused look, he explained to me, "Lots of things! Bread, cookies, cakes...."

I cut him off. "What is the religious significance? Why is it being sold today at the church?"

He looked at me for a moment and then shrugged. "No idea," he said amiably.

To be fair, I would imagine that most people buying wheat stalks at a church have some purpose in mind, and are not inclined to ask for directions. In researching after the fact, I found two possibilites. First, wheat, together with grapes, symbolizes the Eucharist since it is used to make the unleavened bread that represents the body of Christ. Secondly, there is a parable from Matthew that equates Christians with wheat (useful, good) and non-believers as weeds (bad, not good for much). At the time of "harvest," i.e. the end of the world, the angels will act as reapers and take the "wheat" off to heaven. Out of the two of these, I'm more inclined to think that the wheat available in Santiago is linked to the second symbol, since the Virgin is meant to represent purity and goodness. In my limited understanding of things, the Eucharist is a purely Christ-based thing and as such seems an odd thing to invoke for a day centered on his mother--unless it's a reference to the Immaculate Conception itself, which I suppose is the initiation of the body of Christ.

Inside the constructed grotto, mass was being said. I watched for a while and then made my way over to the holy water fountain, an oddly automated version of a traditional rite, at least from my perspective.



Unfortunately, with a dead camera battery, I was unable to capture any more of the scene. Given that I had no baptism to reflect on, as the sign instructed me, I simply stood back and watched as waves of people climbed around on the rock, filling 2 and 3 liter bottles with holy water.

Around the corner, plaques from the contemporary to the distant past record the thanks of visitors whose requests of the Virgin were granted. It is the proper etiquette: if a favor is granted, the worshipper has a responsibility to return and have a stone engraved thanking the saint in question.

Everyone that I asked about the two celebrations in Chile told me that the Virgin had appeared both in the grotto at the Sanctuario de Lourdes and at the Templo de Lo Vasquez. I found it a bit strange that this narrow corridor between the capitol and my city could have been so popular with saints of the highest mark. It also seemed too convenient that the Virgin would appear in a manmade grotto--what would they have done with it if she hadn't shown up? Did she appear in a mark of approval for the construction techniques.

A bit of time on the Chilean Catholic church's website sorted things out. In Casablanca, in the mid 19th century, a family by the name of Ulloa erected a shrine to the Virgin in their front yard. People from surrounding areas began to pay their respects on the 8th, and a year or two later the family Leiva Vásquez was instrumenal in moving the figure to a new site. There was a bit of a squabble--apparently the Ulloa family wanted the shrine to remain on their property, but in the end the church authorities blessed the new site.

The real meat of the legend came during the 1906 earthquake, which leveled huge sections of Chile. In Casablanca, when the devoted returned to their shrine to see what had happened, they found that all of the structure had been destroyed except for the wall which held the image of the Virgin. That was that: the site was blessed as an official temple and holy site, and the grand pilgrimages began, growing larger each year.

The site in Santiago is a bit less of a story. Around the same time that the Ulloas were converting their garden into a religious zone, the Virgin Mary was seen in Lourdes, France, in one of the most famous of such events (hinged largely on the fact that she is said to have spoken to witnesses, proclaiming, "I am the Immaculate Conception"). A Chilean priest described on the site as "fervent," one Jacinto Arriagada, decided to honor the event with the construction of the church and grotto of Lourdes, Santiago. The grotto, it turns out, is a representation of the site of the appearance in France.

So it turns out that the Virgin has not shown herself in Chile. In Santiago, one can worship by proxy, and in Lo Vasquez her influence saved her image, or so the logic goes. This does not seem to be widely known, based on my informal surveying, but I doubt that it would have any large impact on the Day of the Virgin if the faithful were disillusioned of their impressions. The odd mix of events that includes popcorn stands, plastic icons, sunglasses and shoes right alongside crawling penitents and effusive offerings of flowers has been a part of the culture of the Central Valley for over 100 years. It is easy, at times, to forget that Chile is a Catholic country. Indeed many of the people I spoke to about the Day of the Virgin referred to the participants as "crazies" or "fundamentalists." Nonetheless, the history of this country is indelibly tied to the church, and that mutual past floats to the surface on days like December 8th.

Que Valpo

:part of speech: descriptive phrase. 1. How very eccentric! The collective almost hit a body-painted drummer! Que Valpo! 2. How completely unexpected! Look at those people staging a parade without apparent reason! Que Valpo! 3. How colorful, and yet poorly planned! They’re having an outdoor concert, but the sound system is linked to a non-functioning laptop! Que Valpo! 4. How free-spirited, and yet somewhat irresponsible! We've just had a four hour lunch with drinks, on a weekday! Que Valpo! Etymology: the absolute necessity for a unifying descriptive term for the odd events associated with Valparaíso, Chile. Thought to date from early last week. Derivative of other Chilean exclamations using “que.”

Last night, I was up late working. Specifically, I was trying to put together a PowerPoint that required me to ponder such profound depths of the Spanish language as: Can one truly “amar” a hamburger? If one can’t stand a food, is it best to say that one cannot “tolerar” the offending item, or better “odiar?”

I was pulled from such deeply fulfilling reveries by a sound like shots. Arriving at my window I saw, sparkling above the coastline, a fireworks display. I checked my watch. The time was about 12:45 at night, on a Sunday.

I expected the show to stop after one or two explosions—maybe someone had randomly decided to set a few off in their yard, or some such thing. But the displays grew larger and more complex. Heart shapes appeared, mixed in with circles and color-changing cascades. The water in the bay glowed pink and green, and flickering white. The odd extravaganza ended slightly past 1am.

In theory, fireworks are meant to entertain an appreciating crowd, or at least such has been my impression. I certainly enjoyed the display. However, I somehow doubt that many people were expecting, or awake for, an unexplained show of fireworks in the middle of the night on Sunday, November 9.

This is the sort of thing that happens regularly in this city, and yet it never fails to baffle me just a little. Recent examples include a belly dancing concert in the square, a memorial service put on (with parade, of course) by the carabineros in honor of the fallen of a several-year-old tragedy in the south, a drum concert staged in an unblocked-off intersection, a protest involving adults dressed up like small children, and a solemn procession of people in witch costumes.

I am a teacher. I have always been told that when teaching, it is the students who care who make it all worthwhile. I'll come back to my dubious relationship with teaching at another time, but I haven't found this to be true. Perhaps there aren't enough of those students, or perhaps they don't care enough. Whatever the reason, I think my students are great people and I enjoy my relationship with them. This does not, however, make me feel compensated for the extreme amount of effort that goes in to teaching a mandatory subject on a tight curriculum. The "teachable moments" are nice, sure. But if you really want to get me glowing and feeling like it's all worth it in the end, there's nothing like an unexplained marching band or a drunken digirido player to make my day.

I finished my PowerPoint, and I'll be using it this week. But I know that it won't be the student who learns to recite "I'm crazy about lasagna" who will make my lack of sleep par for the course. No, I'm already satisfied, because what other city congratulates you for a boring task completed by setting off a round of fireworks, any time of day?

Que Valpo, que bueno, how wonderful to live in a city as eccentric as I am.

Lost lyrics

I am not a fish out of water. I am a fresh water fish too far down the river, the salt of the estuary entering my respiration.

I am sitting around a crowded table at the port bar that celebrated its centennial recently. At the far end a man in a dowdy green sweater is reading poetry from sheets of paper that swish loudly as he switches them in front of the silent crowd. He is awkwardly hunched at the microphone under a liquid orange beam of light. Dim lights shine under the bar, and the tea lights on the tables cast twinkling glares, and the pulsing ends of cigarettes move without hurry back and forth from mouths to ashtrays. I sip my beer in the dark, staring at the man.

I understand most of his words. I cannot hear poetry. Poetry is such a function of intimacy with language. The breath-catching moments are the combinations of words that have seemed always to have no relation to one another until suddenly they appear together, perfect, like a secretly eloped couple. I know nothing of common or uncommon modes of expression in this language. It is only recently that 'expression' could even be applied to my functioning in Spanish.

All I can follow is the tone in the reading, the signs of emotion and rythym in the words. This man reads like a lecturer--steadily, clearly, but dully. His poetry sounds like a town hall opening ceremony if I close my eyes. I look around the table to see how the others are responding. One poet leans to another and they whisper something and laugh: is the poetry bad? Or is it only friends sharing a beer, ignoring the speaker for the moment? I remember in the beginning days when I would sit at the table with the host family, wondering if they were talking about me. It's a similar kind of paranoia. I am a lone gringa listening to poetry in Spanish. I feel superfluous, worthy of mockery: a poser. The room is dead silent. No one speaks, claps or whispers betwen poems. We sit staring at the man as he shifts his papers and begins again. There is a lot of staring in this country. Too much, I think, wishing someone would comment or drum or even do that terrible snapping of fingers.

The man finishes and finally the crowd claps. I lean over and tell my friend about the poetry slams that used to be popular; how I would go and sit in the back quietly while the older, hipper crowd would shout and cheer and hoot. Once I wore leather pants from a second hand store, a push towards cool. The poet noticed these and used me in his act. I blushed like I still do when something embarasses me or catches me off guard. They asked me to judge and I lied and told them I had to leave, but sat, bright red, through the rest of the show. I lost that poet's photocopied booklet years ago, but would have liked the chance to look back on it now.

Other than the silence, the atmosphere is familiar, making me feel all the more alien. I look around my table at all of the figurines that have decorated my life so many times, in so many guises. The three young poets: one man in a velvet jacket, hair dishevelled; another in button-up plaid with curly hair combed out to be large; the woman beautiful with wild waves in her hair and dark eyeliner on both lids. At her shoulder, the affectionate and flamboyant film student gestures, wearing an antiquated suit with a silk vest, his lined eyes and labret piercing signalling his contemporaneity. Then there is the painter in his argyle sweater and page boy cap, leaning precariously over the candle to hand me scraps of english to edit, bits and pieces to be sent to an uncertain love in Canada. At my side, the unexpected arrival still carrying his camping gear is awkwardly above us on a scrambled-for bar stool. Finally, at the end of the table, an old and muttering poet in a knitted skullcap, papers somewhere within his worn leather bag. He is talking across me to the young poets. They are discussing flowers in Santiago in spring. This relates to women, somehow, and then to ways of perceiving.

I am sure that I have been here before.

One of the trio of word gamers from my table is called to the front by the announcer. A few copies of his recently published book make their way from bags onto our table. The person next to me flips through with purpose to find the poems as they are spoken, to help me. I explain that seeing the words won't make them anymore electric to me than hearing them. I prefer to listen. His poems punch the air with the impression of meaning. The improvement in style leaves me with a lower comprehension, but I enjoy his reading better than the last.

The young man returns, the bar claps loudly, and the old man is called. He rustles through the bag a little too long and then makes his way to the front of the room. He begins speaking, but the mike is on the table. He realizes this after a few sentences, whether of his own accord or from a tip I cannot tell. Rearranged, he begins to read in the rocking, near autistic way of those who live their lives fully within their art. It is, needless to say, unintelligible to me. I like it though, better than the lecturing fumbler, better than the confident and snapping man my age. The tones rise and fall and whatever these words are, whatever they might signify to the people sitting with me, I sit watching them mean absolutely everything to the poet.

I am watching a man read his poetry; I am watching a man deliver his art; that is all. Without signification, without relationship to me, I watch the words matter to him. When he returns to the table I tell him how much I enjoyed watching his reading despite understanding nothing. The film student throws his head back and laughs, delighted, clapping at the joke. I light his cigarette and laugh too, even though I wasn't joking.

Dancing in the Streets

Walking between one outdoor dance performance and another, the crowd began to realize that it was being directed. As we pushed onto the stairs of Paseo Yugoslavia, a man directed us to split into pairs. As we slowly advanced in our new formation, another gave us further directions. I linked arms with my friend and she closed her eyes while I guided her, as we had been told. As we bumbled half blindly, literally, up the stairs, members of the German dance troupe splashed couples as they emerged with water from the fountain.

At the top we followed our choreographers and joined hands to form a chain. We circled in around the large tree at the center of the small plaza overlooking the port. In front of me was a boy of about three. We circled in, tightening around the layers of people in front of us as more links in the chain emerged from the stairway and coiled around us. I stretched my friend's arm in order to stay just behind the little boy, providing the other half of the support that his mother's hand gave him from in front. We circle-danced over the uneven bricks and the little boy, in the way that small children have of trusting anyone significantly larger than them, allowed me to use our locked hands as a means to lift him over gaps and slants.

A crowd watched from the sides, skeptically, but walking in the circle I could see the sense of the dance. The warmth of sharing movement with strangers. We broke apart slowly and looked up to find the troupe arranged in the tree.

We stood around them as they dropped pieces of paper inscribed with heartfelt messages in broken Spanish, about dreams and clean water. Balloons drifted down and a man played the accordion. After we had all received a few of the small paper airplanes and paper balls, we began to drift away, chattering. The dancers climbed uncertainly down from the tree.

So ended the VII Festival Internacional Danzalborde de Valparaiso, a yearly October event in the city. It had been a week-long event featuring dance troupes from several different countries. Like the final circle around the tree, it was an event that was heartfelt, experimental, occasionally hokey and at times a flop. As things tend to go, here, there was the occasional lapse in the audio equipment, the fact that the locations of the dances were nearly impossible to find out, and a touch of over-earnestness. The awkward moments, though, never overshadowed the wonderful feeling of living in a place that would organize such a thing: a week of contemporary dance spread out through the streets of the city.

Work and the scarcity of information caused me to miss out on all but the final weekend of the festival. That Saturday afternoon, I joined a friend in an attempt to track down the performance that she had finally found a listing for. We wandered around Cerro Bellavista, until finally we discovered a crowd hanging around a stage-like section of the Museo de Cielo Abierto.

A Columbian dance troupe began with a duet. The man and woman, in black street clothes, mixed the occasional classic dance form with angular, disjointed movements. The music was sometimes harmonic, sometimes little more than ambient noise. These contrasts worked extremely well in some segments of the dance; in others I couldn't help but see hints of the infamous Robot dance. The dancers played out various conflicts and reconciliations that can occur in a relationship. At times the woman would collapse, the man urging her up with a series of pushes from his feet. Sometimes he would fall and she would catch him.

The following dance, from the same troupe, showed the same strengths and weaknesses as the first. A group of people crawled, wiggled, and occasionally spun in arabesques across the space. A woman dropped her bright pink pants and hobbled forwards and backwards before pulling them up halfway and rushing forward to the stairs.

After the performance, the dancers left and the crowd dispersed. A small girl took the stage and mimicked the wide, dramatic jerks and thrusts of the dance she had just seen.

That night, the same friend and I went to an indoor performance by a Mexican group. The listing labelled the style as "Minimal Movement." Given that it was in Spanish, I translated it in my mind as "Minimalist Movement." I should have trusted my first reading.

The hall, the auditorium of a local university, was in fact a converted old church. My friend and I found a spot up in the back corner of a crowded set of wooden bleachers. In front of us, underneath the saints looking down from stained glass windows, a woman sat in a chair. She was surrounded by glowing orange globes, strung together like Christmas tree lights. Three antique lamps sat next to the chair. As the crowd settled in, a strange series of sounds began to play and the dancer moved her hand slowly towards her face in a dramatic gesture. The shadow cast by the spotlight hitting her hand made the appearance of a small black tulip opening on her chest. We waited.

A few minutes later, she moved her head slowly to the side and extended her arm. We waited.

She traced her foot across the ground. She opened her mouth, closed her mouth. The music was the sound of dripping water, echoing tones, and wind, intercut with a sudden scream or the sound of a train. I began to consider the fact that bleachers have no side exits.

The visual effect was striking, but after twenty and then thirty minutes passed, I arrived at the critical opinion that perhaps the "voyeurism" mentioned in the description referred to a sort of mirror effect. As I watched the performer squirm around, miming in extreme slow motion the effects of inner turmoil, I began to feel supremely uncomfortable. Trapped. I switched on my art theory and concluded that perhaps this was intended: the audience sharing the stress of the character being danced.

After forty minutes, I was sure that I would much rather be writing an analysis of this piece than experiencing it.

After fifty minutes, I was considering if perhaps the intended effect was to cause someone in the audience to break down and yell for it to stop, as a sort of peak to the anxiety of the dance.

After an hour, I had decided that no analytical approach to this piece could give me back the time I'd lost sitting uncomfortably wedged between college students, on a piece of wood, watching a woman sit in a chair.

Finally, finally, she stood up. In strange, jerky movements, she made her way to a side door and lurched out of the room. The door remained open for several minutes, shooting a plank of white light into the space dominated by dark and glowing orange. Then suddenly, it slammed loudly shut. The visual effect was beautiful.

I didn't really care. I was scarily close to a temper tantrum when the dancer and the other members of her group--who had been working the sounds and the lights--came out to answer questions.

They explained that interaction with the audience was an essential part of the show and asked for input. Students raised their hands with detailed questions about composition and form. The group proudly explained that other than several key points which were choreographed, the rest was entirely improvisation on the part of all three. While looking carefully over the work for 'key points,' I could settle only on a moment when the sounds stopped and the woman kicked the lights, scattering a pile of forks with a metallic sound that was refreshing in the sense that it was the only sudden thing to happen within an hour and a quarter's time. The man who improvised the sound for the piece exclaimed several times over how he hadn't known that the dancer would leave through the door; she modestly explained how it just came to her. More questions were asked. The group discussed the time a cat had entered the performance space in Buenos Aires and thus became part of the performance. They explained how each piece is different, depending on the location in which it will be performed. The dancer elaborated by detailing how in each new city they go to find costumes and props, and these new pieces contribute to the choreography as well. I mentally threw a quick curse at the vendors of antique lamps, black bell skirts, and victorian-style white blouses, wherever in Valparaiso they may be.

When we were released, my friend and I walked at a near-running pace away from the building, laughing and exclaiming. She thought perhaps there had been a helicopter involved in the idea at some point; I wondered about nightmares. We decided that all of that not-moving made us want to walk widely and swingingly back to her place.

The next day I met her and another friend for another performance and was very concerned to find out that it would be the same group once again. Upon determining that we could not possibly be trapped in the pedestrian road on which the stage was set, we all decided to stay and see what happened. Thankfully, the woman is far more interesting when she moves.

This time the inspirational pieces were a large plastic tablecloth set with a birthday cake and six place settings with plates and empty bottles. The costume was a flouncing purple satin dress, a bright red bike helmet worn backwards, black stockings striped with yellow, large boots, and a yellow fly swatter. The character that arose from all of this seemed to be some kind of combination between a martian and a small child.

The man who had been working the lights the night previously was involved this time, scurrying around in a plastic apron. He beckoned members from the audience out from the sides of the street to take the places around the tablecloth.

At the end, he carried her, kicking and screaming, cake demolished on her boots, out of a side door wrapped in duct tape. I was glad not to be forced into artistic appreciation, and felt much warmer towards the group as I followed the file of people up the stairs towards the circle around the tree.

18: Go Chile

So, the 18th has come and gone. The 18th is really not just the 18th, it is as many days as possible surrounding the 18th, the 19th, and anything in between that and the weekend. It commemorates various aspects of Chile's independence and general identity. We got relatively gipped this year as the 18th fell on a Thursday, so the party didn't start until Wednesday at noon. This may be a blessing in disguise, however, because if Fiestas Patrias had lasted any longer it may very well have killed me.

In some respects, I had a failed visitor's Fiestas Patrias: I didn't hang out with anyone's grandparents. I didn't see the rodeos in Olmue (despite best laid plans). I didn't even go to the ramadas, aka fondas, aka fairs that are the traditional celebration spot.

On the other hand, I had a pretty Chilean-style Fiestas Patrias: I hung around with people I liked, and I ate and drank a lot, and there were often Chilean flags around, and good times were had by all. All in all, rather satisfying. Along with camping (see below), I also participated in and watched some cueca dancing:





The cueca is Chile's national dance and it is meant to represent the courting dance between a hen and a rooster. It kind of intimidates me, as such. I'm not a great hen. The rooster is meant to stare you down, waving his scarf (or plastic bag, as the case may be), while you hide behind your scarf-or-bag and dance coyly back and forth. Truth be told, I don't like being stared down, so instead of doing flirtacious half-circles I pretty much just duck back and forth to get out of the line of fire. Anyway I did give it a shot several times, but the photo evidence lies in the cameras of others.

I attended multiple asados, where many people were shocked and astonished that I am not eating meat. At one point someone said that they had thought that I would at least have a chorripan (sausage in bread), as it's really not large at all. The lovely Kacy and Yasha provided me with fish at their asado, but otherwise I was just careful to eat before or after.

In general, I had a nice weekend, with a lot of relaxing mixed in with a lot of dissipation, plus a bit of wilderness wandering, and tried my best to represent (as did everyone else). Go Chile.

The Grand Project Launch, or How Procrastination on Facebook can Bear Fruit

So, I am now officially recruiting free labor for my pet project. I began by creating a Facebook group, the text of which is as follows:

Valparaíso is an historic port town in the central zone of Chile. It is an entirely unique city, crazily jumbled together over time, painted in bright colors, covered in murals, and electrified with a sense of life and culture in the atmosphere.

It is also a city with major economic issues, including some of the poorest urban areas in Chile. It also has a major tourism industry which is incredibly underutilized. Thousands of tourists pass through, walk through one or two hills, go to three or four cafés, visit La Sebastiana, and head on to the next destination.

There is an incredibly rich cultural life in Valparaíso, though--if you happen to stumble across it. In Spanish, there is adequate information, but spread across different blogs, email newsletters, fliers, magazines, and street posters. In English, there is just about nothing. As such, it is very easy for tourists--and even people who live here--to miss out on fabulous events of every type happening right here in the metro region. The city misses out on a better tourism industry, one that might help support a wider range of enterprises. Local artists, musicians, performers and more miss out on larger audiences for their work.

I want to start a bilingual publication of events, both as a paper magazine and as a website: Atenea Valparaíso. (Side note: the oldest Chilean newspaper is the Mercurio--the messenger god. Atenea, or Athena, is the goddess of arts and wisdom. A nice pairing--that's the logic. She was the goddess of war too, I know, but let's just leave that be.)

It is absolutely impossible for me to do this alone. So I'm recruiting anyone who would like to contribute to this project in one way or another. I cannot offer any monetary compensation (clearly....I'll be lucky to break even). I can, though, offer you full credit for your work and a "good experience," aka nice thing to put on your resume if it turns out well. Some of these functions can be fulfilled over the internet, so even if you're on another continent, you're welcome to get involved if you'd like.

I need:
1. Translators, Spanish to English and vice-versa, both for the actual event listings and for any columns/reviews we might include.
2. Writers, either in Spanish or in English, for the same as above.
3. Researchers: people who will find locations, groups, and people who put on events, and keep in contact with them about upcoming events.
4. Web designer: one or more people who can set up a blog/website that is idiot-proof enough that the rest of the as-yet-imaginary team can use it.
5. Development: People who can search out advertisers and other potential investors.
6. Layout designers for the print edition.
7. Artists who can provide interesting drawings, photographs, etc, to bring Atenea to life.

Essentially, I don't want just a bland, corporate style "Time Out"-esque publication. If I can make this happen, I want it to carry some of the individuality, texture, and frankness that characterize the city itself. So I want an artistic composition, a strong contact with the underground as well as the established scene, good writing, frank opinions, and above all else a clear dedication to making the cultural scene in Valparaíso stronger than ever.So, if you are still reading, and you think that you can contribute somehow, please get in touch. The project is pending until I can assemble enough interested contributors, but hopefully we can get in underway in the next few months.

After all, as is often noted....this city is "crawling with gringos"....let's make ourselves useful.And please--if you know people who might be interested in this project, please pass this along!

I created this group yesterday. By last night, the Incredible Chad Kulig had begun figuring out the website angle, and several other equally amazing people expressed interest in translating, content, layout design, and general help.

There are several factors to consider here:

1. I love my US network. I didn't even know I had a network....I just knew I was friends with a lot of people who like to do back-breaking artistic and civic projects for no or little compensation.

2. I am full of gratitude to the people who want to get involved in this without even having seen the city. Altruists are wonderful. I've been talking about this project in Chile for weeks, with the result (with the exception of my long-suffering close friends, who are forever having translations, ideas, and information demanded of them) of one interested party (to whom I am also very grateful). Then all of a sudden I get all this interest from people who have nothing, really, to gain from this. Love, folks, love.

3. If you are familiar with Facebook, then you are aware that by putting this on Facebook I have essentially told every person I have ever met that I am going to make this happen. So, well, I better make it happen, eh?

If you want to help, the email is atenea.valparaiso at gmail dot com. At the moment this email just goes to me, but hopefully soon it will be a team email.

Go Team! Go Valpo! Let's culture attack.

Thaaaaat's Chile.....

...............is just what you have to say sometimes. Explain and clarify in 500 words or less.

Both Valpo and Viña (and Santiago, for that matter) are full of street performers who jump out in front of stopped traffic at red lights. Usually, they look approximately like this:



At night, sometimes, they juggle fire. Unfortunately both you and I will have to live with the fact that my camera is not capable of taking a good picture of this, or at least so far has not proven itself able to.

Yesterday I was in a bus, riding back through Viña del Mar after making some reckless purchases at the mall (more on the mall another time). I was looking out the window and listening to a podcast from NPR's Here On Earth , which I highly recommend. Bits and pieces of everything. This week I've learned about the historical context of Edith Piaf and the history of Argentinian mate, for example. In any event, this particular podcast was on the subject of Rwanda. Specifically, an author was being interviewed about the rebirth of the country since the genocide. They discussed a number of interesting angles: the leadership role that women have taken, the use of traditional tribal law, the concerns about authoritarianism and human rights abuses, the economic growth, and what not.

As I am listening to this very interesting interview about Africa, I look out my window down Avenida San Martin, a busy street along the sea. What I saw I wish with all of my heart I had a photograph of, but unfortunately it was too late to jump off of the bus. There was a street performer. He had painted his entire body black-brown. He was wearing a grass skirt. He was waving a paddle of some sort. He was holding a spear in the other hand. He was jumping around and one can only imagine making some sort of savage-esque noises.

At noon. On a main avenue. For public entertainment.

Thaaaaaaaat's Chile!