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.

Country mouse goes to the big city

Early last Saturday morning I found myself, bleary eyed from an open-bar wedding reception the night before, adrift in Santiago. If I had not been deprived of my crashing surface, I most likely would have slept another 3 or 4 hours. Nonetheless, I was in the capital and determined to make use of it, as tempting as a nice bus seat sounded.

Valparaiso is my heart in Chile. The common expression is "Santiago is Chile," which makes sense: a huge percentage of the population lives there, and nearly all commerce is located there. For me, though, Valparaiso is Chile. I could not imagine leaving my home here and staying in the country. Nonetheless, there are drawbacks to everything. I love my small Chilean city, but it is a small Chilean city. There are things that just can't be found here.

Even Santiago is a little bereft in the museum department, so I decided to skip out on that particular commodity. No, I was out to be a consumer of the first degree. With that in mind, I got off the metro at La Moneda and beelined to Starbucks.

It's an interesting phenomenon. In the US, Starbucks is my enemy: the gobbler of small, beloved coffee shops. For a time in high school, nearly everyone on the staff of one particular Starbucks was a good friend of mine, and we used to throw parties in their back room and basement purely out of spite. Fact of the matter remains, when abroad, Starbucks is the only place where North American-style drip coffee can be found. It seems that the rest of the world thinks it tastes like "sock juice," to quote a French person I spoke to about the matter, or something else of the same degree. I remain resistant to international pressure and I still think with longing about my free days in the States, which always involved the paper, a crossword puzzle, and an entire pot of coffee. So it is that whenever I come across a Starbucks while in another country, it brightens my life just a tad. This can be witnessed by this photo of me, taken in Christchurch, NZ:

It had been months since I'd been in a city, and my traveling companion, the lovely Argentinian Florencia, was so amused by my reaction that she needed to document it.

Returning to last Saturday. I bought myself a gigantic cup of coffee and sat reading my book and eating a croissant. As my hangover cleared a bit, I was able to navigate my way to the counter once again. I purchased a large French press and a pound of ground coffee. If I can dig up my crossword puzzle book from the plane last February, my next day off will be a delight.


It was very strange to be in a North American institution. As is the Starbucks way, everything is standardized, so the store was decked out in Christmas decorations and resounding with carols. Nevermind that Chileans are not overly excited by Christmas, nor can they spell the word in English.




It was strange to be sitting in air-conditioning, wearing a t-shirt, surrounded by red and green ornamentation. My Chilean friends tell me that it is odd even for them, having at this point absorbed much of the northern imagery associated with the holiday. "How bizarre," they tell me, "to have Santa Claus walking around in furs in 80 degree weather!" This will be my first Southern hemisphere Christmas, and I will be missing the snows of Boston.





From Starbucks, I headed to Patronato. The night before, I had advised the mother of an acquaintance that I had this intention. She was accepting, but concerned. "You need to go with only one small purse, and have it all the way up on your shoulder and under your arm."

She also told me not to walk around obliviously, and demonstrated with a duck-footed, wide-eyed pantomime.


As always, I give little creedence to Chilean prophecies of doom. The populace has been inundated with documentaries about the peligro that lurks around every corner, and they have become a country of truly paranoid people. Earlier that same day, a co-worker had told me that she was afraid to go to Santiago, and advised me that the thiefs and robbers that abound there can spot a non-Santaguino from a mile away. One thing that both the acquaintance's mother and my coworker had right was that appearance truly is everything. One thing they've got wrong is the idea that extranjeras don't know how to put off a potential robber.


I grew up in the suburbs of Boston: hardly risky territory. Nonetheless, I have one fierce lady for a mother, and she grew up near the projects in the Bronx. So, despite my tranquilo New England childhood surroundings, I consider myself a trainee in street-smarts from an early age. Two of the most important things that my mother taught me were to always appear confident and to never seem lost. This is why you will be the one to ask for directions if you are ever in my company, because I won't do it. I also won't pause too long at street signs, or consult a map. If I do truly lose my way and absolutely must ask, I do so with a mannerism of "I just can't seem to remember where I put my glasses, silly me." I add to all of these internal rules a permanently irritated and busy expression, a death grip on my bag, and to this day I have yet to be robbed anywhere in the world (despite one or few attempts). I've probably scared off more than a few potential friends but, such is life.


This is how I hit Patronato. The district, particularly on a sunny Saturday, is packed to the point where it mimics the feeling of standing in a long line. This is because the streets are lined with shops and stalls selling mountains of cheap imported clothing.

Still somewhat dazed, toting my French press, I slowly shuffled up and down the streets in the molasses-like crowd. After a very short while, I became very uncomfortable, but not from claustrophobia. The climate in my coastal city is very temperate, much like San Francisco in the United States. Its temperatures swing on a very small scale throughout the year, always hovering around a median of about 65 Fahrenheit. Santiago, meanwhile, lies within the valley between the coastal cordillera and the Andes. Sharing the same topography as cities such as Sacramento, it reaches much cooler temperatures in winter, with occasional snow. By the same token, it can be broiling in summer. As spring moves along towards the next season, it is beginning to get toasty in the valley. In my long pants and t-shirt, I found myself uncomfortably over-dressed.

Not to worry, this is Patronato. I stopped at the first store that had something cute in the window. Luckily, they had a curtain behind which customers could try on clothes, a luxury in these stores. I entered and put on the sundress I'd chosen. Like all cheap clothing, it required a bit of rearrangement and strap MacGuivering, but five minutes later I left the store 6,000 pesos poorer and infinitely more comfortable, with my coastal clothes stuffed into my shoulder bag.

Other than this, though, I simply couldn't summon the energy necessary for a full Patronato day. Like shopping at a Salvation Army in the US, a successful trip to Patronato requires drive, a discerning eye, and a good amount of time. Last Saturday was not the day for any of this. I was in pursuit of a bigger fish: Missing Ingredients.

Along with its other imports, Barrio Patronato also hosts several well-stocked Korean and Chinese markets. After several wrong turns and yes, even asking for directions, I finally located them. I joyfully texted every living soul I knew in Valpo and picked up a few favors for friends while stocking my own carts. As a cooking enthusiast who favors Asian and Mediteranean foods, there is no shopping spree more delicious than an hour in Asian markets after months and months of supermarkets that consider cheddar cheese too flavorful to stock.

After reaching my limit at about 20 kilos of sauces and spices to carry, I treated myself to the first falafel I've had in months, and then headed wearily but happily to my friend Nereida's house in Providencia. A few pleasant hours later, I was back on the bus, speeding towards Valparaiso at exactly 98 kilometers per hour, as I was advised by the streaming satelite information displayed at the front of every bus.

I could not live in Santiago, I will not lie. It is huge and sprawling; congested; covered in smog; and yes, sometimes dangerous. I would miss my ocean and my seagulls, my hills and my colored houses. Nonetheless, its proximity to Valpo is nothing but a benefit. After months in the regions, even riding the uncomfortably packed metro feels like a refreshing taste of the outside world. It is easy to ensconce oneself in Valpo; the layout of the city almost demands it, clustering the way it does around its enclosed bay. But although I love this town where I meet someone I know at every corner, there is something wonderful and liberating about large cities, where no one knows a thing about you unless you care to inform them. This is a sensation I miss, and one I will seek out more often as I continue to settle here in Chile.