Nos Vemos, Not Goodbye

The crew in the desert

 When people ask, "How was Chile?" I often stammer or simply become silent for a few seconds. They might take this to mean that I didn't have a good time or that I was too homesick, but it is really quite the opposite. When I'm asked that question, my mind is flooded with memories; friendships - those made and those solidified, conversations with my host mom, the full breadth of landscapes I walked within including desert, glacier, forest, ocean, mountain etc., and nights at the bar with friends, laughing harder than I can remember. How do I put that in a way that won't breach the rules of small talk, sound like a litany, or make it seem like I'm bragging about all the fun I had abroad? I simply say, "It was pretty amazing. I saw a lot of things and went to a lot of places while meeting some great people."

It's definitely strange being back. Obviously, the snow and sixty+ degree temperature difference play a large role in that. Having to drive twenty minutes to get somewhere also doesn't compare to walking for ten or hopping on a bus accompanied by an under-appreciated Chilean musician or two. I've also had plenty of people fail to recognize me at first glance, something that surprised me because I didn't think I changed all that much physically, their excuses being my changed complexion.

But, it was within my renewed interactions with old friends and family that I came to the realization that my semester in Chile had become a sort of time capsule. Not the Narnia sort where one side progresses while nothing has changed in the other, but rather more like two roads that diverged in a yellow wood  (couldn't resist the Robert Frost reference) only to rejoin together later on. The best comparison I can draw upon is the adventure of a few choice hobbits who returned home after an extended period of time experiencing something vastly different from the rest of their community. Although we try with photos and videos, my group's memories are truly our own. They've changed us in multiple ways, most of which we might not even be able to recognize about ourselves quite yet. But, small or large, my gut tells me those changes were for the better. The small town, running-laps-around, getting-his-head-checked-for-ticks-at-sundown kid in me feels like a rubber band that had been stretched for a semester only to be released and return longingly home to a whitewashed Hoth-like environment that would make Ned Stark from Game of Thrones cringe. But he's got his wide-eyed, do-or-die, I'd-better-try-this other side to compete with; one who feels that, after having spent a mere 4 months in another country, has just noticed a thousand windows of life swing open at once. I think I found where those two sides meet while sitting in my aisle seat on the plane away from Chile. I relished seeing family and friends, but not at the expense of leaving a country that had welcomed, adopted, and cared for me so well. I wanted to return to one home, but hated leaving another. As I sat in that plane, I felt as a part of two cultures as I ever had, a feeling I hope to feel again someday.

So, how was my semester abroad in Chile? It was pretty amazing. I saw a lot of things and went to a lot of places while meeting some great people. And I'll never, ever forget it. More importantly, as my hand hesitates over the button that finalizes this post, I sincerely hope that this isn't goodbye, but rather nos vemos.

JJ

Patagonia: My Last Chilean Adventure

Last week, our group finally went on the adventure we'd been waiting all semester for. Having purchased flights to the south of the country back at the beginning of September, we were ready to hike through Torres del Paine National Park in Patagonia, Chile. One of the most popular destinations in the world for hikers as well as outdoor and nature enthusiasts, the park offers two main trails: You can hike the "W", which is the most popular hike because it offers the majority of available scenic views in around 3-6 days, or you can follow the end of the W all the way around for a total of 7-11 days (called the Circuit, or the "O"). Though hiking the whole circuit would have been a blast, both time and money were running short and many of us had other post travel plans ahead of us. So, we decided to tackle the W.

Two possible routes. We started at the lake below the left V, up the left side, back down and to the rest of the W

Although thousands of people make this hike each year, it is by no means a walk in the park. Well, technically, that's exactly what it is (National Park and all). But, it's not easy! Roughly 80 kilometers, the terrain of the trails is never desirable whether it's extreme uphill or downhill and/or lathered in loose rocks and rubble. And when the trail does appear to be a leisurely stroll, you're hit with gale force winds racing across the plains that you have to lean into to avoid loosing your footing and landing in one of the many numerous thorn bushes that line the way. With less than six months separating my knee from a nasty scalpel or three, I knew this trek was going to be a challenge; a test on it's progress. Sounds crazy, no? (<In Tevye’s voice) But it held up better that I could have imagined, mostly thanks to the trekking poles we rented. Seriously, if you're going to hike this park or any other, use trekking poles. They are a knee/calf/quad saver.

Patagonia was incredible. I put some photos up here as well as on Facebook, but neither they nor a string of adjectives or metaphors can truly describe how amazed and awestruck I was whenever I looked up from my careful foot placement on the trail and took in just how impressive this place is.

The Torres of Torres National Park

See what I mean? Pretty early on in our journey, I simply started taking video panoramas of where I was standing since a picture (or five) couldn't do any sort of justice to landscapes so breathtaking.

Apart from the views, one of the most interesting components to hiking in a park comprised mostly of foreign visitors is the variety of people you meet. On the ferry across Lake Pehoé south of the W to Refugio Paine Grande where we began, we shared glances with the rest of our crewmates, not knowing that we would see all of their faces again and again over the next 5 days. There was the Swiss couple that offered us food when they heard us discussing our near failure in rationing towards the end of the trail, the British gentlemanly duo who travel the world together and who I got to take a picture of me in front of the Torres, a guy from Cork, Ireland (where my brother studied abroad a thousand years ago) who quit his job and has been in South America ever since, a group of Israeli students on vacation (making my half-Israeli friend, Ari, feel like Balto watching the wolves howl), other Minnesotans(!), a couple from Washington who were travelling before tackling the real world and who ran up to our bus with my alien green shoes after I had left them (on purpose) at the end of the trail, as well as friends from both our group and school and other study abroad groups from other schools.

As many differences as there are between the hikers, there is just as much variety in the climate, meaning one could start the day in a fleece, shed to a T-shirt by lunch, and be in a parka by afternoon to protect from the snow (yes it snowed). Quick changes in harsh climates meant that there’s very little wildlife in the park, leading to probably a better conservation effort but potentially lonely trails if all you see is the occasional bird. Such varying climate also gives hikers a kaleidoscope of landscapes we were on. The first day we started on a ferry across a turquoise blue lake and ended at a massive glacier (Glacier Grey). On day 2 we walked through rolling hills covered in brush, through a small forest stripped of bark and most branches by a recent fire, and ended in a valley (the middle of the W). Day three we went further up the valley into view of mountaintops and rocky outcroppings (like the view of the Torres from the back) and ended at a rocky beach similar to those found in Duluth (Los Cuernos). On the fourth day we hiked up more prairie into a huge river ravine that we followed to the camp below the Torres. Day five we beat the sunrise to the top of the Torres before ending at the end of the trail. After that we spent a sixth in nearby Puerto Natales and on the seventh day, we rested (back in Viña).

As previously stated, it’s difficult to wrestle onto a page exactly how incredible Patagonia is. It didn’t take us long to question Peter Jackson on where he filmed his trilogy as our whole trip was filled with Lord of the Rings quotes. I also felt like the age of this place was palpable. The lack of wildlife as a marker of time gave the mountains an ominous I’ve-been-here-forever-and-will-be-long-after-you-leave vibe. And the preservation of all these landscapes made me wonder if we were going to turn a corner and see the not-too-distant cousin of a dinosaur or two.

Needless to say, this hike was one of the coolest things I've experienced, and my face practically hurt each night from my eyes wanting to stay open and my mouth agape all day. It was highly indicative of how I've felt this whole semester, and a fitting end to the greatest four months of my life.

JJ 

On Molding Chilean Youth

One of the requirements as part of our curriculum here in Chile is some volunteer work, or as the university likes to call it, experiential learning. Some of our choices included Habitat for Humanity type construction work, teaching and/or coaching at a local elementary school, visiting the homeless at a local shelter, and other various volunteer opportunities. Never claiming to be good with people, and certainly not with children (as I am the youngest sibling and almost youngest cousin, I have very little experience in the child department), I originally chose the construction type option. As fate would have it, since the choices were so lopsided in favor of one or two options we were placed at random, and I was one of five chosen to help assistant teach at St. Peter's School. When classes were all doled out, I was given a first and third grade class, both helping the same teacher.

I was more nervous on my first day of school as a glorified assistant teacher than I ever was as a student. Sure, it was a bilingual school, but should I talk to the children in English or Spanish? Should I let this student go to the bathroom if there are two already there? Man, it's hot in here, I'm sweating. Why are you thinking about sweating? Why is my handwriting so awful? And so on. It wasn't until the end of that first class that I realized something: these kids don't care about any of the things I was worried about, so why should I. They don't care what I look like or how I talk, although Noshavember has gathered the 'beard' (I use the term loosely) many a teasing and my accent has been known to confuse frequently.

Before I go further, I feel the need to explain my official title when I teach. On day one, the teacher I help had the students all stand to greet their other teacher. She realized she hadn't caught my name yet, and after I told her 'JJ' she turned to the class and said, "Class, can we say good afternoon to Mr. JJ?" Which was then followed by "GOOD AFTERNOOOON MEESTER JJ!!" And all I could think was how much fun this semester was going to be.

Other things made my first days better. On my first day, a first grade girl came up to me with a tissue. At first, I thought she had used it and intended for me to throw it away for her. However, I noticed the tissue was clean and still folded. I glanced over at the teacher who was observing and smiled saying, "it's a gift, dear!" And later, in the third grade class, a girl who sits at the back came up and showed me a bracelet she had made out of pipe cleaners. I told her it was very pretty and handed it back to her, only for her to give it back saying it was for me. It's difficult to describe the combination of pride, joy, and acceptance that came with such small gifts. But, suffice it to say that both of them are on the shelf next to my bed as I type this. 

So, what do I actually do? Really not a whole lot, further contributing to my relatively stress free volunteering. I cut and hand out things the teacher didn't have time to earlier and I walk around when the children are doing their activities in their books, the latter of which has exposed how hesitant I am to punish disobedience and maintain a quiet room. I guess I'm just a softie, and by now they've caught on! I also do most of the reading out loud as my teacher wants them to hear a native speaker, something I wish I could see the results of if twenty Chileans grow up speaking with long Minnesota "o's" (Hoooola).

Just doing my civic duties. That and failing in my attempts to bring back the ruler

Also, there is a small rivalry between the two first grade classes that are taught in neighboring classrooms. Every few classes, the teacher indulges the kids' competitiveness and lets them come up to the board and tease the other class through the wall. This link shows one such instance, and I crack up every time. If that link doesn't work, try copying and pasting this link into your browser: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VN_rl1WgwgI&feature=youtu.be

No blog post is truly complete without some ill-informed and biased analysis, and so it is almost out of necessity that I try to wrap mine and your heads around what seems to be an unhelpful education system, or at least parts of it. From a broad historical sense, thousands of students and families have been protesting for years about improving the educational system. It's been a factor in the last who knows how many elections (as well as this years) and I'd like to think I've gotten a glimpse into it's inefficiency, ineffectiveness, etc. For starters, it's mandatory that the class makes it through the whole textbook during the year, otherwise the school loses funding. This makes for some hectic classes, as we often rush through 10 pages of filling in blanks in just one class and is made even more difficult by my next issue: the country expects these kids to be geniuses. Just the other day we were talking about differences between ancient Greek and Roman cultures, social issues about rights of women and well as differences in the educational system of today. I don't know about you, but I didn't learn most of that until half way through high school (you might jab that the key operating word there was 'learn' instead of 'was taught', but my point still stands nonetheless!) Let me also remind you that this is all in their second language. The books are all in English and often translated badly or laid out and designed horribly and not intuitively at all. I will sometimes be reading a paragraph out loud only to pause and think about what I just said because it made no sense. And I'd like think I to know, my grammar and sentence structure. 

The point of all this is that I now know why it's called experiential learning. The kids might be the students in this situation, but I'd argue that I might be learning just as much. Not only am I relearning some (un)necessary schooling, but I'm also learning more about myself. For instance, I find it very difficult to reprimand a child who either doesn't yet know wrong from right, or is just seeking attention they don't get from those who should give it like family. Like my parents, I find a stern word or face to be just as effective, if not more so (also, laps around the school would be difficult and dangerous, just as they were around the house circa '98-'08). I'm also learning about the mind of a child, though some would say I'm already an expert firsthand. Like when someone looks hurt and dejected when I do eventually tell someone off for being consistently too noisy, all I have to do is laugh at something they do later and all is forgiven. Every day is filled with fragile relationships, and I'd like to think I'm having an impact on their lives. But two hours a week for each grade probably isn't affecting them much, so I'll take solace in the tremendous amount of learning I've gained through them.

I've also gained a new level of respect for any educator. My sister Michaela teaches Spanish to kids back home, and I always knew she worked hard (as her first years teaching were when I first started honing my cutting, gluing and grading skills when she brought work over to watch Viking's games). But the pressure to teach well and to encourage students to learn comes from everywhere including parents, educational systems, as well as peers. You have to be always attentive to the needs and/or complaints of the kids, and your answers to questions have to be simple yet conclusive as well as as politically correct as possible. I only work four hours a week and never have to form a lesson plan, can you imagine what actual teachers go through?? Even so, I get some of the benefits of teaching, as I literally walk out of the school with a smile on my face every day. I'm fairly certain I don't want to be an educator, at least not in a school setting. But, who knows? Mr. JJ does have a nice ring to it. 

On the Move

For those of you who don't know who the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda is, here's a quick summary: Nobel Laureate for literature, very wealthy, and former senator and diplomat with three houses. You know, like all poets. Our group had already visited one of his eccentric houses in Valparaiso a few months ago. But this past weekend we headed to Isla Negra, arguably the most famous of the three (although you probably still haven't heard of it). It wasn't as exciting as I had hoped, and we couldn't take pictures inside the house, though practically everyone else did. I merely bring it up because he did have some insane views of the ocean.

View from the beach below Neruda's house

Chiseled Neruda with his large house in the background

It does, however, provides an awful(ly seamless) transition into what I was actually excited about.Where Neruda had a plethora of housing options (he should try signing up for housing at St. John's), my host family and I were about ready to abandon our solitary abode. This isn't to say we were living in the street, but it was definitely time to move since it was clear that any repairs would require a process I've found to be common here: seemingly very inefficient while at the same time not being very thorough, and taking forever to accomplish. Multiple light fixtures were broken, cupboards were falling apart, electrical shortages were common, and our faucet was leaking from the handle so badly that we needed to weigh it down with cartons of milk to stop the flow.

When I first arrived in Chile back in August, my host family informed me that we would be moving at the end of the month. When that date came and went, I was told it was because the sellers hadn't yet found or finalized their next home. Even later, in October, it took a few weeks for my host mom to sign all the documents necessary to move. I found the whole delaying process very indicative my previously mentioned revelation.

Finally, on the November first we moved, and it apparently took all the saints to do so (holiday joke bonus). So I did what any good son, biological or hosted, would do: I packed all my things, grabbed my backpack and went off to hike La Campana (see previous post). And thus, my last steps from that humble two story closet were taken, tearfully and longingly I assure you. After our hike, I returned the next day to an apartment complex having to explain to the doorman that I did indeed temporarily reside in said establishment and was not merely a backpacking vagrant-gringo trying to score a comfy nights sleep. Although, to be honest, that's all I had my mind on at the time.

View into my glorified new closet

Worth the view, I think. You can see where we simply knocked out the balcony separator to create more living space

I found out that, although things like clothing, cars and many groceries can be comparable in price or even more expensive here in Chile, rent seems to veer towards the cheaper end of the spectrum. This 3 bedroom, two bathroom apartment with separate storage and underground parking comes in at around $770. Now, I'm no real estate expert, but that's less than what two Johnnies pay to share a 10 x 15 foot dorm for their first two years. I guess nothing says community living like a concrete cell!

Anyways, this new place has (almost) got it all. Yes, my room is smaller, but hey I have a bathroom, which means no waiting for the unpredictable morning schedule of my host brother every day. Yes, many of the light fixtures still don't work, but with the sunset over the skyline a nightly occurrence I think I'll live. Sure, water leaked from the toilet in my room from day one, but I find delight in testing the plumbing at the university instead. And no, I don't have a mirror, but what with the growth of my hair (dare I say, mullet) and my failing Noshavember, that's probably for the best.

Does a Butt-kicking 6000 Feet Get Me Into the Mile High Club?

In an effort to seek out some aspects of Minnesota life, a few friends and I decided to go camping this last weekend. We’d heard of a National Park about an hour east called La Campana and decided to give it a shot. Assembling the troops was a task on its own as what started out as three of us turned into nine overnight, without anyone truly knowing what to bring or to expect. But I felt we were decently prepared after having purchased necessary camping gear such as 4 boxes of cookies, 3 kilos of clementines, 2 pounds of hotdogs, and bottle of whiskey that cost more than the tent. And besides sounding like a verse in 12 days of Christmas, this list surprisingly sufficed.

We hopped on the metro out of town, graced by troubadours who should probably be recognized more than they are. After a half hour or so we caught a bus from Limanche to the small town of Olmue, all the while having this adorable little Chilean girl show off her English skills by counting to ten. We then waved the little girl goodbye and trekked to the campground. As I was drenched in sweat before the mile hike was over (it was uphill and I was wearing a pack, okay!), I knew this whole mountain adventure was about to kick some serious jota booty.

At the park entrance we were stopped and told there were no more sites available, but that we could wait for one to open up. We waited with another group of gringos who we found went to a university in Viña’s neighboring town, Valparaíso. One campsite opened up, and the four of them generously shared their space for the night. We stood the whole night, as there was nothing to sit on, an unfortunate happenstance which I took to be a cruel trick on the part of the park rangers in order to tire our legs before the hike even began. So, after a weenie roast dinner over the fire we decided to hit the hay. But not before discovering that three guys from our group brought a tent bag that did not in fact contain a tent, simply the rain fly, and we ended up squeezing five guys into our humble 6x6 abode.

We broke it out of camp at 9:30 to begin the hike. The beginning wasn’t terribly exhausting, and we made it to the halfway point—some old mines—in a couple of hours.

But the mountain showed its teeth soon enough, and we were mostly crawling rather than walking the last hour or two over angles of loose rock that one would be crazy to call an established path. We reached the top in less than four hours, but my heartbeat pounding through my eardrums let me know that I wasn’t in the physical shape I once was.

We also saw a bull

The second half of the path: sure footing and safety

When one normally has a good view, it’s usually only when looking in a particular direction. Rarely do we have the chance to be above everything and be able to turn in a complete circle and examine everything below for miles. It was in this collective moment of awe that I noticed a palpable silence come over the group. This was then replaced by a noisy call for some lunch, and we proceeded to throw ourselves over the rocks strewn about the peak and feast.

View of the Andes mountains to the east

View from the top looking down at the town of Olmue

Ecstatic and energetic me

Scaling La Campana back down proved to be harder than climbing it, as every knee in the group was being tested. Since I had a knee that had been held back a few grades, that test was hard. I had a welcome walking stick on the ascent to reduce the stress on my old man joints, but offered it to a fellow gringo who had somehow injured his knee to the point where he could barely bend it. What made the descent even more unbearable was that our crew mainly talked about the different kinds of food we were going to eat when we get home to the states including Buffalo Wild Wings, Chipotle, popcorn, and everyone’s favorite home meal.

All in all, I’m fairly certain my attitude that day spanned the full breadth of possible human emotion and it became much more of an accomplishment than I previously thought it would be. That being said, for how long it took and arduous an ordeal it turned out to be, that long day already feels like it happened months ago. Like most of my dwindling adventures in Chile, the reminders are fading. Some, like pictures, can stay forever, while there are others I hope would fade faster like the seeming inability to move my legs