Reflections of our 8 months in Chile

(Another in the flashback series. Yes that means it is long)

Our family with baby Pablo in his pumpkin Halloween suite

Our house

Celebrating Chilean Independenc

The cueca, their national dance

Another national dance. The boys are pretending to row a boat.

Pichilemu, like Chile, was not what I expected. Expectaion plays a large role in one's experience in an unfamiliar place. My expectation was vague at best, but I am sure it played a vital role in our lives during our stay. The first thing I noticed upon arrival to Pichilemu was the red dirt like the dirt from childhood summers in Lubbock, Texas. I didn't like red dirt. I associate it with malicious fire ants and the burn from their bite. This red dirt had no such fire ants. Instead there were mysterious bugs that continually bit me throughout my stay in Chile. We still don't know what they were for sure, though every Chilean and their mother assured me they were mosquito bites, however we rarely saw mosquitoes.

Pichilemu was famous for two things, surfing, and being tranquilo. I don't enjoy pain, especially the searing burn of icy, salt water flowing from the Antarctic, so the nearest I ever got to surfing was dipping my big toe into the magnificent blue ocean. Although I consider myself a city girl, I loved living in a small, rural town. I loved the calmness but I also loved the town gossip; the mayor and his unusually bulging pockets was often whispered about in the teachers' lounge. The fresh air in Pichilemu was invigorating and I felt safe alongside nature. Maybe the best way to describe what it felt like living there is to take you on a familiar walk during our stay in Chile.

As I greet Canela, our adorable, and easily excitable chocolate labrador, the door shuts behind me. I walk around Jorge's motorcycle, his pride and joy, and out the tall black rod iron fence. The sky is clear and blue today, and although the house never seems to let go of the cold, the air outside is warm and inviting. With Canela trotting by my side, I walk towards town. I have two choices, the long way down streets and sidewalks, about 30 minutes, or the hazardous shortcut through the steep valley, over the bridge, through the mud and up a steep incline, surprisingly cutting the time in half. I choose the shortcut; I always choose the shortcut. The baby chicks pecking at the dirt road in front of me frantically scatter as I near, as if the ugly giant goblin has come to eat them one by one. I continue towards the pasture which is sometimes a soccer field, and sometimes a grazing ground for Don Pablo's horses. One time, Camila, our host mom, tried to teach Kyle to drive stick shift in that field. With Pablo screaming in my arms in the back it is a wonder how Camila, with true motherly skills, was able to think above Pablo's screams that hit every octave in the human range, to coach Kyle.

The field is empty today. I close my eyes, lean my head back and let my ponytail dangle free in the breeze, allowing the glow of the sun to envelop me. Behind me is our blue two story house, possibly the nicest house in the area. To my right, about ten minutes walking from where I stand, is one of my schools, Divino Maestro, where those diablitos we call children are sent to be babysat. Directly in front of me is a line of dilapidated houses blocking the view of the Pacific Ocean and grey sand beaches. And to my left is the valley, my chosen path into town. I take a deep breath and inhale the tranquility of this small town, far from the hustle and bustle of Santiago.

I walk through the horse pasture, seemingly lacking horses for the time being. Instead of horses however, I notice low flying birds, low enough to step on if one is not careful. They soar right above the grass, looking for those pesky yet tasty insects, I assume. I have never seen birds fly this low to the ground and I wonder where they come from, where they have been, and why they are flying around my feet now?

The first decline into the valley is similar to a dirt cliff side; steep, and without grass to hold the dirt in place. Rocks are dependable in some sections, but not all of the areas, especially during the rainy season when the dirt turns into a slip n slide made of mud. Had I not cared about the clothes I was wearing or the fact that I might plummet off the edge to my death, I might have taken up mudsliding as an extracurricular activity, but I did care about my clothes and my life.

We play a game while going down the hill; who can stay on one's feet the longest and not fall on one's butt. Of course I always win that game because I am the most graceful person you will ever meet; graceful maybe compared to Bozo the Clown!

As I make it down safely into the valley, I breathe a sigh of relief, but the obstacles aren't over yet. Next is the handmade bridge crossing the small muck colored creek. Luckily I have never had an issue with this bridge, although it is obviously older than I am, and missing planks. If it were a person, it would be an old miser who walks with a knobby cane and smiles a toothless mischievous grin. Once over the bridge however is the really challenging part, the "obstacle course," as we lovingly call it. The obstacle course is located in an open pasture that turns into swampland during the rainy season of winter. I keep expecting the swamp monster to come out of the sludge, growling and dripping mud, threatening to eat me. "Come on swamp monster, I deal with a room full of chalkboard scratching, booger throwing, snot nosed Chilean kids, I think I can take you!" But if he is there, he stays hidden in his swamp, smart monster.

A clear path lays straight ahead of me, but before I can reach that pass, I must traverse the obstacle course, a huge mud pit, with make-shift stepping blocks. First is the old tire, that has to be stepped on just right or else the side not stepped on will lift out of the mud causing the person to fall face first. Then its the rocks, boards, frisbees and some other objects thrown into the mix, helping passers navigate their way through the valley of mud.

I once mistakenly attempted to avoid the obstacle course through the mud pit and instead went around the wallow. "What a smart and novel idea, I am so clever." I thought to myself! The lower pasture, the only alternative, seemed safe, but the green grass of the pasture was merely camouflage for the 6 inches of mud below. I discovered this hidden swamp on the day when I had dared to wear my brand-spanking new black boots to class. I meticulously negotiated my path, but without reward. There was no reliable path. Everything was mud. Life is sometimes like that, giving you a choice between decorated and disguised mud or obvious mud. Guess what happened next? Before I realized what was happening my entire foot up to the ankle was submerged in mud, but not just one shoe, both, because as I took that first regretful step, to my dismay, I lost my graceful balance that I am so famous for, only to have both of my beautiful new velvety boots covered in that dreadful, gooky muck. I nearly turned around and went straight home after my humiliation, but I didn't, I dredged on, literally.

Now, walking into a class full of recalcitrant Spanish only speaking students who don't know what the term discipline in English or in Spanish means, can be intimidating. But walking into an already unruly classroom with boots covered in mud and humiliated pride is certainly not a helpful addition to the already hopeless situation.

I have mixed feelings about the time I spent teaching my students. Starting off, I was eager to make a difference and I was energized with new ideas. Most of the students hadn't ever seen someone from another country and their exposure to English let alone an English speaker was limited. I wanted to reach out to the kids, expose them to something new and hopefully improve their English or at least their interest in English. I was given two different schools to help teach at; Divino Maestro, and Digna Camilo. Both schools had English teachers. Brenda spoke English and Carmen, however sweet, did not. Both schools gave me the warmest welcome I could ever have imagined, with a full school assembly, thanking me for my presence in their country and in their schools. Digna Camilo even included dancing and songs in English in their welcoming ceremony. The kids seemed ecstatic by my presence, but that was soon to wear off. After my first few classes, their attention waned. I tried grabbing their attention with games, but the games would lead to rough housing, and no one seemed interested in the English. By the end, I was much less interested in teaching than in keeping my sanity and them in their seats for 90% of the class. I am ashamed I got to this point. I gave up on them as most of their teachers had done. The classrooms were more for group babysitting than a place for education. I don't believe in giving up in principle, but I did. We spent nearly a month on learning how to ask and answer simple questions such as, "What is your name?" and "How old are you?" but after a month, no progress had been made. I tried games, quizzes, rewards but you can't make someone learn something if they don't put in the effort. Maybe they didn't improve their English while I was there, but I am hopeful that I changed their thinking. Maybe someday, one of them will dare to venture out of their country, because my presence proved that non-Chileans aren't aliens after all. Maybe, a couple of them will learn to value English later on in life and go on to college. I don't know what impact I made and I may never know. I just pray that I made a difference in at least one of their lives. I went to Chile to make my mark on the world, to make a difference in someone else's life.

Even though I am unsure of the impact I made on my students, there were many people who greatly impacted our lives while in Chile. I have learned that it is important when we fall in life that we have people close to us, to help lift us back on our feet, even if we are covered in mud. Being in a foreign country, made me feel awkward and out of place much of the time but we were so fortunate with our support. We had many people around that loved and cared for us. Not so much from the Ministry though, in fact, hardly at all.

Although the Chilean Ministry of Education assured us that they were a sturdy leg for us to stand on, that leg was more like silly putty; flimsy, and without support or reliability. Our host family, unlike the ministry, was such an important factor in our adjustment. From the beginning, they were kind, helpful and caring. We felt welcome and comfortable with our host mom and dad, like we were really home. Camila was compassionate, humorous and motherly. When one of us had a cold, she would make us a special hot lemon tea with honey. When we seemed sad, she would tell us stories of her childhood to make us laugh. Jorge was absent minded but easily excitable, especially when it came to food. They welcomed us in as their family, and they will always have a place in our hearts.

Brenda, my partner Chilean English teacher was especially important as well in our support system. Brenda is one of the most kind-hearted people I have ever met. I was so grateful during our first meeting with her and the principal. She spoke English so well and I don't know that I would have been able to understand him otherwise. Even some Chileans had a hard time understanding what the principal was saying since he spoke so quickly. After studying English in the University, Brenda spent three months living in New Jersey practicing her English. She moved to Pichilemu from her home town of Talca, away from her beloved family to fulfill her dream of teaching English.

Two days a week, Brenda and I would lunch together. Some days, she would fix authentic Chilean meals such as a special Chilean casserole. Other days the meals were as simple as rice with a fried egg. It was so nice to relax and speak English in her beautiful home and have a friend I could talk with.

Another activity we cherished while in Chile was our English group diners. There were two other English teachers in the town that spoke English well, Cecilia and Luz. One evening a month, we would gather together as an opportunity for them to practice their English and have a cultural exchange. In the beginning we shared American and Chilean food. We cooked things such as baked potato soup and cornbread, and they made pastel de jaiva (an excellent crab dish). Pisco sour, their national drink, was always a must, except for the time Bethany decided to make mojitos and had to go on a wild goose chase to find fresh mint.

Bethany and the other volunteers in our region were another vital part to our support system. Bethany was the only other volunteer in our city and we became a little gringo family while in Chile, laughing and crying together. Twice a month, we would gather to have a gringo reunion, sometimes in Pichilemu, and other times in the other cities where the other volunteers lived. (When I say gringo, I don't mean white, I mean those of us who were not Chileans.) Our gatherings were a time for us to vent, speak English, play games, drink Baileys and enjoy each other's company. I am afraid to imagine what our sanity level would have been if it had not been for those extremely important friends.

Nothing about the valley is easy; the path down the cliff, the old man bridge, the obstacle course and certainly not the incline out of the valley. The incline is steep and often has zero traction. Some days a kind soul has poured sawdust into mud on the hill, allowing your foot to find some sort of stability. The way out, is bordered with houses, not really houses, shacks; shacks surrounded by trash and junk. I avoid looking at the puppies with their rib cages protruding, shivering outside in a huddle. Today, the family is outside and the two year old is grabbing at the ax stuck in the stump in front of their house. After the hike up the hill, I take a breather, taking care not to stare.

My journey in Chile, like the valley, has had its ups and downs. There were times when I couldn't see out of the valley and the feeling of desperation overtook my body, but there were also moments of untainted happiness. Looking back, I can say without doubt, that although it didn't always feel this way, there were more ups than downs in our rollercoaster ride called Chile. I came to Chile for several reasons. First and foremost I went yearning for change; change in myself and change in others. I wanted to find more of myself by helping others. Living in a culture that is not your own is difficult and rewarding. Difficult because it can be excruciatingly uncomfortable, and frustrating, but rewarding because growing is never easy, and if there isn't a certain amount of pain involved, we aren't working hard enough. I struggled with the language, and I struggled with the students. But I learned that even though it was tough going sometimes, scratches and bruises are just reminders of the struggle and growth. I am always searching for more, yearning for more knowledge. Although I didn't always feel like I was growing, I know I did.

I left Chile with some scratches and bruises, but also lasting friendships and a family away from home. I went searching for the meaning of life, and my purpose in it. I may not have found the answers, but I am on the right path. I am on a path out of the valley and on to greatness, I can feel it!

Brenda, me, Bethany and Kyle, when Brenda took us to visit her family in Talca.

Me in my classroom

Me with my students

The kids are jump roping in the courtyard.

At one of our Gringo reunions, except with two other Chileans

Pablo in my suitcase. He wanted to come with us.

p.s. you still have time to write a caption.

Saying Goodbye to Bethany

The calmness of her voice gave her away. I knew the instant I picked up the phone, the meaning of the call, but she didn't say it then. Instead, she said she wanted us to get together for pisco sour and manjar (something very similar to dulce de leche) and she would be over in an hour or so. My anxiety, which had begun in my big toe shot bolts of lightening first through my calves, and then thighs. Once it reached my stomach, the game was over. The stomach is like miracle growth to anxiety, there is no turning back after miracle growth has cast it's spell. After the anxiety had reached the furthest regions of my body, it began planting clouds of doubt. What will you do when she leaves Chile? What will life as a sola gringa be like? Will we make it? Should we consider going home as well? I knew why she wanted to go home. She had been talking about how unhappy Chile had made her, and that staying in Chile for the sake of finishing the program was not as important to her as being happy. But, I was not Bethany, and although I had ridden along a similar roller coaster as she, mine consisted of less dips and more height. There were definite pockets of unhappiness in my life in Chile, and moments when I thought to myself, “What the hell am I doing here? All I want, is to be somewhere comfortable and familiar, with heaters and Taco Cabanas!” But life as a roller coaster does not coast only in the low points but also reaches heights unimaginable. Walking home from school through the valley near our house, I often feel overwhelmed by the beauty of the sunset in the sky as big as any Texas sky. The horses would look up from their grazing seemingly annoyed by my presence, but a little apprehensive. The rolling hills surrounding the town never turned brown, but seemed to grow greener with each passing day. Life is not meant to be a walk in the park because without a struggle, there is nothing to be proud of and I was proud of our bold decision to come to a foreign country to help children possibly get ahead in life.

Over pisco sours we discussed in detail her decision to leave. Although I would have preferred her to stay I knew that this was her choice, something that could only be decided by her. The determination in her voice dared anyone to argue and we respectfully made no attempt to contend. We discussed her plans for the following two weeks before her departure. Her flight was to leave from Santiago, and we would meet there with our fellow fifth and sixth region buddies to say our adieus to Bethany. We treated ourselves to one night in the luxurious Marriott with Bethany's ex-employee discount, and lived lavishly the following morning with a dip in the hot tub and a roasting in the spa. We feasted on sushi in the richer part of Santiago, partied with our fellow Chilean friends and said what we had come to say, “goodbye.”

Walking home from the bus stop in Pichilemu, I felt a physical change to the town. An emptiness that hadn't been there before, was present now. Possibly it was the hole in my heart projecting onto the town, a hole that I didn't want to face. But it is my opinion that the town felt her departure as well, and formed a black hole where her spirit should have been. As I walked, I kept repeating to myself, “We are going to be Okay. We are going to make it. We CAN make it.” I knew the words I said to be true, but life would change, and the emptiness saddened me. Life had been easier with our friend and ally, but we could prevail, we WOULD prevail!

The Tale of the Passports or Nearly Deported. (By Kyle Rogers!)

It all began back in March, when we had first started the program. Things were going relatively smoothly and it looked to us as though the Ministry had everything under control. Little did we know that within a month, all Hell was going to break loose.

As the orientation commenced, the Ingles Abre Puertas aka IAP (English Opens Doors for all you Gringos) staff assured us that the few hick-ups that many of us had faced upon our arrival were typical and we SHOULDN'T WORRY. This phrase; “no se preocupen” would be repeated to us countless times at every point in which a normal human being would in fact worry. On the third or fourth day of orientation the staff collected all of our passports so they could register all of us at once and save us the trouble of having to do it ourselves. Needless to say, this was a bit nerve racking. From the very moment we get them it is ingrained in us that our Passport is our life when abroad and should never be handed over without question. However, considering that we were told before hand that it would be necessary to receive temp visas, and the collection of the passports was done so in a very orderly manor, we handed our lives over with the reassurance of “no se preocupen.” This was the moment that Hell's gate slowly began to creep open. Over a week goes by and we trusting little volunteers still had not received our passports back. The only form of encouragement we have is that we ALL have not received them, not just an unlucky few, so in the case of some huge mishap the ministry would have to deal with 70 angry foreigners and not just a couple. As fate would have it though, our passports were actually returned ahead of schedule and all of us got them back with plenty of time to spare. At this moment, one VERY important thing should have happened that did not and if said thing had happened, I would not have needed to write this story and you would not be having the pleasure of reading it. This is of course the ONLY good thing that came from our passport adventure; a wonderful story to tell.

Point one, at which all could have been prevented; the IAP should have made it very clear to all of us that this was not the last thing we would need to do to register with the grand Republic of Chile. When we arrived at our respective towns we would have to register our Visas and receive our Chilean residence identification cards or carnets as they're called here. Now, to give IAP due respect, this vital little piece of information was in fact included in our Volunteer hand books that they did tell us on numerous occasions that we needed to read. The problem was that the hand book said very clearly that the regional coordinator would inform us when and where we would need to go to register our Visas. We, the 6^th region volunteers have no regional coordinator. Thus the gates of Hell swing wide open.

For the next Month Bethany, Vanessa and myself struggle through what would prove to be one of the most frustrating and disorganized times of all our lives. Fact 1; Bethany is the only one of us that spoke Spanish. Fact 2; No one at the Departamento Provincial de Educacion (Provincial Department of Education in Gringo) aka the Prov. speaks English. Put 1 and 2 together and Bethany becomes our coordinator. Let me also point out that we were told prior to our arrival here in Pichilemu that everything had been arranged and someone from the IAP would be there for a week to get us acquainted with our new home so “no se preocupen.” Definitely did not happen, and definitely needed to have. This would be point two, at which all could have been prevented.

Point three, at which all could have been prevented is slightly dependent on point two and slightly resembles point one but could certainly have occurred without point two having taken place and is slightly different than point one. To receive your Carnet (see above if your not sure what that is), you must register your temporary visa within 30 days. After the 30 days, you are required to pay a fee of 50 US dollars and, as we would find out later, be put under residential probation pending an investigation. I will explain this in due course, suffice it to say, we were screwed. 33 days after we had received our Visas, the IAP calls to find out how things are going and to make sure that we have registered our Visas. 3 days after the deadline. Not 3 days before, not even the day of, but 3 days after. So this point gets included because I feel that had the IAP truly been considering the well being of their volunteers, the backbone of their program, this phone call would not have come when it did. Regardless, the IAP informs us what we were supposed to have done and that it was clearly stated in the volunteer hand book that we obviously did not read. After pointing out that in fact it was not the accused who had obviously not read the manual but the accusers, we got around to how to resolve the issue. Now the fun began.

We were told that the first thing we would need to do is go to the Governor's office here in Pichilemu and inform them of our situation. At this point one could add another point at which everything could have been prevented, as this was yet another perfect opportunity for the IAP to send someone to help us through our ever increasingly difficult situation. We met with the Governor's secretary who after hearing a good 5 seconds worth of our situation promptly told us exactly where we needed to go to resolve our issue; the Police of Investigations in San Fernando. The red flag shot right up at this but who were we to say no and she did tell us that we would not be fined and of course “no se preocupen.” Bethany then called the IAP who then called the secretary and then called Bethany back to say “go to San Fernando, you will be given a verbal warning, you won't be fined and, of course...”I don't even have to say it do I? If that sounds confusing to you just imagine how we felt. Certainly could have used a coordinator at that point right?

Point four, at which all could have been resolved was the day we went to San Fernando. You would think that the fact that we were having to go to the Police of Investigations would have merited a liaison from the IAP but Bethany spoke Spanish so clearly there was no need. We were then taken to the office of so and so. Officer so and so then spent the next two hours typing up a written warning stating that we had committed such and such infractions of such and such laws and that pending an investigation and such and such actions we would be given our Carnets. As this form was being written, officer so and so received a phone call. Bethany overheard him say that he did not understand why the Governor's secretary had sent us to him as he was obligated to put us under investigation and that all of this could have been resolved there in Pichilemu, by her. Either she wasn't paying attention when we were explaining our situation, (YES) or she was lazy and didn't want to do the work, (PROBABLY YES ASWELL). Anyways, after the papers were made we signed the forms and received our temporary residential identification cards and then were very casually asked to hand over our passports. All three of us froze. Without knowing it, Bethany and I both started to consider walking out then and there. My mind began to race with what ifs and plans of escape. Alas, out of sheer lack of a better idea and a pure leap of faith that this guy wasn't going to screw us over, we agreed and for the second time handed our lives over. We were however very certain to make it clear that our passports were extremely important to us and we were somewhat reassured by the fact that so and so told us if at any time we needed them, we could come and borrow them. He also said however that we were not allowed to leave the country during our probation. This concerned all of us a bit but I figured, if there was any kind of emergency, we wouldn't really have any problems getting out of the country. Later that week I contacted the US consulate in Santiago who told us that they knew exactly where we were and if anything were to happen, they would get us out and recover our passports. This was the first time in a long time that someone said “don't worry” and it actually made me feel better. Anyways, Officer so and so informed us before we left that under normal circumstances, infractors such as ourselves would have to come once a week to check in so as to make sure we hadn't left the country. He told us that because he didn't really think we were going anywhere, we could just call every Monday to let him know we were still around. He also said that at most, we would have to wait 2 weeks to get our passports back, at most. 2 weeks turned into 3 and still no passports. Bethany then receives a call from the Governor's Secretary informing us that we will have to pay a fine before we can get our passports back and our Carnets. We all think EXTORTION and quickly contact everyone we can think of at the Min. of Education so that someone will come and sort this out for us. This is quite obviously Point five at which the IAP could have stepped in.

Resolution. At this point we were all a little furious. We refused to fork over the third of our paychecks they were asking of us for a mistake that was clearly the Ministry's booboo. I was ready to be locked up kicking and screaming, just so the IAP would finally get the point that this was not something they could continue to ignore and work on from the fringes. Unfortunately, I never get the opportunity. Bethany relays our situation to her boyfriend Nick who relays it to his dad. His dad relays it to his Lawyer friend from Santiago who calls Bethany and says what the heck is going on and how can I help? Bethany tells him all that has happened and within 24 hours he is able to get more done than anyone else has in over 3 weeks. He calls her the next day and says “go to San Fernando and get your passports. Then go to the Governor's office in Pichilemu and get your ID cards. If anything doesn't happen how it's supposed to, call me!” Thus a lawyer slams shut the gates of Hell.

Now, after Bethany gets her lawyer involved who has pretty much already saved all our butts and did 90% of the work for them, the IAP sends someone to help. Gabbi, who we really do like by the way, meets us in San Fernando and takes us to get our passports and then our money which was a whole other can of worms. We weren't quite home free at this point cause the Carnet office in San Fernando was packed and the bank was closing so we chose to get the money that day and go to Santa Cruz another day to get our Carnets. This proved pretty painless actually but still inconvenient and rather anticlimactic. They don't even look all that great and we hardly ever use them. I often wonder what would have happened had we never registered anyways. Would they really have known? Some days I'm just not sure and other days I'm positive that the Chilean Gov't. doesn't have a clue!

So in the end it all worked out and the many points at which the Ministry could have stepped in proved to be useless. Who knew that all we needed to do was get a lawyer involved? In the end, we are still here and each day things get a little easier. Do we still have some problems? Of course, but the trick to it all, we finally realize is simple; “NO SE PREOCUPEN!!!”

Baby Dinosaurio has entered the World

Announcement:
I am pleased to announce Pablo Felipe "Dinosaurio" has graced this world as of Friday July 27th. He was three kilos, which is about 6 lbs, and as hairy as a little monkey. He has lots of nicknames at this point including, monito (little monkey) because of his hairiness, yoda, because of his funny noises, and Dinosaurio because of how he looked in his sonogram. He is a very tranquilo child, who almost never crys, and looks around very seriously all of the time. So far his activity level is limited to sleeping, eating and pooping. Even the way he poops is adorable because of the way he scrunches up his face, and then afterwards makes an "O" face. The family would like to thank everybody for their gifts, they were really overwhelmed and thankful. I am including a couple of pictures and their will be more updates later, when he is a little more interesting!

Peru Trip Play by Play

JUL11: Only Mayne arrives in Lima, because the families flight was delayed over 24 hours

JUL12: LIMA
Shopped, walked around, bargained, and ate fresh fish by the seafront

JUL13: LIMA – IQUITOS
flight to Iquitos at 520AM canceled. Lots of fighting to get another flight. Ran into the rest of the family at the airport. Book a hotle, eat breakfast, explore the city in crazy taxis, visit a church, and China town. Try to sleep over the noise of the highway

JUL14: TAHUAYO
Flight at 1 AM and arrive in Iquitos at 3 AM. 8 AM take a boat to our lodge. Eat lunch, bird watch, hike and hunt for crocodiles

JUL15: TAHUAYO
Lodge activities including the zipline, hiking, laying in hammocks, and eating lots of food

JUL16: TAHUAYO – LIMA
Morning at the a Native village market, and visit a local river school

JUL17: LIMA – PARACAS
Bus to Paracas. Tour of the the National Reserve. Sandunes, pelicans, sealions, and beautiful scenery

JUL18: PARACAS – NASCA
Ballestas Islands with smelly birds, sealions, dolphins, penguins and lots of fun
The Huacachina Lagoon a natural Oasis as well as other archaeological attractions along the way. Our guide is Enrique spoke beautiful English and took us on a dunebuggy which the Queens (Nancy, Mom and Mayne loved!! hee hee! Especially the speed and the bumps) and sandboarding. Lots of sand everywhere.
Arrive in Nasca exhausted but happy

JUL19: NASCA – LIMA
Flight over the Nazca Lines. Amazing! And crazy cemetary with 4,000 year old skeletons

JUL20: LIMA – CUSCO
Flight to Cusco. Altitude does not agree with almost everyone. Shopping, dinner and dance show. Wondeful, and colorful

JUL21: CUSCO
Sacred Valley tour. More shopping in Pisac. Inca ruins, cool stuff

JUL22: MACHU PICCHU – CUSCO
Aguas Calientes, the town right next to Machu Picchu.
Hang out and eat. Too tired to do much

JUL23: CUSCO
Transfer back to Cusco, funny train ride with crazy fashion show

JUL24: CUSCO
Nancy, Lisa, John leave for Texas. Mom leaves for Orphanage. Vanessa and Kyle take tour bus with English guide to Puno. Church, Inca ruins and good food.

JUL25: LAKE TITIKAKA
Uros and Taquile Excursion. Crazy thing about the floating islands. Big question is why do they make handmade Islands when there are perfectly good uninhabited islands. Dancing festival. Altitude did not agree with me

JUL26: LAKE TITIKAKA
Morning hike to see more ruins. Back to Puno where Kyle and I lounged around our comfy hotel and watched TV. Oh how wonderful not to do anything for half a day!

JUL27: PUNO – AREQUIPA
Bus to Arequipa, boring and long. Played eye spy! Ate dinner at an Italian restraunt and ordered pizza and sangria while listening to a blind accordian player play Italian music.

JUL28: COLCA CANYON
Tour to Colca Canyon, and Canyon that is twice as deep as the Grand Canyon in places. Was beautiful, but now we have to visit the Grand Canyon to compare. Our tour guide had an old injury in the middle of the tour causing our tour to be shortened. He was in so much pain, he was on the verge of tears. He couldn't move. Hot springs, which is always fun. Dinner show with funny peruvian dances where lovers pretend to die.

JUL29: COLCA CANYON
Beautiful and graceful Andian Condors. They have can have wing spans of 10 feet. Crazy!
JUL30: AREQUIPA – LIMA- SantiagoTravel Travel Travel. From 8 AM to 3 AM!! All the hostels in Santiago were full, evidently skiing is popular now, and had to go searching at 1:30 am for a hostel for the two of us. Really fun!

Why We Love Our Host Family!!!

The first night we arrived in our home-to-be was such a wonderful affair. Our Spanish was incredibly limited; we were in a foreign country being placed into some stranger's home, and we were welcomed like kings. We talked for hours, only able to understand and speak minimal spanish, but they were so incredibly patient with us. Not only were they kind and patient, but also comical and silly. Their sense of humor right from the start, reminded us of our own. From our first encounter with these wonderful people, we could tell that we were where we're intended to be.

Camila is this wonderful light in the big blue house on the corner. She is a short (for American standards but still taller than me), very pregnant, silly, angel who shoots rays of happiness everywhere she turns. Walking with her in town, we are always bound to run into someone she knows. People are drawn to her, want to be near her energy, and to be touched by her goodness. The first day she picked us up from the prov, she was dressed in a very fashionable, sleek outfit with black slacks, black high heeled boots, and a long green pea coat with over sized buttons which added a sense of creativity. Her blond hair is not God given, but because her skin is light, complimented with green blue eyes, it looks almost natural. Her beautiful laugh, releases easily without timidity, and is cheerful and contagious. She loves to tell stories which make us laugh so hard our stomachs hurt. Her stories are emotive, colorful and are chock-full of funny faces, hand motions and gestures to help clarify empty Spanish words to the gringos. Every time, Camila says the word, “enojado” for example, she places her finger in between her eyebrows and
presses down to show the emotion “anger.”By now, we understand that word without the action, but she continues to explain anger in this manner. Several of her stories include her sister in San Fernando, Vicky, who is the youngest of three sisters and is the craziest. She didn't like school, was a terrible student, had too much energy and too many rules to break to be held down by the words of teachers or parents. She was such a bad student that because she continuously flunked her classes, she would change schools so that she wouldn't have to repeat the grade. (Another flaw to add to the Chilean school system.) Vicky, during college, had three boyfriends at the same time, who by some twist of fate found out about each other, and all came to confront her about it at the same time. Vicky came down the stairs to see all three of her boyfriends standing in her doorstep, demanding that she pick one of them. Without blinking an eye, she broke up with all three because the situation was all too complicated and she didn't want to deal with it. She walked back upstairs to her room, and called her fourth boyfriend to come pick her up!

After Camila is done with one of her stories, she laughs to herself, and continues on with the next story. With Camila, awkward moments vanish, because she always finds a way to fill the space with her presence. Sometimes she will call Kyle from another room, just for the chance to say his name. Kyle is an unique name in Chile, and a very difficult one to pronounce and because of this, Camila almost makes his name into a game she plays with herself. It also makes everyone laugh.

Jorge is a complicated yet simple addition to this family. Jorge, Camila's husband, is the Fiscal de Publico here in Pichi, which is the equivalent to a district attorney. He has a reputation as the lawyer with the iron fist. One of the first things we learned about our family upon arrival, was that Jorge was prosecuting the Mayor of Pichilemu. He was corrupt, a unique quality in a
politician, and taking money from anywhere he could, and pocketing it. Half of the town loved the Mayor because of the kickbacks, and rewards they received and half of the town supported the trial and the incarceration of their elected public official. The trial lasted several days, and was broad casted over the radio for all of the province to hear. It was exciting hearing Jorge's voice on the radio, and bragging to anyone who would listen, that the voice from the little black box was our host father. The trial ended on a Saturday, and the verdict was to be read the following Monday. We sat next to Camila, inside our living room, listening intently to the Judge presiding over the case, who had been in our house for dinner a couple of weeks before. The
verdict, which I missed because of my incredible understanding of Spanish, was guilty! His voice on the radio was cold, and hard, nothing like the Jorge we knew. Camila confirmed our suspicions, that Jorge has dual personalities, his lawyer personality and his home personality. Jorge loves his job, and is always excited to talk about cases that he is working on, including
showing pictures of murder victims. It is wonderful hearing him talk about his work, because he is passionate about what he does and I think he really believes in justice and the system. But when Jorge comes home and he sheds his work personality, child Jorge emerges from the ashes. Besides the fact that he is so excited by food, and while grocery shopping, will jump up and down begging Camila to make lasagna or hot dogs, he also exerts his childlike behaviors in other ways. For instance, he is never hungry in the evening unless the meal includes hot dogs or

hamburgers. He has a motorcycle, dresses up in his motorcycle outfit, and makes excuses for outings just so that he can ride his favorite toy. His laugh, is that of a little boy; he laughs often, and at his own jokes, looking around to see if anyone else found it funny. He loves to joking, to the point where sometimes we don't know what is a joke and what isn't. For instance, one time, Jorge mentioned that he was going to go to Argentina, but I called him a fibber and continued
on my way. On a different occasion, it was mentioned that they would be gone for about a week, which wasn't abnormal since they both had been leaving quite often for work and the baby. When they returned they explained that they had been in Argentina. It was such a shock, I couldn't figure out what had happened. When Jorge had said he was going to Argentina, I assumed he was joking, because so much of what he says is false; like how he said we were going to cook cat for dinner, and that someone in Pichilemu had been decapitated. More than just words fall through the cracks in different countries, and words aren't enough to understand.

Rodrigo is another interesting character in our family. He is not actually a part of the family, but we call him our almost host brother, because he lives in the house for weeks at a time. He is a good friend of Camila, from law school. She is a lawyer as well. As a law student in his last semester, he evidently has a lot of free time, and chooses to spend it at our house. The
relationship between Camila and Rodrigo is that of best friends; while the relationship between Rodrigo and Jorge is that of brothers, wrestling, riding their motorcycle, and constantly making fun of each other. Rodrigo came into our lives one day during Semana Santa as were sitting down to eat Easter dinner with Jorge's family, after riding three hours on his bike from Santiago. His hands were shaking so that he couldn't hold his full glass without spilling the content. I thought this characteristic was from nervousness, or possibly the long drive, but we were to find out later, that is Rodrigo. He claims it is genetics and says his entire family shakes. He is timid, a couple a years older than Kyle and I, but with boy like features. In groups he hardly speaks, but will talk freely after he feels more comfortable. His personality is sometimes hard to read, but it only takes a glance in his eyes to know that his soul is warm and welcoming.

Jorge and Camila are also pregnant with their first child. Jorge is in love with their child to be, dubbed Dinosaurio, because of his appearance in the sonagram. As fetuses, babies look like creatures from the beyond, and Dinosaurio is no different. Even after they had decided on the name Pablo, he is still referred to as Dinosaurio. Another reason for this nickname is because of his voracious appetite for food, and his propensity for moving and kicking his mother, especially during the night.

Arriving here in our beautiful mansion of house, especially for Chile, we knew that we had something special, but it was even more clear after the coincidences that were left as buried treasure for us to discover. Our first discovery was the name of the neighborhood, Villa San Antonio. The name of our beloved city in Texas was the first thing we noticed as we turned onto the street heading towards our new home. After meeting Rodrigo, we quickly unburied the second coincidence, we shared the same birthday. And as if the first two weren't enough, we hit gold with our third discovery; their exquisite and lovely dog. Not only did we love her right off that bat, but her name is very special, Canela. Kyle's childhood dog, and amazing pet Cinnamon just recently passed into doggy heaven. Cinnamon was beautiful, loving, faithful, a talented jumper and was very special to Kyle and his family. We didn't make the connection of Canela's name right away, but when realized that Canela means cinnamon in Spanish, we knew we were where we were supposed to be.

It must be hard for our family to know what words they should try and explain and what words we already have driven into our memories. But they are always patient with us, without under estimating or under appreciating our intelligence. They talk and treat us like adults, but at the same time mother us. When Kyle was sick, Camila made kyle lunch in bed and made him lemon tea with honey. The time we spend with our host family is delightful and we couldn't be more pleased with this wonderful quirky pair.

Pieces of Spanish

Arriving in Chile, and being surrounded by words that hold no meaning, was more than a little overwhelming. My brain hurt by the end of the day from attempting to grab hold of one or two recognizable words in an entire conversation. The difference between then and now is that when I arrived I could speak in complete simple sentences, but understand next to nothing. Now, after 2 and a half months, I can string more simple sentences together to make (an almost) paragraph and understand close to 50 percent of conversation, if spoken slowly and with lots of body language. Things are starting to fall into place, and Spanish is beginning to make more sense to me, but I find myself, everyday, in situations where I have no idea what has been said or what I have agreed to after using my standard reply of “si!” I like to listen to native speakers, discussing, to remind myself that this is real, not a fake language like pig latin. People all over the world use these words to make themselves understood. And I want that; I want to be understood. But I don't just want to be understood, I want to use that thing we call Spanish.

Spanish is a mysterious, romantic, and beautiful language that twirls me around, blows kisses in my direction, but refuses to let me come closer than arms length. Spanish is like a distant lover leaving pieces of itself hidden all over Chile. Spanish is everywhere and at the same time nowhere. He wants me to find him, I think, but he teases and taunts me with his intangible clues. I find a piece of my mysterious lover in the sound of my alarm in the morning, and another in one of the many puddles of mud on my way to school. And yet I catch another as it is falling from the sky with the rain, and I can faintly see the trace of one lost to the green flame dancing the tango with the more popular orange flames in the chimenia. I gather all of my pieces together and hold them close to me for fear that I might lose them, which I do from time to time. I take them to my room and set about to make my puzzle pieces into a complete picture. Although Spanish has left me treasures of itself, he has failed to leave instructions or an example of what my puzzle should resemble as an end result.

Discovering my hidden treasures, and playing with how they fit into the jigsaw is a rather enjoyable game some of the time. But like a game that has gone on too long, or a distant lover who never lets his guard down, I tire, and just want to know the answer already. I want to know Spanish. I don't want to know him, like I know the many cities I traveled within when traveling around Europe staying only long enough to see the tourist attractions. I want to know Spanish like a traveler who sees what is meant to be seen, the outside of the shell, but also as a native, who knows where the after hours bar is in the seemingly deserted building, that requires a secret knock and a long , overcomplicated handshake.

Spanish occasionally reveals himself enough to dance with me. One hand below my shoulder bone and one hand gently holding mine. Our stature is gentle but stiff. I am twirling around the room, or shall I say, being twirled around the room, and I have to close my eyes because the world is spinning out of control. My eyes dart painfully around for something to focus on, but I can find nothing. He is a graceful and talented dancer, but I don't know the steps, and I feel so embarrassed. Why is it that everyone around me seems to know this dance, and I can't figure out what to do with my feet. I am going to fall. I know I am going to fall. I am afraid and embarrassed. Will everyone laugh at me when they hear me speak? How much more of this until I can go home, crawl into bed and never come out? No one speaks Spanish under my covers. I am safe there.

Learning Spanish has been a much slower process than I imagined. My standard saying, when someone asks how my Spanish is coming along is, “un poco a poco.” Somedays, it is hard to get out of bed, I am so tired of attempting this language. It is not that I am afraid of making mistakes, because that is a daily reality, but rather that I am exhausted from thinking so hard and drained from this overwhelming feeling of stupidity and my daily reminder of my inability to communicate effectively. I know it is a learning process, and I am aware that it takes time and effort, but constantly making mistakes, and not being able to express ones thoughts or ideas, takes a tole on a person's self-esteem. No wonder babies cry all the time, they just want to be understood.

There are days, when speaking, and understanding comes exceedingly easy, and I find myself soaring through the clouds, along with those felicitous souls newly in love. But it doesn't last. I always fall. It is inevitable. Like a substance induced high, I come crashing down, without a parachute, with bits of cloud remains embedded in my hair. My lungs feel constrained from the rapid change in altitude and my body is covered in bruises to remind me of how much work I have left to do. I am waiting for the time that my trip to the clouds lasts more than a day, maybe even more than a week. I am waiting for the day, that I will grow wings, and fly with the others who have accomplished their dream. And then I will really be in Heaven!

Random pictures

Looking out my bedroom Window!

Looking out my bedroom window is always a new adventure. I love to walk up to my window, push the curtains aside and stare. Stare at the unknown, and the incomprehensible. The shacks, I mean houses, here in Chile are pitiful by American standards. They are thrown together without thought to the future. Unlike Italy, these buildings and houses are not built with love and care, but with haste and thoughtlessness. The centers of almost all towns in Chile, have dilapidated buildings, crying with neglect. I understand there is a lack of money, but building houses that are made to fall in the face of a storm will not prove helpful in times of need. Even the beautiful house we live in, doesn't seem made to last. In the entire house, there is only one built in closet. The closet we use is poorly built and is actually more of a wardrobe. I don't believe I have seen one garage since moving here to Chile, 2 months ago, and storage space is non existent. Kitchens, if the house comes with one, don't have a pantry, and many of the dishes are stored in the oven. The dishwasher is not built in, and is in the form of a woman. Dishwashers, the machines, are rare, and a luxury. Gas is bought from a truck and heats the water and the general cooking devices such as the stove and the oven. However if the gas runs out, which it does often, your shower turns from hot to cold within the blink of an eye. Cold showers really make the day start off fantastically.

I didn't realize before, that houses could come without kitchens. Next door, I see our neighbor tending his outside fire, as he does everyday. I never realized until recently that the reason for his outside fire, is not for warmth, or entertainment, but for cooking. How could a house be built without a kitchen? What happens when it rains, how does he eat? Pichilemu is cold and unpleasant in the winter and to be outdoors, enduring nature is unthinkable for a spoiled American brat like me. In order to eat a hot meal, he has to start a fire, outside, against the wind and elements. I am cold enough inside buildings, since heaters are almost non-existent here in the sixth region. Houses also don't have fire places but these iron box chimineas that are used in place. Unfortunately, only the room they are located in stays warm, while the rest of the house, or building remains as cold or colder than the outside. Pichilemu is not much colder than San Antonio, but imagine never being able to feel fully warm and protected by the outside cold. San Antonio might actually be miserable in the winter without the car heater or the house and building heaters. My bones have a permanent cold gripping at their core, and it's impossible to defrost.

We ran into a woman Camila knows at the market, where all of the town congregates to buy their produce, used shoes, cheap jewelry, and gossip about the scandals rocking Pichilemu for the week. Camila's friend invited us over for “onces”, the snack that they have in place of dinner, that evening. She recognized me as the American English teacher, and informed me that her daughter was one of my students and was always talking about Tia Vanessa. I was apprehensive about the situation. I didn't want to lie if she was one of my dreadful students who came to school only to play and harass the other students and teachers, making the learning process near impossible. I don't like to lie, and I certainly didn't want to lie to this nice woman inviting us into her house, if her child was one of those born to cause me pain, but luckily my fibbing skills weren't necessary. Her daughter is in my last class on Friday afternoon at Divino Maestro, when the only English my students bother to listen for is “You may leave.” This class is horrid, and feeds on my energy like leeches sucking blood out of it's host. They sit looking out the window, holding their backpacks for the entire 45 minutes of class ready to bolt when the bell rings. Or in the case of last week, the children cornered me fifteen minutes before the bell, begging and pleading to be let out early. That's right, fifteen minutes early. Not two, not five minutes, but fifteen. I held the fort for 11, blocking the door, while they surrounded me like a pride of lions moving in for a slow kill. All twenty-five students encircled me, so close I could smell their hair, body oder and breath. Eleven minutes, I stood there blocking my students from leaving, yelling at them to sit down and finish their work, and repeating that they couldn't leave, but it all fell on deaf ears. They were done for the day, and sitting and behaving was out of question. I had already written down almost half of the classes names to be placed on the behavior needs improvement list, so I was out of threats. I gave in after eleven minutes. I wanted to leave as much as they did, and to breath fresh oxygen. My personal bubble needed tending. The poking and pulling and prodding had ripped gaping holes in not only my bubble, but also my good mood and positive energy. All of this is to say that Sylvia, the daughter of the woman who invited us over, is in this class and is the best and my favorite student.

We arrived at the house, on Chilean time and were welcomed by the entire family. Sylvia made my head swell with pride when the first words our of her mouth were, “Hello, how are you?” Many of my students say “hello”, but very few venture out to speak anymore English than that one word. For the first time, I realized that even though my classes were difficult teaching environments, some of the students are learning and want to learn. She was thrilled to have all three of the Americans (Bethany, the other volunteer came with us) in her house, and was very affectionate the entire night. Hugging me, petting my hair, and trying to converse with me, even when I was involved in another conversation. She was actually excited to have her teacher over for dinner. However, the reason I am telling you this long, bloated story, which is obviously not staying on the main road, is to bring us to the point of their very interesting house. It consisted of an extremely small living room, two bedrooms each containing two people; the two sisters in one room, and the parents in the other, and a bathroom. The house was tiny and quaint and lacking in a dining room and a kitchen. However, dinner wasn't in the house, but in an outside, dirt-floored, over sized tool shed. This very rugged, yet actually cozy room served as their kitchen and dining room. In the middle was a fire and to the left was a long wooden table which might have been made out of the same tree that built the kitchen. Four of us squeezed into a bench facing the family, as we ate our avocado, tomatoes, potatoes and tea over good conversation and wonderful company. Oh yeah, almost forgot. There was a tarantula in the bedroom.

The noon “bell” rings as I stare into the hillside of trees and run down shacks that pass for houses. The bell sounds at noon in every town in all of Chile and each time, it grips my heart with panic. The sound is less like a bell, actually not bell at all, but the noise one would hear as a warning for a bomb raid or a tornado alert. At noon, every day, the siren fills the town people's ears, not with lovely chimes or musical notes from an instrument, but with a terrifying noise, that I not only associate with a warning siren but also a horror movie I saw a while back called Silent Hill. The noise was made to alert the town of the darkness that would soon take over. The only shelter from the evil that oozed out of the walls, and the creatures that rose from the dead, was a church, which in the end proved to have more evil within it's walls that the outside darkness. These are the thoughts that run through my head when I hear our courtesy noon alarm.

After staring into the heart of the Chile countryside for an unmeasurable length of time, my eyes finally focus on a dog roaming around in the next yard. There are many dogs near and around us, but this particular one causes my nerves to boogie like they had Saturday night fever. The music floating through the night air, every evening, is that of the communication of dogs. Barking, howling and growling, come together to create a symphony to compete with Mozart, except without instruments, a Capella style. The particular dog I mentioned before, is the star of the symphony and has the voice of a dying demon being pulled into hell. Her voice fills the night air with such unbearable noise, that any creature with the ability to hear, scatters to the farthest reaches of the country. The dog probably doesn't even have fleas for the awful noises she makes. Honestly the first time I heard her bark, I thought the poor dog was fighting it's last fight and miserably loosing but after enduring her grating voice everyday, I have come to realize the truth. Her bark always sounds like a dying creature. No one bothers to tell the dogs to stop their music making. It's just an accepted part of living in the country. And did I mention that she, the demon dog, has had puppies, and has given the gift of her beautiful voice to her offspring. So now, not only to we hear the song of the Demon dog, we are also graced with the melody of the little minion perroitos.

Dogs live outside in South America. End of story. Dogs, if they have an owner, are not pets but accessories to the house or the yard. Because they live outside and in the countryside, they all of fleas, even our brand new puppies. Canela, our beautiful chocolate lab who was knocked up by an unknown boyfriend, had her puppies several weeks past. Twelve little black, confused and unhappy puppies were born in a dirt hole outside in the front yard. All twelve survived the first two weeks, but because of normal, but sad realities, we now only have ten. It is fortunate at least that we have a little doggie house for our puppies, and I am surprised and pleased we didn't loose more to the cold. The very day they were born fleas from the countryside found a new home on our precious little puppies. It's sad, but impossible to help.

And there are even more dogs still that roam the streets of Chile without an owner, unwanted and uncared for. Another dog that causes me pain, but rather in my heart than my ears is one that makes his home in the center of town along with the majority of the other strays. He no longer resembles a dog, but a zombie creature back from the dead to torment the living. His mange causes this skeleton like animal to have only patches of hair to protect him from the cold wind. I can't look at him without almost crying, and the other night, he followed us for an uncomfortable length of time on our walk home. It is normal to be followed by dogs wanting attention and food, but this non-dog, zombie creature gives us the willies. The majority of strays in town, don't cause problems. They lay around, wait for food, chase cars and practice making puppy dog eyes for weak-willed humans. The other day, we watched two dogs take post on either side of the street for a fun game of “try and attack the cars”. Every time a car drove by, which was not to their liking, they would run at it from either side, nipping at the tires and barking as if the car were their long-time adversary. The drivers of the cars seem un-phased by the commotion and continued to drive as normal, despite being surrounded by barking, stray dogs. I want to give these poor, attention-deprived dogs love and care that they long for, but I can't because of the possible diseases they might carry. These abandoned and sad creatures therefore are doomed to forever roam the street without human affection.

Looking out my window is like looking into a microcosm of Chile and my emotions about living in this foreign country. The breath-taking countryside consumes my heart with a sense of peace and tranquility. The rolling hills that stretch before my eyes are scattered with dilapidated houses poking out between the trees. The deceivingly calm ocean to my right reaches out towards the sky wanting to touch it's sister, but never quite making contact. Confusing to the human eye, the blends of the blues make it difficult to detect the dividing line, but we sense that they are separate. I can't help but smile at my conflicting emotions surrounding this country. I love the beauty of it's nature and of it's people, but there are permanent flaws in this picture that cry out for help. There are days that this country makes me joyful beyond belief and there are days when all I want is to be home, surrounded with things that are familiar. I am like the ocean reaching out to the sky for something. I am not sure what emotion I should feel or will feel if I touch my mysterious goal. My waters, depending on the wind on the particular day, are either turbulent with fear or calm and content. Chile is beautiful but with flaws. My window gives me a perfect view into the confusing Chilean soul, but helps me reflect on my own as well.

Kyle Posts 2 Blogs in One Day!?

The Situation So Far...

When we first arrived in Pichilemu, the town looked much bigger than what I had been expecting. Everyone that we had talked to about our teaching situations had made it sound like it was straight out of Little House on the Prairie. Pichilemu is actually not that bad, but for me, in the Rural schools, man where they right. The second day we were here, we spent the better part of it driving out to the 4 schools I was assigned to. Panul, Barrancas, Ciruelos and La Villa. The largest class consists of 18 students, the smallest one being Ciruelos at a whopping 8. The thought that kept running through my mind, as we drove from school to school was, “how the hell am I supposed to get out here.” As of now, I still don't know what they were thinking. Each of the little towns are about 18 kms from Pichilemu and about 5 km from each other. I don't have a car and there is one bus that sometimes goes to 3 of the schools. For Panul and Ciruelos, the professors come to pick me up in the morning and drop me off in the evening. It only took a little over a month for us to figure this system out. It's obviously very complicated >,<>

So as of now, my week is supposed to look something like this. Monday, relax, no school. Tuesday, the professor from Panul picks me up in the morning, I teach the first half of the students for a good 45 minutes before they start to loose interest. We eat lunch and I do the same thing with the other half of the students. At 5, Don Francisco takes me home. Wednesday, I get up at 6:30 so I can eat and get ready to leave the house by 7 so I can make it to the bus stop at 7:30. I then wait for 15 to 45 minutes for the bus to come. Of the past three times I have waited, it has come once. Thursday, Don Carlos from Ciruelos picks me up, I repeat the same process of 45 min teaching, 1hr 15 min of talking to myself, Lunch, repeat, home. Friday, I'm not really sure what I am supposed to be doing but so far it hasn't really mattered, in fact, I have yet to have had a solid week without interruptions. The first week after my new and improved schedule was organized, We had a slough of meetings to go to. The next week, we had to go to San Fernando to clear up the mess with our Identification cards. See Van's blog for the beef on that one. This week, more mess with Identity and now I have a cold! I just don't know when things are finally going to get into some kind of a routine around here. I am starting to think that routines just don't exist in Chile. Nothing seems to function the way it should.

I am becoming more and more tranquilo each day. I am starting to realize that while things don't run as they should around here, no one really expects them to. As long as no one is getting mad at us for the inefficiency of others, why should it bother us so much? In the end, they are the ones that suffer for it. I know that sounds a bit harsh but the truth is, we came here to help. If they don't want it, what will getting all worked up about it do to help the situation? Instead, I think we are all coming to the realization that we just have to take things day by day and hope that, at some point, we will actually teach some kids some English.

Kyle Posts 2 Blogs in One Day!?

The Situation So Far...

When we first arrived in Pichilemu, the town looked much bigger than what I had been expecting. Everyone that we had talked to about our teaching situations had made it sound like it was straight out of Little House on the Prairie. Pichilemu is actually not that bad, but for me, in the Rural schools, man where they right. The second day we were here, we spent the better part of it driving out to the 4 schools I was assigned to. Panul, Barrancas, Ciruelos and La Villa. The largest class consists of 18 students, the smallest one being Ciruelos at a whopping 8. The thought that kept running through my mind, as we drove from school to school was, “how the hell am I supposed to get out here.” As of now, I still don't know what they were thinking. Each of the little towns are about 18 kms from Pichilemu and about 5 km from each other. I don't have a car and there is one bus that sometimes goes to 3 of the schools. For Panul and Ciruelos, the professors come to pick me up in the morning and drop me off in the evening. It only took a little over a month for us to figure this system out. It's obviously very complicated >,<>

So as of now, my week is supposed to look something like this. Monday, relax, no school. Tuesday, the professor from Panul picks me up in the morning, I teach the first half of the students for a good 45 minutes before they start to loose interest. We eat lunch and I do the same thing with the other half of the students. At 5, Don Francisco takes me home. Wednesday, I get up at 6:30 so I can eat and get ready to leave the house by 7 so I can make it to the bus stop at 7:30. I then wait for 15 to 45 minutes for the bus to come. Of the past three times I have waited, it has come once. Thursday, Don Carlos from Ciruelos picks me up, I repeat the same process of 45 min teaching, 1hr 15 min of talking to myself, Lunch, repeat, home. Friday, I'm not really sure what I am supposed to be doing but so far it hasn't really mattered, in fact, I have yet to have had a solid week without interruptions. The first week after my new and improved schedule was organized, We had a slough of meetings to go to. The next week, we had to go to San Fernando to clear up the mess with our Identification cards. See Van's blog for the beef on that one. This week, more mess with Identity and now I have a cold! I just don't know when things are finally going to get into some kind of a routine around here. I am starting to think that routines just don't exist in Chile. Nothing seems to function the way it should.

I am becoming more and more tranquilo each day. I am starting to realize that while things don't run as they should around here, no one really expects them to. As long as no one is getting mad at us for the inefficiency of others, why should it bother us so much? In the end, they are the ones that suffer for it. I know that sounds a bit harsh but the truth is, we came here to help. If they don't want it, what will getting all worked up about it do to help the situation? Instead, I think we are all coming to the realization that we just have to take things day by day and hope that, at some point, we will actually teach some kids some English.