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!!!”

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!

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.

Why Chile

Why Chile?
Our first evening in Chile, Saturday evening we sat around outside under the awning introducing ourselves, drinking pisco sours, the native drink to Chile, and attempted to discover the path that led everyone here to the same place at the same time. Everyone had different stories, but it seems every one's story was exactly the same, looking for something different, wanting to learn about a different culture, different people, and a new way of doing things, in a foreign part of the world. We were all looking for something, but something we couldn't find where we came from, so we went looking for it. Many people ask me, "why? Why Chile? " And normally I say because we wanted to learn Spanish, the program was on sale, and Chile is beautiful, but the true answer is more complicated than that. I will only answer this question for myself, although I am sure Kyle's is very similar to mine, we aren't truly the same person, so I will allow him to answer this question for himself. I love Texas, I love my friends, and my home and my family, but I crave something more, something that I can't explain. When I first took the job at High Country Marketing, I was excited because I felt like I was going to build a strong future for Kyle and I, but along side that excitement was a voice screaming at the top of it's lungs that it was too long term of a job and with it, I would never be able to just get up and leave the country if I wanted. I guess I should mention that since high school, I have had a strong desire to join the peace corps. The peace corps offers many things that I desired, an ability to speak another language, to live in another country for two years, and a life changing experience of service to others. After taking my job, I was afraid that I would never see that dream realized, a dream that I had carried close to my heart for a long time. I felt suffocated by reality and by ordinary and a dull existence. My spirit is one of giving and adventure, and neither were being fulfilled in Austin. I felt so alone, afraid and timid, something I am not accustomed to. My spirit was desperate for air, but there wasn't even promise of it in my future, and I could feel it shriveling inside. With High Country Marketing, I had one client and two more that had said yes, but hadn't signed the dotted line. When the dotted line remained empty, my phone calls avoided, and my one client unhappy with the progress, my first reaction was to feel unhappy and confused, but within a couple of days, I realized that this door that slammed in my face could actually be my out, my window, my silver lining. I called Kyle as soon as the storm clouds revealed their first gleams of sparkles. Although my enthusiasm overpowered kyle's tenfold, I heard excitement in his voice. The next couple of weeks I spent glued to the computer, researching all of the many possibilities. I applied for at least ten positions, including, Japan, South Korea, Argentina, and Chile. We chose Chile, not for the money, obviously, but because we felt that it was the best fit. So here we are, on this roller coaster we have chosen, not knowing where the next turn will take us, but excited just to be on the ride!