Language Frontiers

When you cross a country’s border, you are immediately aware of differences: accents, vocabulary, nationality, history, etc. I was excited to go to Buenos Aires, and differences in the language were a welcome change. Argentine Spanish is slower, clearer and simply put, sexier than pretty much any other Spanish dialect. Chilean Spanish has a reputation among travelers as being a challenge, dropping s’s and d’s like porcelain at a Greek wedding. Furthermore, Chilean Spanish is marked by a never-ending bouquet of off-colored double entendres that leave even native Spanish speakers scratching their heads. I can’t begin to estimate how many times I used an everyday word in the classroom, and someone in class would begin an avalanche of snickers, because the word I chose for ‘top’ or ‘a little,’ for example, happens to mean ‘penis’ in Chilean slang (coa). Of course, everyone knows the intended meaning, but the sexual meaning must be made clear. At times, it felt impossible to communicate, because the language itself was laden with distractions and the message often got lost amid the dirty jokes and double meanings.

Nevertheless, after two extended stays in Chile, many social expressions feel normal and they slip out of my mouth without much reflection. It’s impossible to use other expressions and terms without feeling like I am borrowing a script for Buenos Aires. For example to say something is ‘cool’ or ‘neat’ I have always used the Chilean qué bacán and qué choro. For the first three weeks in Buenos Aires, Argentines would look at me when I said this, with a faint smile and their brow slightly wrinkled, and then they would either continue in their conversation or politely say good-bye. At some point, Gisela, my ever-charming Spanish tutor, asked me what the $%*! I mean when I say qué bacán and qué choro (respectively, with poetic license in the first translation, ‘what a filthy rich bastard’ or ‘what a thief’ in Argentine slang or lunfardo). Would I please explain myself? Some form of bacán or bacano exists in many Latin American countries for ‘cool,’ but in Argentina the coolness factor has dropped a few notches. In Argentina I should be saying ‘how barbaric’ (qué bárbaro). At first, I couldn’t bring myself to call something ‘barbaric.’ Now that we have been here for nearly 2 months, it is starting to creep its way into my own mixed dialect, but I do feel a bit like a fake when using it. Nevertheless, progress is being made: I no longer pause in confusion when Argentines respond to my ‘thank you’ with no, por favor (no, please) or simply no and I even remember that this is considered a polite form to reciprocate thanks; I can set up a story for a friend by saying che, boludo (this can be translated as ‘hey friend, stupid’, but it’s friendly and means something like ‘hey, listen to this’), although it may incite a few smiles coming from someone who doesn’t have an Argentine accent and intonation; and most of the time, I can even stick to the Argentine vos (you, informal). Even though I’m sure these things will only be valid until I cross the next border, for now I’m content understanding and being understood here.

Como la gringa llegó a aprender la cueca

Banderas chilenas, choripán, chicha y por supuesto, la cueca—cuatro símbolos culturales de las Fiestas Patrias en Chile: el día, o más apropriado para los que no conocen bien Chile, la semana en la cual Chile celebra su independencia de España. Al llegar a Chile Tim y yo no sabíamos cuan importante eran las Fiestas Patrias para los chilenos, pero cada vez que preguntaban, ¿por cuánto tiempo se van a quedar? y respondíamos con, hasta mediados de septiembre, nos miraban con incredulidad, no pueden perderse las Fiestas Patrias. Así pues decidimos quedarnos para presenciarlas.

Al poder confirmar nuestra asistencia, los profesores de la escuela secundaria en la cual yo trabajaba empezaron a preguntarme si iba a bailar la cueca para las Fiestas Patrias. Tenía la premonición de que no era en vano por qué todos me preguntaban y tomé la decisión de aprender la cueca. Sabía que era el baile nacional, pero cuando esta pregunta empezó a sonar como un estrebillo, comprendí que formaba una parte fundamental de la identidad nacional.

Muchas personas me prometieron que me iban a enseñar, pero la fecha se acercaba y todavía nadie me la había enseñado. Al fin hablé con un buen amigo que enseñaba música en la escuela, diciéndole que necesitaba aprenderla para no sentirme avergonzada. Me llevó a un club de cueca en Valparaíso donde él tocaba en una peña folclórica y conocía a una profesora allá que enseñaba bailes folclóricos. El club era chico y estrecho con un piso de madera y con tallados de cobre colgados en las paredes, retratando las caras de Violeta Parra y Victor Jara, los folcloristas nacionales por excelencia. En este lugar se sentía la presencia del Valparaíso de la época, en la cual los cazadores de ballenas hacían caminatas por las calles adoquinadas y los poetas discutían en cafés oscuros y llenos de humo. Además de la coreografía y los zapateos, la profesora de la cueca nos enseñó las normas de la cultura huasa antigua y trataba de transmitir el orgullo de bailarla. Por ejemplo, la mujer cuya mano derecha da vueltas con un pañuelo, debe usar un pañuelo blanco, simbolizando la pureza y la virtud de la mujer. Si la mujer usa otro color, hay quienes dicen que no está bailando la cueca en la forma en la que corresponde.

Un mes antes de las Fiestas se decoraron las salas con banderitas de papel y empezaron a planificar las celebraciones. A veces estas preparaciones parecían más importantes que lo que nosotros, los profesores, teníamos que enseñar. Aunque no estuviera de acuerdo con que los alumnos salieran de sus asignaturas para practicar el desfile militar y para el acto de bailes folklóricos, cuando me llamaron para bailar la cueca enfrente del Liceo Politécnico A-28 para las Fiestas Patrias, ya sabía como zapatear.

Cachagua

The cueca accompanied us two weekends ago on our micro trip through small, colorful, beachfront towns along the Pacific coast. An empanada vendor selling seafood empanadas boarded the micro. The smell was so tempting that Eva and I indulged ourselves in the best empanada we have tried thus far, but unfortunately, the smell of crab and seafood didn’t complement Tim’s motion sickness well.

We were on our way to Cachagua, which shares the reputation with neighboring Zapallar of being a popular vacation spot for Chile’s rich. Both towns are approximately an hour and a half north of Viña del Mar. Cachagua boasts a bird reserve that is home to Humboldt penguins, among other species. The reserve is slightly off the mainland on the Isla de Cachagua, and because it is protected, the beach on the mainland is as close as it gets, but you can still see the birds quite well. We got off the bus on the main road and followed a dusty dirt road to a beautiful beach. Unfortunately, we did not have any binoculars, and we were only able to positively identify one Humboldt penguin: it had been swept ashore, dead. The penguin was quite small, measuring approximately a foot and a half in length.

Along the Cachagua shore, a well-kept stone path traces a rocky terrain, framed by immaculate houses with ornate gardens. We walked for 3 hours and enjoyed the 15-20 foot waves and solitude. Small foot bridges ease crossing more difficult terrain. Tsunami evacuation route signs serve as a constant reminder that Chile has suffered several large earthquakes in the past 150 years that have severely damaged Chile’s economy.

We made our way to the main road again and hailed the next passing bus by doing the Chilean bus hail (basically, it consists of pointing your pointer finger towards the middle of the road and motioning up and down a few times) . This bus took us to Zapallar, which also has an incredible cove beach. There we enjoyed a late seafood lunch at a restaurant 20 meters from the sea beach before making our way back to Viña del Mar.

Loca(l)motion

Every weekend we try to explore a new part of the region. Our trips often entail a combination of the local metro, which takes us either to Viña del Mar or Valparaíso. From there, there are lots of connections to bigger bus companies or micros, small Chilean busses that take you along local routes. Riding a micro in Chile is an adventure in and of itself. Once you enter the bus and find a seat (if you are lucky), the micro driver lurches ahead, horn blasting for every imaginable minor traffic offense. There seems to be a timetable that only the micro driver knows — there are certainly no bus schedules posted anywhere — and he yells with clenched fists and screams through open windows at the other drivers who may be infringing upon their potential bus riding clients. As they try to overtake one another to reach the next customer and/or destination, you, the passenger, are jolted from side to side while trying to keep your last meal down. Depending on the music preferences of the driver, you might enjoy an hour of Chilean cueca (I suppose the best way to describe this would be Chilean country/folk), reggetón (Latin hip hop – reggae fusion), or some other local favorite. A sign hanging behind the driver’s head informs you of your right to ask the driver to turn off the music.

The Beginning

Before we left the States, Tim and I didn’t really know what we were getting into or what to expect from our volunteer experience. The morning of our flight, we were still getting information from the English Opens Doors coordinator about what we were supposed to do once we arrived in Santiago. When we walked through the gate in the airport, a shuttle agency had our names (or some semblance thereof, but it was good enough for them), and we were whisked away to a hostel in Santiago. Someone from the Ministry of Education we had never heard of showed up at our hostel in Santiago a few mornings later, the hour unbeknownst to us, and put us on a bus to Villa Alemana, a sleepy suburb about 40 minutes away from Valparaíso. Our surroundings are arid and dry with avocado, lemon, orange, and other fruit trees accenting the roadside and the yards. Despite the cold winter I have been pleasantly surprised that these fruits are still growing and accompanying me on my way to school and back each morning.

Picture Above: Tim, Eva (our delightful Swedish accomplice, and I) at La Gatita in Concon

Our Family

When we first heard that our host family was made up of four children, the youngest being 4 months old, we weren’t sure what to expect. However, they are most definitely the highlight of our sojourn. We have our own room with a door to the patio, and share an occasional outing and all the meals with the family. They have truly made us feel welcome. Most Chileans are very proud of their national dishes. The mom, Lizzy, has been trying to make sure we try all sorts traditional Chilean food, even those foods that aren’t in season: humitas (ground up corn seasoned with either salt or sugar and contained within a corn husk), empanadas (a bread dough similar to a calzone that has typically been stuffed and cooked with a cheese or a meat filling), mote con huesillos (a juice made of a dried fruit similar to an apricot served with bulgur), bean soup with noodles, etc. Most of the food is good, but I miss spices and strong flavors. The traditional clay ovens some rural bakeries use to cook empanadas and bread are fascinating and it leaves the bread tasting absolutely scrumptious.

The Schools
I am teaching the equivalent of a high school/vocational school, and Tim in an elementary school/middle school. There are three types of schools in Chile: private, subsidized (government pays for part and parents pay for the other part), and public. We’re both in public schools, and mine has quite the reputation in the area. Most people in town describe it as the armpit of the region, but from what I’ve seen, I don’t think that is fair. While it is true that most of my students like urban culture, drugs, sex, and all the signs associated with them, many are good students, but simply don’t have the same family support as kids who go subsidized or private schools. I think I have better luck than many of the other teachers, because I’m still different and exotic for the moment. We have been here for four weeks, and we still have not been able to get a straight answer on what the objectives of most classes are, much less what the long-term objectives of the grade level. From what I have been told the Ministry of Education dictates the teaching material and objectives at the high-school level, but the books the teachers have to use are far beyond the students’ level. This is extremely frustrating, because it is easy to understand why the students have become apathetic to learning English: most can’t understand the most basic sentences in their text books and many of their activities are exercises in translation, not in language. I try to simplify activities as much as possible and make them fun, but I wish we could start from the beginning. It would make more sense to give many of these students a base in the language rather than pushing them through texts that are far beyond their level.

Suburban Distractions
So here we are in the Fifth Region of Chile on the threshold between city and country, and as is common in such suburban environments, there is not a lot for youth to do. As early as Santiago we began noticing neo-Nazi and Skinhead graffiti, but here in Villa Alemana I have been uncomfortably surprised with the presence of these urban groups in my classes. With lack of family infrastructure, many young students seem to look for ways to belong and create a family or identity that they associate with some sort of imagined power to the extreme. Despite their school uniforms you can clearly identify their group identity based on their hair cuts and piercings: Punks, Fascist Skinheads, Skinheads SHARK (anti-Fascist Skinheads), neo-Nazis, Emos (they listen to regetón here), Pokemon (admirers of anime and other forms of Japanese culture), Hardcore (I think it’s a movement, but Tim thinks it’s just a haircut), etc. Although I realize that many of these signs are empty and are simply a form of group identification, it has been difficult finding ways for me to effectively deal with kids coming to class with swastikas. I’ve been trying to talk to some of the kids that identify with these disturbing symbols in my classes, and many are well-meaning kids, but they either ignore or dismiss the historical significance. It doesn’t seem that many people in the community are too concerned with these forms of identification, and they tend to dismiss it as ignorance or stupidity: “The kids don’t know what it stands for.” While the kids certainly don’t know its history, they openly admit their attraction to the power, the violence and the patriotism they associate with the sign.