I step away from what I have known, into what they have.

Warning: long entry. But worth it.

What a full day. What a full week. Physically, emotionally, mentally. Every thing and every concept that exists here doesn't have time to stand still and get a look at itself, it doesn't have time to pause and reflect and what it is, and what that means, and where it's going. As soon as it pauses, it realizes that it is already being left behind by what it was pondering in the first place. It's nice to have a few hours every once and a while to look back and meditate on what has been going on in my life, and in all the new information I am attempting to internalize. Other times, there is nothing I would rather do than cram my days full, just as they have been!

This past weekend we took a little excursion to Valparaíso and Viña del Mar. (It occurred to us that this weekend was pretty much our Spring Break...) If Santiago claimed my heart, Valpo has a very strong grip on my soul. I have become disenchanted with Santiago as I have gotten to know more about it's dirty streets, city problems, and overall generic appearance. Valpo and Viña, on the other hand, are like no city you will ever find. They climb up the hillsides from the water, looking like the sand does when the tide is going out... thinning and transparent further away, but thicker and with more movement as you near the main body of water. There is no place where you do not have an incredible view of the bay, and of the multisplendored houses that stack themselves in front of your color-saturated eyes.

The reason for this trip was to visit some other schools, and our first visit was only two minutes after arriving in the city. We arrived at Escuela Americas with the impression that we were going to observe, but it became apparent soon after the teacher introduced us with the preface "These students are here to talk to you" that we were doing no such thing. Everything turned out fabulous, though, and I sat down and chatted with six girls and a couple of guys from the ages of thirteen to sixteen. Starting off with awkward questions about their classes and school structure, we had soon moved on to whether or not I had a pololo, and if my brothers looked like me, and what my bracelets mean, and whether or not I dance to reggaeton. So it turned into this great bonding experience with beautiful children, quick to laugh and joke and tell me I should come live with them (thanks Juan Pablo). It was very touching how much the girls wanted to talk and share with me, especially the way they stayed after their class to talk more. They all took pictures, of course, us being the first gringos to come to their school, and a few of the girls gave me bracelets off of their wrists and big kisses on both cheeks. The school was a lot better than the ones in Santiago, attitude discluded.

(This is a picture of the rural school... I didn't have my camera with me in the urban school, sadly.)

Saturday morning we went to visit a rural school, and it was here that my intellectual (instead of social) interest in the schools was piqued. The kids here were also incredibly cute and eager to share their experiences, but the school itself was what was so eye-opening and inspiring. Rural schools generally have no resources, and this school only had 33 students, but the way they approached their lessons is what I hope to see/create in other schools. They a garden (huerto) full of native Chilean plants and medicinal herbs, and each child was responsible for three of them: care and knowledge. Right there, teaching relevant information in a way that also encourages self-reliance, responsibility, and learning through experience, thinking! Their history lessons culminated in a living museum - which they performed for us - about life in a hacienda of old. Their classroom (two classrooms for six classes) was crammed full of projects and props for and by the kids, all with color and interactive elements. The school was open to the air, and the kids also took care of various fruit trees that became part of their lunches. Absolutely incredible. It's amazing how much better the rural school was, contrary to popular stereotypes. The attitude of the children, teachers, and parents lay on the complete opposite end of the spectrum! I mean, we visited on a Saturday, and even students who had already graduated this school were there. How do you create such enthusiasm?

(Here is a picture of the group after lunch.. Aren't we pretty?)

This is one of the questions that we brought away with us that day. We can recognize what it is in a school that is good, or that is bad, but can we recreate what is amazing in a place that seems to only contain the bad? You can bring more books, more teachers, new curtains, new curriculum into a school, but how do you bring a desire to learn? How can you change the way people look at education? Learning is life, and life is learning. It's not something you get out of a book. It's what we're doing. I don't have class at all, not until I start back at UNC this fall. No class! And I can say without a doubt that I am learning something every day. Probably more than I would be if I had class. Anyways, these two experiences put me in a grand mood, ready for the free weekend!

It felt different to be in Valpo. I think that there was more of an air of vacation about it, so we didn't feel bad about acting like tourists or partying hard. (Sorry Mom and Pop, I do do a bit of throwing down!) Friday afternoon we had wandered around, looked at some of the amazing murals and artwork around the city, watched the sun set from the patio of Pablo Neruda's house... and ended up eating dinner at a Mexican place called Margaritas. It was excellent! I split seafood fajitas (see? we got a bit of Valpo in there) with my good buddy Mason Philips! Pittsboro reunites in South America! It was great to see him. He is also having a great time here. A bit of Bravissimo, and we all hit the hay early to be ready for the school on Saturday.

Saturday afternoon we went to a very fancy restaurant with the group, arriving around 2 or 3 and staying until past 6. We ate the entire time. First hors dvoures (sp?), then a bit of ensalate with a pisco sour, then the fish with white wine, then papas fritas, then ice cream, then an after-dinner drink that they said was digestive... And all of it incredibly delicious! The fish was perfectly done, with a hint of brown sugar and lemon, and of course fresher than fresh! We also had a great view of the ocean and the waves pounding endlessly on the rocks... overall a very picturesque place. We spent a lot of time lounging on the rocks just outside, savoring being on the coast within reach of the spray.

After a bit of napping, we collected the necessary pisco and juice to stock up for the night. Our buddies Alejandro and Alvaro joined us (as well as the three military guys staying in the hostel with us) and early on we found ourselves heading off to El Huevo, one of the big dance clubs in Valpo. Early, by the way, by Chilean standards. It was about 1. Lots of dancing and joking and great conversation happened before we went, and once there, the party never stopped! The music was fabulous. Sometimes reggaeton, sometimes 80s US music (even Aqua!), sometimes salsa, sometimes good ole rap or rock... they kept us on our toes. I've never danced that much in my life! We were all soaked before an hour was up. Elizabeth finally accompanied us (the sweetheart of the group who had her wallet stolen and hence has not had any money, and who also is a bit wary of such situations) and damn, that girl can tear it up!! I'm so pumped that she got to come spend time with us, and then of course we all see this other, Shakira side of her... We all experience some sort of Chilean normality or other - I'll let you guess what - and leave the club around 6. Kind of early. Oh, and finished off the night with completos. Heaven. Heaven. I never thought I could love a hot dog so much. (Palta changes everything!)

A few of us tried to watch the sun rise since we were almost there already, but we kind of failed. The city kept getting lighter and lighter and lighter, but the sun never showed. Right when we decided that it was time to head back because it was taking too long, the sun breaks the ridge behind us. Guess you can't have everything... So I finally crawled into bed around 7:30. Now THAT is what I call a Chilean carrete!

The only bad part of the night was when one of the huevon military guys stabbed me in the eye with his cigarrette. It was an accident, but don't you think you would have the common sense not to put a glowing ember to your mouth when you're dancing a few inches from someone's face? So it looks pretty sweet, and I'll get a picture to you when Theresa emails it to me. I know you want to see. Everyone loves a bit of the disgusting. And I want to show you how freaking close I was to being blinded.

I also took some pictures of the Metro so you guys can see what it's like every time I try to board a train. Here is the one that best captured it. The doors have just opened, and those women are actually out past where the doors need to close... and I'm about to fit on that train! The general attitude about boarding is if you think you can't fit, push harder.

Today was also a very powerful day for me. It was dedicated to human rights, and so we visited Villa Grimaldi, a torture center of the Pinochet era, and the Cemetario General, where we saw the monument for all of the disappeared, Allende's tomb, and many others.

Villa Grimaldi was definitely the most shocking and humbling for me. 4500 people passed through its gates, of which roughly 240 have disappeared without a trace. The gates in the first picture are the gates in which people were brought in in trucks, cars, whatever, and placed in 1x1 meter cells with six other people and an air hole about the size of a quarter. When they were finally entered by people during the democracy, the locked the gates behind them and vowed that they would never be opened again (and they haven't). The flames symbolize the fire of purging and cleaning, relevant in two senses. The democracy attempted to exorcise all of the horrible vestiges of the place, but this was only after Pinochet's men had completely destroyed everything that had existed there. All of their information about the center come from testimonies, of which our guide was one. The stories about what went on there are atrocious, and hearing it from someone who was there made it that much more powerful. When we entered a room dedicated to some of the disappeared, our guide and both directors came in and started pointing to names, saying "She was my sister's friend" "He lived down the street from me when I was a kid" "He was my doctor until they took him" "Her body came back up onto shore full of railroad ties, and she was still alive. Oh, and she was Debra's host mom's good friend" Not just faces, not just names. Rosanna cried. If you were to fall down into Santiago right now not knowing anything, you might never figure out the horrible things in its past. No one talks about it. But everyone experienced it.

At Cemetario General, three ladies shared their stories of their husband's/fathers' disappearances, and of their own torture. The monument wall held just shy of 3000 names of people who were never found. The United Nations refused to acknowledge that these people even existed. Even now some people say that they never existed. Can you imagine being able not only to wipe out all evidence of what happened in a place, but also of all of the people that came through it?

Not only that, but there is amnesty for all of torturers. (Amnesty? They can't be condemned.) I'm not clear on what exactly allowed this to happen, but none of them have gone to trial. Rosanna says that three of her neighbors are known torturers, and just go about their pleasant little lives. Our guide said that ten years after he was released from the torture prison, one of his childhood friends approached him and told him that he (the friend) had been one of the main torturers for our guide. (Prisoners remained blindfolded most of the time.) Can you imagine? That guy is living his life. He's happy. And look what he did to people!

It was a very very sobering and yet broadening day. I found myself very inspired, and wrote several poems when I got home. I shall leave you with one. It's in Spanish, and for time and space's sake I won't translate it here. BUT if you want it translated, feel free to comment or email me and I'll send it to you. (If you happen to be fluent in Spanish, don't judge. I'm still learning, ya jerks.)

Soy la madera del Torre,
Pesada con las imágenes de mis testigos.
Una vez me pongo a las alturas claras
Dónde podía ver el campo rodeando,
Dónde descansaba en el sol de un mundo tranquilo y
Lleno de la paz de comunidad.
Una vez observó las hormigas numerosas
Quienes les preocuparon con las letras de la existencia,
Quienes trataban de mostrar el red que nos conecta.
Estoy pesada con la memoria.
Estoy pesada con el olvidado.
¿Cuántos pies han subiendo mis escalas?
¿Cuántos vidas han terminadas a dentro de mis paredes?
Quedé fuerte durante todos, pero
El agua que me quitaron llevó mi tristeza
De que no podía parar el sufrimiento.
Miedos y dudas me llenaron como aves sin ojos,
Buscando la luz que jamás verían,
Plumas sucias cayeron a mis pisos,
Enterando poco a poco los pajaritos de cantar,
Asfixiando la canción de esperanza.
Y quienes me salieron con su vida,
¿Pudieron recuperar su fuerza?
¿Pudieran superar el perdido de dignidad?
¿De identidad?
¿De todo de que pensaron que supieron sobre
El género humano?
Nunca van a olvidarlo.
Sus cuentos han sido dispersados
Como las flores en el invierno.
Me pregunto si jamás puedan reunir,
Si hayan huido tan lejos para ser capaz de
Brotar
De transformarse en una identidad unificada
Y nueva de entera,
Construida por los nombres nunca olvidados
Y las noches llenadas con miedo
Y esperanza.
En mi día traté de abrazar a los niños de los vendados,
Para apoyarlos en cualquier manera yo pude.
Pero nunca podía sacar su pena,
Nunca podía revolver lo que habían perdido.
Y ahora estoy las cenizas abajas de sus pies.
Al fin no podía quedar
Porque los cuchicheos secretos de compasión y el muerte,
Las lágrimas que fluían con la verdad
Y la sangre puesta negra
Habían convertido en mi identidad.
Me quemaron en entera para borrar los vestigios
Pero los árboles que crecerán en nuevo
Mostrarán este sufrimiento y supervivencia.
Los abedules florecerán en el suelo duro
Y siempre se esforzarán por coger
Las alturas claras y el sol de un mundo tranquilo.
Contarán los cuentos de los que se quedaron a dentro
A través de sus cuerpos cansados y flacos
Y sus murmullos continuos.
Pero nadie podrá matarlos,
Nacidos por los sueños y pasados de los desconocidos
Y la esperanza fuerte que nunca muere
Que creemos un mundo
Llena de la paz de comunidad.