More Lessons from Chile

(With regard to the previous post...)

"Yes," you may have said to me in your head, "that is all fine and well, Caitlin. Your classes seem to have been quite successful and overall, you have had a fulfilling academic semester. Contrary to your belief, my dear, that was indeed rather interesting. But pray tell what have you learned outside the classroom? What sort of life experience have you been able to extract from this trip?"

Well, let me report such findings. But before I proceed, let me also tell you, I had originally planned on ending the previous post with these "lessons outside the classroom" but (and I think you will all agree) it was already long enough in the first place. I was not about to extend it.

I have wanted to tell you these stories for a while now. I have encountered so much in these past four months, and I think there are probably still lessons sinking in and lessons that will continue to sink in even once I'm back state-side. There is no way I can address, process and produce in a witty, entertaining and moving manner the absolutely immense amount of information that I have taken in this past semester, but I will attempt to share with you a few things that have caught my attention or have affected me so far, just a few more little tidbits of information that I can share with you about the Chilean lifestyle.

And so, to begin... I shall start with the lesson in Irony. Yes, I learned a little about our sometimes good friend, sometimes not, on the night of a soccer game, my first and, consequently, last soccer game here in Chile. Irony is a fickle one. For example, I often appreciate him when I am reading literature. He makes a story interesting, like when Juliet kills herself after finding that her beloved has committed suicide, but only because he had thought that she was dead. Dramatic and situational. Or when Alanis Morissette became the target of critique for her song, "Ironic" that actually included inaccurate examples of Irony. Now that's Ironic. But there are times when I wish that Irony had more personal hobbies that kept him indoors and less free time to go wandering about, finding unsuspecting individuals like myself, and playing teacher.

The lesson began while we were leaving the soccer stadium. We were headed for the metro stop along with all the other fans. I was walking with a friend of mine, when he casually asked me what I would do in the event that a kid came up and tried to mug me. I answered that, of course, I would try and stop the thief; I would chase them down. The intention of his question, however, was not whether I would defend my own honor or attempt to right a wrong, but rather, would I try and talk sense into the youngster. Would I try and explain that robbing people isn't a proper way to go about behaving oneself?

"Maybe," I thought.

If it were a really, really young kid and if had I been able to stop them before any mugging occurred, perhaps I would try to affect them - I'm sure they don't hear a lot of positive advice very often, seeing as their conscience doesn't stop them from stealing from others. And just at that moment, the moment we had each been in our own worlds of contemplation over the issue, I suddenly became surrounded by two or three men. Men or boys. “Males” is generic enough; we'll go with males. Suddenly I found myself surrounded by two or three males, I assume to confuse me. One of them tugged at my wallet that I had hidden in my pocket after roping it through one of my belt loops and then through itself. Finding the wallet attached to something seemed to catch this male a tad off-guard. And in his moment of slight confusion, I realized what was going on. With one swift jerk, he broke the clasp of my wallet, freeing it from its leash and I immediately grabbed the first thing nearest me. It was the wrist of a boy, probably no older than thirteen. They all scattered in opposite directions, including the boy who's wrist I had in my possession. And as I chased after him, I dropped the Colo Colo team flag that I had just bought not ten minutes before. And this had all happened so fast that my friend, meanwhile, hadn't realized that a robbery had just taken place. He saw my flag fall and assumed that that was the reason I was chasing after some kid. "Caitlin," he yelled, "I have your flag! Its right here!" Then realizing that a two-dollar flag could not be the reason that I was in attack-mode, he ran over to assist.

All previously possible options of talking sense into anyone were long gone as I recaptured my assailant and demanded that he tell me where my wallet was. In spurts of Spanish and English I accused and interrogated and even patted the boy down, until finally I decided, mostly by the scared-to-death look on his face, that he must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The thieves had gotten away, and I felt incredibly violated. They had taken something directly off of my person. And, ironically, in their quest for money from who they thought was a well-off white foreigner, what they found was about two mil (a little less than $4.00), my second-favorite chap-stick and my house keys. But the thing most important to me that they had found was a memory card from my then recently-deceased camera. Worthless to them, priceless to me. All my photos from La Serena were on that card. Our four day weekend with all the IFSA-Bulter students had been stolen from me, and would probably end up in the trash.

Now this was a little while ago, so I am no longer bitter or depressed by all this. I know I will never get those photos back, but I have photos that my friends took during the trip, so while they are not photos through my lens, or my perspective, they will serve to remind me of the adventures we had and of the stories that I can still tell.

And on that note, I have also learned a little about letting things go, about having a little patience with my language learning and about not giving myself such a hard time. This is a much more pleasant lesson that began one Wednesday on my walk home from Drawing class. I had my headphones in, as usual, when I looked up and saw an elderly woman walking down the sidewalk in my direction. I began to move out of her way so that she could pass on the inner sidewalk lane, being the polite young lady that I am, but as I did so, she made eye contact and stepped with me, keeping us on the same path. Thinking that it was a mistake, that she was just trying to be polite as well, I smiled and stepped aside again. And as she covered the few steps that remained between us, I could hear a shrill, very gleeful, incredibly fast and completely unintelligible voice talking to me through my headphones. From her hand movements and questioning inflection I could tell that she was asking some sort of directions, but had no idea what she was asking about. She repeated her jumble of words as I removed my earbuds, and I wondered to myself for a second whether she belonged in the nursing home nearby and had gotten out by mistake. I hated to think that it was my Spanish abilities that were failing this conversation.

Never breaking her child-like smile, she asked if I spoke English and then proceeded to inquire, in very broken English, about the same street I kept telling her I was unfamiliar with. Finally, I think she decided that I could not help her, and with a pat on my shoulder she said, "Congratulations," and was on her merry way, shuffling again back down the street.

The rest of my walk home was spent trying to understand the interaction that had just taken place. And as much as I could fault her rapid, nonsensical form of communication for the misunderstanding, I was feeling a little down about the epic fail that had been our encounter. I had had the opportunity to speak to a random Chilean and to practice a little Spanish, and it was over before I knew what had begun.

But the day went on, however, and I had Gramatica later that afternoon. It went well, I'm sure I turned in a paper, or a revision of a paper, and learned still a little more about the Spanish language. Yet on my way home, just as I was turning into my neighborhood, a man stopped me to ask directions. My first thought was "why on Earth can people on this street not find their way" (Avenida Eliecer Parada, both times). And my second was "Hey! I know what street he is asking about." We discussed his problem for another minute or two, and he thanked me before continuing on in his search.

I felt so much more at peace walking away then, than I had that morning, leaving my first conversation. Not only had I carried on decently and at a respectable pace, but I had assisted him in his quest for an illusive street. I practically floated the rest of the way home, and since this was back around April or May, I sat outside as the sun set, reading a little more of The Sun Also Rises on the back porch before coming inside for Once (tea time). Learning another language is difficult, but what makes it so rewarding is when you realize that all the obstacles and frustrations are really just the necessary processes of acquiring the knowledge of something, first-hand. It doesn't make them less frustrating, but it helps to make them worth the pain, worth the effort.

And speaking of obstacles, something else that has been forcibly thrust into view is my new perspective on the role of certain "Necessities." I'm not talking about the real necessities in life: clothes, food, shelter, love, or loved ones... I am referring to the conveniences that are not available to me that were in the states or those that have been less convenient here in Chile. To begin with the shower: hot water, adjustable hot water, constant temperature and water pressure - for a good amount of time they were all reduced to mere memories of showering back in the states. My own car. A microwave (only up until a few weeks ago did we not have one). Central heating and air-conditioning. My own car. The concept of parking side-by-side in a driveway. A clothes dryer. My own car.

Some of these "necessities" have been missed just a tad more than others, as you can see, but their absences have all contributed to distinguishing my semester here from my normal life in Georgetown. The shower has been a constant foe from the very first week. Most frequently it would not provide me with hot water. Then, when it did, it would only provide me scalding hot, burning water for about four minutes until it turned cold again. And the water pressure was a joke. My host mom told me that I should set the water temperature using the tub spout before turning the water on up at the showerhead. That seemed to work, until I switched it to the showerhead, when the same problems would arise. I was so desperate for constant, warm water that I ended up taking showers from the lower faucet (that did provide the constant warm agua) more often than attempting to battle with the upper spout. This is embarrassing and I really can't believe I am telling you this, but it serves a purpose. Next time you hop into your shower, be thankful that it delivers on its promises and does its part in your bathing process, because I know that I will. Eventually my host mother took the thing apart and had a good look inside. Apparently there was some soft type of washer that had become so old that it was almost disintegrating. I have no idea how one silly washer was causing me so much exasperation, but the shower only acts up every once in a while now, and all I have to do is turn the water off and restart. After close to three months of my patience being tested, I could finally bathe myself without wanting to scream.

The microwave situation didn't cause me quite the same amount of stress, but I did come to realize how convenient it is when you are hungry. Everything we eat here must be made on the stove. It takes a little longer and requires a bit more attention, but that has just been part of the lesson in slowing myself down. I would have an ulcer by now if I took time as seriously as I did back at Southwestern. There are so many things here that (I am convinced) exist only to remind you how time is not under your control. It always seems that the more I try to rush something, the more resistance I will encounter. Sometimes things take time, and there is nothing you can do about it. And you have to eat, so you might as well enjoy it, or at the very least, accept it.

Central air-conditioning has not been a big deal for me since I am studying here for their fall semester. However, the lack of central heating has not gone unnoticed, not by an inch. The nights can get so cold here that I am able to see my breath while lying in bed. I wear pants, socks, house shoes and a jacket of some sort at all times. There was even a short period when I was wearing my ski pants around the house because it was the warmest thing I had.

Apparently the issue of "heat" in general has been a popular topic here so far, so we'll keep it up. I could write a love letter to my dryer back home about how much I have missed it here in Chile. During the first month or so, washing clothes was only a slightly more laborious task than I was used to: hanging my clothes outside on the line. But when the weather chilled, all former contentment turned into frozen hands and visions of magical, swirling appliances that would deliver to me warm, toasty, dry clothing at the end of a fifty minute cycle. Cold, possibly-dry-but-too-cold-to-really-tell clothing is one of my least favorite things, I have decided.

Something taken note of, but not directly affecting me, while living with Maggie and Arturo (and Cynthia, Gonzalo, Martina and Francisco in the other half of the house as well as the two or three [I don't know how many they are seeing as I never really see them] neighbors renting my host parent's guest house, if you want to be particular) has been the curious problem of getting cars out of a three-car, vertical driveway (not up and down, obviously, just not side-by-side). One is lucky if their car is the last parked because all one must do is unlock and open the gate, drive out, re-lock the gate, return to said car and be on one's way. If you are the second car parked, the process includes moving two cars out and replacing one. But if your car is the first one parked in the driveway, somewhat of a "musical chairs" gets to be played before you can be on your way to where ever it is that you are blessed enough to have a car in which to take yourself to. I'm sure more people around the world must deal with this sort of annoyance, but I am not one of them, and it pains me to think that if I had access to a car I would be included in this category.

Most influential though has been the absence of a personal mode of transportation. As I have stated before, it takes me about fifteen minutes to walk to my nearest metro station and usually another thirty to forty-five to get to my desired destination. When out about in the city I must either always be aware of the nearest metro, attempt to navigate the bus system back to my neighborhood or hail a taxi. Option two has been the least attempted as well as the most often screwed up.

And I do not look forward to having my own car again just for the ease and convenience of avoiding public transportation. The thing I most appreciate about having a car is that, to me, a car has symbolized the one place of complete freedom. I can go where ever a road leads, I can discover new places, listen to whatever I want and sing as loud as I possibly can without disturbing or being bothered by anyone else. Yes, driving is one of the things I am most looking forward to when I get back, two weeks from today.

I live a hard life, I know. For the most part, these differences (in theory; I didn't specifically anticipate all of them) were to be expected, and I am not complaining about any of it. Well, maybe the showering section... But all these things, from the mugging, to the direction-giving, to the living situation and the amenities that come with it, or don't, have helped to create my environment here and good or bad, they have been the pushing and pulling, the kneading and tugging necessary to form a very unique experience for me these past four and a half months.

And as I promised a little while back, the only count down (that I am allowing myself) I have been counting down for is approaching. KIMBERLY AND JADE ARE ARRIVING IN SANTIAGO MONDAY MORNING!!!

Wish us luck, and I will let you know how everything is going at some point within the next two weeks.

So You Want to Hear about My STUDY Abroad, Do You?

Well, well, well... it has recently come to my attention that more than one of you express concern for the under-representation of my scholastic endeavors within my blog. To be fair, I hear a lot that you enjoy reading my blog, hearing my stories and laughing at my jokes. And I appreciate that; I exert mucho time and effort in producing said journal entries, sharing with you just a little about my life in a foreign country and retelling some experiences from my own point of view. I try to be honest; I try to be open; and I try to keep it interesting. But apparently, nothing comes without critique.

"Caitlin sure is having a GOOD TIME there in Chile."

"We love reading her stories about her study abroad, but tell me...she IS taking CLASSES, right?"


It isn't that I am not engaged in learning or that I don't value the education I am receiving this semester; it just didn't occur to me to write about my classes. There isn't much adventure, irony or surprise sitting in a classroom, researching a presentation or translating a poem. I guess since I've been in classes at Southwestern for three years now, and have lived semester-to-semester for the past fifteen/sixteen, I didn't see the interest value in a post about my academic life. I have lived it for so long, that it doesn't strike me as intriguing or novel. It is a fair request, however. This is a STUDY abroad. And there are only so many consecutive camping stories that one can read. (That's false. We have AWESOME camping experiences. Be out of your mind not to want to hear about them...) And I have to keep in mind that as an audience, you would naturally want to hear a little about all the aspects surrounding a given subject or circumstance. So without further ado, proof of the elusive, much hypothesized about, often requested and indeed existent, life of a student that I lead here in Santiago.

To follow the always applicable advice of Lewis Carroll, "Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop," I shall embark upon this assignment with a description of, as well as a few stories and photos from, the class that starts my week.


Dibujo I:

I wanted to take some sort of art-related or otherwise interactive class this semester, and as it turns out, Universidad de Chile, Universidad Catolica and Universidad de Diego Portales (these are the three schools we can take classes from in addition to the courses that IFSA-Butler offers) have a wide spectrum of options, from drawing, painting, and photography to watercoloring, sculpture and screen printing. It was a big decision to make, which class I would choose - a decision helped out a lot from the fact that whatever subject I chose couldn't interfere with my already chosen IFSA time slots and helped out a little from the other fact that any class that began before 10 in the morning was out of the question. I'm not that lazy, its just that I have to factor in commute time during the end of morning rush-hour, which is roughly an hour to any campus in the city. Back at Southwestern the farthest class from my on-campus apartment was a ten-minute walk, max. So as you can see, Drawing I fit nicely into my preferred schedule: Mondays and Wednesdays from 10:00 to 1:00.

I have never taken a drawing class in my life. I satisfied all my "fine arts credits" in high school with concert band and in college with guitar lessons. But I've always wanted to learn some of the basics, to try it out at least once. And yet with all my eagerness, I don't think the professor was very keen on having me in the class for the first few weeks... My Spanish was at its worst, and while I pride myself on being able to pick things up quickly, I never seemed to get the first assignments quite right. Drawing just wasn't my area of expertise, so my artistically uneducated interpretations from the parts of the instructions that I thought I understood were often, if not always, met with some confusion from the professor or his teaching assistant. I would have the right idea, but wouldn't execute properly. Por ejemplo: One of the first assignments was an exercise in frequency and intensity to practice drawing lines closely together and far apart as well as using light strokes or pressing down harder to achieve more depth and dimension in the drawing. Sounds complicated doesn't it? Try translating it from Spanish first. I brought the homework to class, happy to turn in my work, when the assistant stared at it for a second, and then at me for a few more. Apparently I hadn't understood that I was supposed to cover the entire sheet with these exercises. I had only covered about 1/3 of the paper, and it had taken me hours. And I got these confused looks with a handful of different assignments, especially the more abstract ones. When we began drawing 2 point perspective cubes, I took it upon myself to up the ante and get ahead of the game, and began drawing 3 point perspective thinking that I would be praised for my forward thinking. But as it turns out, the class was based in 2 point and my attempt to show off had resulted in the assistant thinking that I really had no idea what perspective was at all. Not hard to imagine that I wasn't exactly at the top of the professor's favorites list. And don't try and tell me that it was only in my head, because for a while there I had told myself that, too. Then I began to realize that the professor never came around to my easel during class time. He would walk around the entire room, the entire room, and skip right over me. I would watch him do it. Couldn't blame him much though; "Silly non-artistic gringa that only understands a portion of the words I am telling her." No doubt he was just waiting for me to change my mind about the class all-together. There was one day, after our journey to Patagonia (where we spoke mostly English for about 6 days), that I stayed after class to ask him a question. But I could not understand his answer. Finally, he just told me that the assistant would email me about the issue. I was so embarrassed and was mentally willing back my tears. I'm telling you this whole situation was really stressful. But there is a happier ending...

For the time period of our first two "exams," where we turn in the best of each exercise we have been working on, this relationship did not change. Then, one day when I was drawing a set of pliers and listening to my iPod, he came over and tapped me on the shoulder.

"Tienes una pregunta?" Except in the Chilean accent it sounded more like "TieneOonuhPreoonta?"

"Uhm, yeah. Where the hell did this come from. I had headphones on. You could have legitimately passed me this time," I happily thought to myself before posing a question about the proper perspective in which I had drawn my pliers.

I think that once we started drawing real objects rather than squares and cubes and ellipses, I stood a much better chance of successfully completing the assignments, and it was only a matter of time until I got used to Chilean Spanish and became a little more comfortable with conversation. Right now he sets random things in the center of the room (boxes, buckets, pieces of wood nailed together at 90 degree angles), and we have ten minutes to draw them before he turns them around and changes our perspectives or replaces the object completely. We are finally utilizing all the exercises we started the semester with, and it is a lot more challenging now. Overall it has been a very interesting experience, Chile-wise and art-wise. I've met some really nice Chileans in my class who teach me slang and correct me when I've misunderstood something. The professor knows me by name, and I understand one of the most basic rules to drawing, which is to start from a cube shape with a 3-D, 2 point perspective and whittle away from there. It was frustrating at first, but I feel like I've really settled in at this point, and I look forward to each class to see what we will be drawing next.

Follow this link to see some of my drawings and a quick example of 2 point vs. 3 point perspective:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2026198&id=38601976&l=b2dc18155e

Gramática:

Mondays and Wednesdays from 4:00 to 5:30. Wow, this has been long-winded so far. I'm only on the second class... I am going to try and speed it up a little here because I still have a lot to talk about.

Not much to say here, this is one of my IFSA courses so we only have about seven students, and we all know each other. I really like our professor - she is so sweet, super helpful, sufficiently firm but understanding, always accessible, and it is obvious that she is really passionate about what she does. Paula explains things so well and I ALWAYS learn something new. Her class has probably been the most important and the most beneficial to me here in Chile. We typically turn in a paper a week for her, unless she has a different assignment planned. Our papers have been over discrimination, the Chilean economy, political division in the country, los Mapuches, tourism and nature, the Golpe de Estado on September 11 1973 where Allende was overthrown and either murdered or committed suicide with a rifle given to him by Fidel Castro (depending on your political affiliation), and all the articles we have to read for them come from one binder. We had to prepare for a debate over a proposal for maximum income one week, and last week we all made presentations about something "culturally significant" to Chile. Other students did Chilean wine, pancito (the staple of the Chilean diet) and the stray dogs that roam the city streets. I chose to do mine over Pisco, the liquor made from grapes. I explained the process of fermentation and distillation, and I gave information behind the famous feud between Peru and Chile over the right to nationally claim and produce Pisco. And the entire class is in spanish; all four of them are, actually.

I don't know what else to say about this class; its a grammar class so I learn a lot, but its not terribly exciting.


Historia:

My other IFSA class meets from 10:00-11:30 every Tuesday and Thursday. Carmen Gloria is our professor, and again we only have about six or seven students. She has this ridiculously long slideshow that we use almost every day. I think its over 200 slides, so we get a little further on it each class. Carmen Gloria knows everything about everything. Our classes are very comprehensive, and even though it is a Chilean history course, we talk a lot about other countries' influences. We only have three papers the entire semester, and we get to choose what topics we want to write about. For my first essay I discussed the War of the Pacific, how it affected Chile and her economy as well as how the country would be different if she had lost the war and if there had been no war at all. My second was over ISI (import substitution industrialization) and what led to its sucess and eventual failure. I don't know why I keep writing about economics, but I've done well on the essays so I'm not really going to question how I get good grades writing on the one subject I ever fell asleep in during high school. The third essay I will probably want to write about Allende and Pinochet since we've finally gotten to Chile's most recent history.

Again, I don't really know what I can add here...I think I might have worn myself out on that Drawing class.



Poesia:

Following Historia, Poesia begins at 12:00 and ends at 1:30 every Tuesday and Thursday. Although I am taking this course through Universidad de Chile, there are no Chileans enrolled in it. It is strictly a gringo class. However, since it is not through my program I have been able to meet students from other programs who are also in Chile for the semester. There is one other girl from my program in it with me, which was crucial my first day of class because after history I realized that I had no idea where this class was located. Not well thought out on my part, but as it turned out Megana mentioned that she was leaving the IFSA office for poetry. We discovered that it was the same class, and she said that she knew how to get there. So we walked to the metro, I followed her when she exited to street level, and she led me successfully to the correct campus. I have a tendency to not know where I am going a lot of the time, especially with the bus system. Metro is easier, but I never use the buses unless I am in a group. As long as someone else knows where we are going I just tag along. And as I type this, I get the feeling that I might be living a modern version of a nursery rhyme.

Megana had a little lamb,
Whose fleece was white as snow.
And everywhere that Megana went
The lamb was sure to go.


It followed her to school one day,
Which was against the rules.
It made the children laugh and play,
To see a lamb at school.

Ok, obviously it isn't perfect. I could have modernized more of it but I didn't know how to update the laughing children section while keeping with the lamb idea.

But back to class. It is over the works of Pablo Neruda and Gabriella Mstral, the two famous Chilean poets. We spent the first 3/4 of the class talking about Neruda, and if you ever met our professor, you would know why. I'm pretty positive that she isn't married, and I'm pretty positive that its because she subconsciously holds any man to the worship-worthy standards of Pablo. She is probably in her 50's and there are days when all we do is go around the room reading his poems while she interprets them and highlights important stanzas. To her, every poem is passionate, strong, intense... I don't know what she would have done with herself had Neruda never gotten into poetry.

Every Thursday we are supposed to bring in an original poem to read at the end of class. We have some pretty good poets in the class, but most people end up writing about Santiago. My first few were decent enough poems, but then one Thursday I wasn't really feeling the prose-poetry I had been writing and decided to spice things up a bit. I went with some haikus. Needless to say, she wasn't familiar with the Japanese form of writing, and the inherent humor of fitting complete thoughts into a 5-7-5 syllable format seemed to be lost on her. Here I have, roughly, translated them for you.

"Las Torres" The Towers (of Torres del Paine Nacional Park)

Camino largo,
Que cansada, me duele,
Valió la pena.

Long trail,
So worn out, it hurts me,
It was worth the pain.

"Comida del Camping" Camping food

Palta, pancito,
Pesado para traer,
Mmm, tengo hambre.

Avocado, bread,
So heavy to carry,
Mmm, I'm hungry.

So haikus were officially off my list of options, but after reading some of Neruda's Odes, like Ode to the Cat or Ode to the Sea, I decided that an ode was most likely a very acceptable form of poetry. But before you read it, I should explain that when one rides the metro in Santiago, one hears every stop announced over the loud speakers. And at stations where you can connect to another line, you would hear something like this, "Tobalaba Station: place of connection with line four," but obviously in Spanish. And on this particular Thursday, someone had read a poem about the Metro System, ending their work with such a line. So when it came my turn to read, I was slightly inspired to change the format up a little, and add it to the end of my own poem, since I was on such a silly roll anyhow...

"Oda a Nescafé"

Me encanta hacer Nescafé,
Me encanta encender la cocina con el fósforo.
Me gusta poner el café y el azúcar
En la taza amarilla,
Dos cucharas y tres cucharas respectivamente.

Me gusta verter el agua caliente de la caldera,
Y me encanta el sonido del agua
Cuando llena la taza.
Me hace sonreír verter la leche de la caja.

Y me gusta revolverlos todos juntos
Y sentir que el azúcar se disuelve
Cada vez con la vuelta la cuchara.

Tal vez hago dos tazas,
Solo para tener la oportunidad de hacerlo de nuevo,
Pero no puedo siempre terminarlo.

Cada vez
queda un poco diferente el café,
Más azúcar, menos leche…
Pero siempre está delicioso.
Es rico, es Nescafé.

Estación Nescafé: lugar de combinación con delicioso.


I love to make Nescafé,
I love lighting the stove with the match,
I like putting the (instant) coffee and sugar
In the yellow mug,
Two spoons and three spoons, respectively.

I like pouring the hot water from the kettle.
And I love the sound the water makes
As it fills the mug.
It makes me smile to pour in the milk from the box.

And I like mixing it all together,
And feeling the sugar dissolve
With each turn of my spoon.

Sometimes I make two cups,
Just to have to opportunity to do it all over again.
Even if I can’t always finish it.

Each time, my coffee is a little different,
More sugar, less milk,
But it is always delicious.
It is rich. It is Nescafe.

Nescafe Station: Place of connection with Delicious.

And that is my week. I have only two to three weeks left before this semester is over, and then two weeks later Jade and Kimberly are going to arrive. Between that I will try to get some skiing in and maybe one more trip, but I'll have to see how the funds are holding up by then. Sorry it took so long to get this post up, but as you can see, it was not a short one. I appreciate your patience, and even more, your attention. And as you can now see, I do requests, so if there is some other subject you think I am leaving out, let me know.

Paz y amor.

-Caitlin.

Cajon del Maipo

Teeny, tiny disclaimer. I really don't know where my head was when I started writing this...so bear with me on the introduction: all I'm trying to convey is that the wild horses we saw were very tame and that the thermal baths were disappointingly far from warm. Ok, that's all. You may continue.

To my younger, more naive self the phrase "Wild horses couldn't drag me away" or "Wild horses couldn't stop me" would have called to mind scenes of valiant heroes in the climax of a movie plot, a moment of true love professed between soul-mates or possibly that one Nancy Drew mystery about a wild stallion (#86 The Mystery of Misty Canyon, for you overgrown "Carolyn Keene" fans out there). But after this past (and now past, past) weekend, my perspective has changed. Whoever came up with the idea that wild horses are something that would drag a hero away in his or her hour of triumph or stop two lovers from realizing their relationship potential has obviously never visited Cajon del Maipo (Maipo Canyon) in Chile. They would never have created those silly, silly cliches after seeing the Maipo horses, horses that wouldn't bother you even if you pleaded with them. Even if you threw carrots at them and pet them and complimented their manes. No. Maipo horses are only concerned with themselves, no concern for anyone else.

But had our hypothetical, cliche-making friend visited the canyons at the outskirts of Santiago, amongst the cordillera that contains the border between Chile and Argentina, perhaps he or she would have supplied us with catch phrases about the "thermal baths," specifically the Baños Morales. They might have come up with witty one-liners, to be scattered sarcastically amidst conversations where the topic at hand had failed miserably to attain certain expectations, such as the Morales springs did with the concept of heat. Por ejemplo...

Cindy: "Say, Suzie, how did your date with Bobby Joe go the other night? Did he take you somewhere really swell?"

Suzie: "Oh that Baño Termal? Cindy, he developed an allergic reaction to his own sweater in the middle of our dinner and in all the confusion, I ended up paying for our unfinished meal since Bobby Joe was lapsing in and out of consciousness."

As you can see, the ladies had higher hopes for our poor sweater-troubled lad, and since it is well known that the Baños Morales are not really thermal at all, Suzie was able to communicate to Cindy her reaction to the evening, as well as her corresponding feelings (or lack of) for dear Bobby Joe.

As you can also see, my introduction to our weekend in Cajon del Maipo is not very flattering to the Cajon. So I will quit being a Negative Nancy (wow, two Nancy's in one blog...three if you count that one) and get to the stories and photos...

So I decided the night before that I was going to join Megana, Maximo and Kate Friday morning to meet up with Lee, Diego, Claire, Eleanor and Emilie at Cajon del Maipo, which is a very nature-y area southeast of Santiago about two hours and very close to the Chile-Argentina border. I woke up to my alarm around 8:00 very upset because I couldn't remember why I was waking up so early on a day I didn't have classes. Then I remembered. Then I set my alarm for five more minutes of sleep. After the next alarm, I called Megana to get the details on where we were meeting (at 9:00) and again set my alarm for five more minutes of sleep. I finally got up, showered and packed, and at 9:05 I was out the door. I hailed a cab and it took me as close to our meeting place as 1100 pesos would get me and I walked the rest of the way (only a few blocks). My three amigos as well as our bus driver were waiting for me, and soon we were on the road. I would tell you how we obtained a personal bus driver for the weekend, but I don't remember the chain of relations...someone in our group had a house-sitter because her host-mom was out of town, and the house-sitter's dad was a bus driver and offered to chauffeur us around for a small fee. Oh, look at that. I did remember. We picked up the other half of our outfit, because they had camped somewhere the night before, and made our way to the cordillera. There were valleys, hills, mountains, rivers, streams, small vineyards...just beautiful. Our bus driver also just happened to have a house near the same thermal baths we were planning on visiting, and he told us that we could camp in his yard and use his kitchen and bathroom if we so pleased. (How lucky are we?) Upon arrival our group split up, and while some people made lunches for our hike in the mountains, the others and I set up the eight person tent.

Tent, porch swing, my friend Maximo drinking water like a cowboy.
Gold leaves falling from the trees. One of my favorite things, in case Julie Andrews asks...

Once we got to the entrance of the trail, however, the park rangers told us that we would not have enough time to hike to the glacier and back before the park closed. A tad disappointed, we decided to take the one road through town in the opposite direction. So we had a mini-walk of our own and took photos of the mountains before heading to the thermal baths. As I have alluded to already, they were tepid, at best. First of all, we had to pay an entrance fee. Secondly, the water was full of minerals (poisons...) that turned the water a sulfur color. And finally, the only part of them that was thermal was the very bottom. If you stood in one place and dug your feet into the dirt and rocks at the bottom, at least the soles of your feet would be warm. Megana was the only smart one who didn't get in. After climbing out (approximately 10 minutes later) I felt all my muscles go stiff and it hurt to stretch them. And after I got movement and feeling back, I realized that my skin was tingling. Then stinging. Overall, not a very good first impression of a hot spring for me.

Queen of the Rock.

Back at camp we heated water for some peppermint tea we had found. Lee, Emilie, Diego and Maximo wanted to climb the hill/mountainside nearest us, so while they ran all the rest of their energy out, the rest of the ladies and myself sat around, drinking tea, having "soccer mom" time. Before we knew it the sun had set and since the mountains were so close, the sunlight was blocked sufficiently and darkness came on sooner than expected. Por eso, we began to build the campfire. We started out with the Tepee style, and after that failed us (or we failed it) we moved on to the log-cabin version. After realizing that some of the dry brush we had found was indeed not dry, and after picking out said not-dry brush, we had some flames going. By the time our worn-out children came back, it was dark and the fire was roaring. The rest of the night was spend cooking sausages for choripan and singing all the songs we could think of. Disney songs, camp songs, rugby songs, country, rock, rounds... you name it, we probably sang it.

The next morning we woke up and attempted the hike again after breakfast. No one had brought sunblock and I was worried that so many hours in the sun was going to leave devastatingly red and probably painful results on my fair skin, so I fashioned a turban from my sweater and pulled forward the part on my forehead so as to create a sort of bill. Successful. No sunburn.

Enter: horses. We came up one of the very inclined paths to a relatively flat plain where horses were grazing. Lee had brought carrots, so we crossed through the tall grass to where the horses were standing. I think maybe one of the carrots got eaten. All other attempts were in vain. It was very frustrating. So we returned to the trail and made it all the way to the lake, where we stopped and had lunch. The same group that had climbed the mountainside the night before decided to continue on the trail toward the glacier, while the "soccer moms" turned back because it was getting cold. In retrospect I kind of wish that I had gone on, but I thought that the glacier was farther away than it actually was, and I wasn't appropriately dressed to be out in the cold, in the dark. When we arrived at camp, we turned around and the sun setting behind the mountains was casting a very red glow on the opposite mountain faces. A perfect way to end the day.

Our chauffeur was already back to take us home when we walked in the house, and once everyone made it back, we packed up and started for the city again. I had jumped in on the trip without really knowing what to expect, and it wouldn't be unfair to say that I really had no expectations. I only anticipated hot springs, and other than that I was prepared to be surprised, expecting the unexpected. I liked that I didn't have to plan anything, and I liked taking everything day by day, hour by hour sometimes. It was good to spend some time with more of the group, as well. We have about seventeen people in our program, and I don't always get to see everyone since we don't all have classes together. I also really appreciate the fact that no matter what combination of individuals we consist of, we always have a good time, and everyone gets along so well. I hope I am not jinxing anything... (I don't think I am, but I'll knock on wood anyhow). And I was surprised at how accessible the area was. It was only about two hours outside the city; I couldn't believe this was my first time camping so close to Santiago. Not to mention the fact that Argentina was just on the other side of the mountains... Over all it was an easy weekend with some really great surprises. And I can thank my friend Claire for letting me borrow her camera the whole time.

P.S. my new camera should be in this week! I. Am. So. Excited.

Halves and Parts

The second half of my day is always more pleasing to me than the first half. Most importantly, it is when I have my walk home from the metro. Since I have to be nowhere fast, I can take my sweet, sweet Chilean time. Its usually cooler (which actually might be a negative thing very soon; winter is approaching here, and besides the cold, winter also equals lots of rain), and I don't have to take the shortest, most time-efficient route to my house like I often do to the metro when I'm running late for classes. And there are multiple paths I can choose from, or I can turn down any new street if I please and, using my shrewd navigational skills as well as my migratory bird-like sense of direction, meander my way through the intricate entanglement that is the street layout of Santiago. I'm being pretentious. My neighborhood is actually very grid-like and I would have to be a complete idiot now to get lost in the area I have been living in since the beginning of March. Moving on...

I also really enjoy this time of day because, like my imagined gallivanting through las calles of Nunoa, my train of thought doesn't have its usual laundry list of things to run through, my tasks are complete and whether I had success or failure ("failure") that morning, by late afternoon it is done, and I can reflect on my day or my time here or what part of Chile I want to visit next, just mentally strolling through the streets of Speculation. The first week we arrived in Santiago we were given these little notepads by our directors at IFSA. What they were for, I wasn't really sure: writing down possible classes, keeping track of new Spanish words (most likely this was their intention) or short-handing key words and phrases to jog my memory for when it came time to journal. Caitlin's was a combination of all three, but the majority of it consisted of short, horribly scribbled notes about things I wanted to write about when I got in front of my computer. Seeing as I haven't even written past Torres del Paine, I would venture to say that almost all of my notebook has yet to see printed page, well, typed page to be more accurate. But that's okay because when I am on my way home, I don't think about the things I must do or the things that I should do, I just think. And then jot it down. And listen to my iPod. Or read. (I've become a sort of professional at walking and reading, truth be told). Yes, end-of-the-day walking is definitely the better of my two times of daily transportation.

And speaking of second halves of things...this past weekend just happened to be my halfway mark for my time here in South America. It seems like it came so fast, but thinking back on my first few weeks here in the city, they do feel farther away than I thought they would. I guess I didn't realize how long five months would be when I'm living in another country, away from every single person I know (this is excluding the people I met in Chile, obviously). It really puts time into perspective. I guess I feel like the end might be closer to me than the beginning is, but the beginning seems so far away that it kind of feels like I am never going to be back home again. What all this really means is that I need to stop counting days and just enjoy myself. So the only other countdown I will be keeping track of is for the day that Kimberly and Jade arrive at the airport in Santiago de Chile in July (ahhh!). So in honor of the first half, or second fourth or thirty-third sixty-sixth of my trip completed, I will get to some of those shorter memories from my notebook that have yet to find audience. I can't promise they will be in any order, and some of them will not have accompanying photographs, so use your imagination and work with me here people...

March 27: Palacio Cousino

Our history professor took us on a Carrete Cultural (cultural party) that day. We met at one of the metro stations and the first place we went was the Mansion of the Cousino family. It was huge and absolutely gorgeous, stunning really. Before we began the tour everyone had to don these slippers that fit over your shoes. I was given green but was in a stubborn mood and wanted blue to match my outfit. If I had to wear ridiculous slippers I wanted my choice of them. Turns out the blue was the smallest size and they barely fit over my sneakers, but I wasn't about to trade. After everyone else put theirs on, and we snapped a few obligatory photos in them, we shuffled off to the first room in the tour. There was a women's tea room and a men's as well. The women's room was decorated with velvet and paintings and this odd chair concoction that sat three people. It was a type of courting chair where the couple sits with a chaperon and all three seats face in a circle. How unfortunate. Interesting though. There was a fabulous art nouveau chandelier on the outside patio that was shaped like a bouquet and the light glasses were in the shape of flowers. Its really a shame that we weren't allowed to take photos because I wanted to of soooo many things. There was a room upstairs where the original flooring had been an indigenous peace sign over and over again. But to everyone alive after Nazi Germany it looked like a swastika. When very rich guests stayed in the house they would have to carpet the entire floor so as to not offend them. Eventually they redid the wood flooring in the entire house but they keep tiles from each room for display.

(these are some examples I found on Google of the chair and chandelier)

(Photos from the Palacio)

After the tour we went to a dive of a bar called Piojera to try their famous Terremotos. It was a combination of white wine, pisco, beer and pineapple flavored sherbet. One was enough for anyone. A couple next to us asked if we could take a photo with them since there were people going around with instant cameras trying to make a few bucks. Naturally, we obliged and a lovely friendship soon blossomed. The couple was a woman and her father, and they were both significantly wasted. It was noon. It was also Ana's 20th birthday, so our professor had the accordion guy come over and sing her a song. The bar sang with us and cheered for Ana. Then our friends came back over and we had some adorable conversation. The old man told us that he was 80-something, but apparently he told our professor that he was in his 60's. Throughout our meal they would continuously raise their glasses to us and give the most intense thumbs-up signs I've ever witnessed. I don't think you could convey the amount of appreciation and well-wishing that this man did in one hand gesture, even if you wrote a book of poetry or gave an hour-long speech or dedicated a large ocean liner. Then they wanted another photo, and we offered to buy this one for them to keep. When it was time to go we said goodbye to our new amigos, a few times actually...they were insistent, we headed outside and over to Mercado Central, the city's famous fish market to have lunch. Ana had some more serenading, we finished our delicious meals (I had Chilean sea bass) and soon our Carrete Cultural was complete, and we were all on way back home to rest up before Ana's family cooked out for us later that night.

Notes about the Metro

1. Usually all the metro stops I take are pretty much the same: wait for the train (during rush hour that means only every other train will go to your station), wait for the people to get off and out of your way, board (squeeze yourself onto) the train, find something to hold on to or otherwise brace yourself for the always abrupt start. But there is one station that isn't so monotonously repetitive: Estacion Tobalaba, just at the beginning of linea cuatro. The train pulls up just like any other, except with this eerie, ghost-like presence. Since it is at the beginning of the line, the train is always empty. And the fact that everyone just stands and watches this large body of person-less seats slowly come to a stop only adds to the feeling of paranormality. Its as if an episode of the Twilight Zone is about to begin. If I had been mentally unalert up to this point in my trip, I usually snap out of it at Tobalaba, if only just for a few minutes. Once on the train, one's mind pretty much goes back into autopilot rather quickly.

2. While on the subject of empty seats, I am always impressed with the ambition, the fervor, of the old ladies who are determined to snag an open chair. I feel like it is pretty much common sense that the seats are primarily for the elderly and the differently-abled. However, I also find it a little comical that the individuals in search of these seats somewhere find this super-human power to push past the rest of us to get to these areas first. They are quick. Its quite a show, and really it only proves that they are just as capable of standing as the rest of us. Don't get me wrong, I will stand up and give my chair to any older woman or man that is without one, but I am not fooled. Their aged appearance doesn't deceive me. I know that if I had not gotten the precious prize a station before them, then I too would have been shoved aside without a second thought, whether I wanted the bloody seat or not. I only hope that I, too, can live long enough to forcefully demand my right, pleasure and comfort of a plastic, TransSantiago hard-backed throne of success.

3. Oh, the wonders of the metro never cease to amaze me. I am often astonished with the fact that one more person can always squeeze on board before the doors close. Just when you think the cab is full, one more Santiaguino finds their way into a small crevice and wedges him or herself into place with just enough room that the doors don't catch them. Sardines have nothing on these passengers.

4. Walking out of my subway station I always look at the shadows cast by the sun under the stand of newspapers and concessions to see which path will provide me with more shade. If the shadow points toward me then I walk South first along Bilboa for a stroll down Amapolas with its tall shadows from the flower-covered walls. It if points predominantly East, then I follow Tobalaba to the next light and its Eliecer Parada with which I attempt to take shelter from the sun, and whose adorable, if not overly ambitious, barking dogs I know well.

April 17: Papudo

This was the weekend that my family went to the beach to celebrate a few birthdays, namely Arturo's (my host dad). It was very relaxing, and I spent a lot of time by myself taking photos of the beach, the rocks, and the waves. We also took a tiny trip to a nearby city that is famous for its long road of handmade sweaters. It was like a little retreat for me, and I took an unnecessary amount of pictures of the coast, so I was happy. Here are a few highlights of those couple days.

- I went all the way down the "sweater street" hoping to find the best and most perfect option for a sweater purchase. I was determined to scour the area until I left with the one article of clothing that I was meant to own. This is because...one, this place was all about outerwear, and I didn't want to miss the opportunity for a quality (and practical) memento from the mini-vacation. Two, I am not a big sweater-buyer so seeing as it wasn't something I was familiar with, I wanted to know what all my options were before committing. Well, wouldn't you know that after almost two hours and two sides of that long, long street, I bought a knit shawl from one of the first two stores I had entered earlier that morning. "A lesson from the Universe."

- In one of my days playing Little Mermaid by the big rocks, I stood on one at the edge of the shore. I was just thinking to myself how much I liked being in the middle of crashing waves, yet high enough that I stayed dry, when a really powerful swell came roaring into the rock I was daydreaming on, splashing my pants and causing me to rapidly abandon my Disney-themed playtime for a few minutes. "A reality check from Nature."

- The water rippling around in the mini pools had a rhythm and movement just like jellyfish when they swim, much more so than "jelly" ever actually does. I guess we can't very well call them "water" fish though, can we... "An everyday observation that makes the world around Caitlin a little more clear."

Conclusion:

At this point I believe that I have sat in front of the computer for long enough today. I have also decided that I will no longer attempt to keep my posts in chronological order. It keeps me perpetually behind, and that doesn't make anyone happy. By the end of this week a blog about last weekend in La Serena should be up, and I will just add in stories after that when I feel like it. It will be out of order, but I think that less pressure to get stuff posted and caught up will allow me to be more productive. Hope you enjoyed it and I'll do my best to stay on track with this bad boy.

Caitlin

:D

Patagonia: The Second and Final Installment

...And by "tomorrow" I mean a week. Again, apologies. Busy, busy, and this blog business is not small work. But without further ado, the completion of my Patagonia trip... (go ahead, read the last bit of the previous Patagonia entry; it has been a while, I know)


It was Friday, March 20 and we woke up in our rent-a-tents with a bright, shiny day ahead of us. From the Supply Tent we gathered up the unsuccessful tents from the night before and went in search of a prime camping location. We soon found it and began to raise shelters in a wind-free and well lit environment. After all the practice the night before, we had no trouble setting up the green tent, and as Megana was waking up we transferred our belongings into the new area. As part of a complete breakfast, we enjoyed pancito with salami, palta (avocado) and cheese.

After our breakfast of champions, Ana and I left camp in search of the meeting place where Lee and Paco would be dropped off by their bus. Remember that Paco had missed his flight (our flight) so Lee stayed in the hostel another night to wait for him. And today was the day we would all be reunited, the only problem was that we didn't know where they would be dropped off, or when. We really didn't have any clue, so at first the options were daunting. Here? There? Further over there? Soon? Later? Earlier? When we realized all the possibilities, Ana and I were a little concerned that we might have already missed them and perhaps they might have gone on to the next campsite, miles away. We narrowed down our options and were getting tired of waiting, when Ana decided to go tag someone else to come wait with me since she needed to pack her stuff for our hike soon. I watched a few buses pass, none containing my friends, and saw a few more park and let people out a little ways up the road. So I walked up to where it forked and continued to scan buses until I saw people waving frantically in one of them. Lee and Paco were so happy to see someone from our group there; I think they were probably worried that we would have a hard time finding each other as well. As we made our way back to the campsite, three others from our group met up with us and helped carry backpacks.

Over at the picnic table Ana had begun to make our lunches for the day. She had just started to make peanut butter and manjar (dulce de leche, its like caramel) sandwiches when she sliced her finger open with the Swiss Army knife. Luckily Ben has had EMT training so he cleaned, bandaged and instructed Ana on how to help it heal in the quickest fashion. The bandage was truly a work of art. Ana bled so much that she went through the first two within a 10 to 15 minute time span. We only had one left so after applying more pressure with toilet paper, the bleeding went down significantly. And with the final remaining band-aid, Ben dressed the wound and secured it with string. At first glance one might have thought that dear Ana Maria was trying her best to not forget something. What is it that you must remember Ana? Could it be to buy more band-aids? How about always cut away from yourself and others?

I finished up the lunches and by this time everyone was complaining that we were behind schedule. As if we ever really have a schedule... So we all ran around gathering water bottles and packing things into the mesh bags that our sleeping pads came in. Most people only had their huge backpacks, so the mesh bags were perfect for our few supplies. At the last minute, I remembered the trail mix ingredients that we had bought in Puerto Natales and made someone unlock the tent so I could get them. And with our group reunited, eight anxious, excited study abroad students made our way to the beginning of the hardest, most intense and satisfying hike any of us had yet completed.

Back at camp it had been shady and cold with the morning sun still relatively low in the sky and the morning dew still scattered on the ground, so we left with coats, sweaters, scarves, hats and Under Armor. But as we made our way down the path to the beginning of the real trail (a pre-trail, if you will), we began to shed clothing as the sun came beating down and we started to work up a little sweat. It wasn't long until scarves went into the sacks, sweaters got tied around waists, coats hung from day packs, pant legs got rolled up and sunscreen was applied. We felt a little silly for having so much extra baggage, but we were on our way, and would just have to deal with it.





The first part of the Mirador (trail) was obviously meant to weed out the frail, the children, the disabled, the acrophobics and those prone to heat sensitivity. It showed no mercy. My thighs haven't felt so much burn, or for so long, since my gymnastics days. Oh how I would have welcomed those repetitive squats and lunges to the happy and endorphin-giving but confidence-in-muscle-control-taking and bodily-strength-sapping stairway to hell we were on. At least in conditioning you knew how many more sets you had until you were done, and there was a way of quantifying the pain you endured for a workout. The mirador was seemingly endless, and there was no way to tell how high we were actually climbing. All in all it was becoming too much for Megana to handle. So finally she told us to go on without her, that she would just go at her own pace.

It wasn't actually much longer after that when the steep incline stopped and the trail leveled out for a while. But this mirador wasn't doing anyone any favors. While the grade became easier, the trail found itself on the edge of a steep cliff with wind gusts that made our previous night of tent attempts look like cake. But the natural high we earned from the first part of the trail had us in high spirits, and anything this trail could throw at us we could catch. We leaned into the wind at otherwise dangerous angles; we held onto our sunglasses when it made sudden attempts to swipe them; we shouted back primal screams when it roared and tested our endurance. It was so exhilerating to be over the first trial and to have the wind so alive, pushing and pulling every part of your body. It was dangerously exciting, strong enough that we had to pay better attention to what we were doing, but not strong enough to really throw us from the trail (although it tried a few times).

We passed the wind's challenges with flying colors and were rewarded with ice cold glacial spring runoffs. We had foolishly packed a relatively minuscule amount of hydration and, remembering that running water from glaciers was okay to drink, we unscrewed our caps and took turns waiting for Lee to straddle the stream and refill each of our 1.5 liters. I remember from a canoe trip with my Aunt Diana that a good rule of thumb for hiking is "when your bottle is half way empty, your hike is half way done." Going by this advice, we wouldn't have made it to the top of the first section. The streams we found along the way became symbols of support and fans cheering us on, "you're almost there, here take more water. You can do it!" And it was the most delicious water we had tasted, already chilled and ready for our enjoyment.

We had a tendency to split into two groups: Ana, Lee, Ryan and Paco in one, with Ansel, Ben and myself in the other. The irony of it was that the leaders of the group were the heavy smokers and the asthmatics. But that was just a testament to how much freaking energy Lee and Paco had. They would wait for us at random places and we would all walk along for the next few minutes as a large group, but with Ryan's rare ability to walk faster uphill than on a level plane, and Ansel and my obsession with photography, we would soon find ourselves split again.

When picnic tables emerged, they waited there for us and we all took a nice, relaxing break together. I whipped out the trail mix ingredients and proceeded to mix them together. I was glad I remembered because the trail mix would come to be a much loved, convenient and often demanded snack food. At this particular rest stop (shown above) we had our first real, up-close view of the Torres (the Towers). This was a very popular rest stop because it had a small restaurant, places to camp and horses tied up, with which I obviously had a small photo session.

This third section of the trail had come back down to the river and was mostly through the woods, although at a reasonable upgrade again. It wasn't as steep as the first, and it wasn't as windy as the second because of the trees, but I still managed to find areas of the path that made my thighs feel the burn again. After resting for a while near the horses, our sweat had cooled and we weren't kept warm by the constant workout, so we put some of our cold-weather gear back on. We didn't feel so silly that we had brought them now... The walk through the trees allowed us to hear each other since the wind was shielded, and between story-telling and joke-making we had sing-a-longs of old Disney songs from childhood. This was the longest portion of the trail and we passed many small streams.

A classy bridge. I did not judge, however, for I understood the necessity of finding one's building materials on site after such a laborious hike up the mountain. After a while longer, we stopped and had a late lunch of peanut butter and manjar sandwiches. It was a perfect combination of carbs, protein and sugars to keep our energy up. And we would need it because the last 30 minutes of the trail was a steep trek through boulders. When we finished lunch, we were freezing and finally justified in carrying all that weight from coats and the like. I very much appreciated my scarf, gloves and toboggan hat at that point.

A popular theme for group discussion was the threat of pumas. No, not the German shoe and sportswear company, but the species of large cat closely related to the cougar and mountain lion. I think technically "puma" is the genus and not the species, but never-mind. Our conversations consisted of creative ways to thwart a puma attack and to deter the large animals that were apparently a real threat in the park, as well as to come up with ingenious methods to prey on the said animals ourselves. The more successful of the former category being WD40 and a long-stem lighter. (just picture that for a minute and try not shiver with fear yourself). And for hunting purposes we imagined fashioning a spear-like instrument from our Swiss Army knives (seeing as they had already proved themselves successful in causing human bodily harm) and a large stick (something like that of Ben's walking stick which you can see if you look closely in some of the photos above). Another option was to build a trap, but we resolved that in the most likely scenario we would only end up capturing one of our own. And don't think for a second that we didn't have plans thought out for what we would do in the event that we did catch a puma. That was easily solved with an ethnic tribal celebration for the occasion of staying in the most bad-ass park in Patagonia. From items found in nature, as well as the skin from our puma, we would produce instruments as well as clothing and decorations. For initiation purposes for Lee and Paco, we would paint our faces and bodies with colors found in flowers and crushed colored rocks, and after this celebration would commence the puma hunting party. Following the success of our spears and natural hunting abilities we would roast the mountain cat over open flame and celebrate into the wee hours of the morning. I will conclude this topic with the quote that I believe started it all when Ryan said, "If the Apocalypse happens, I want it to happen while we're here. Then I'm going to kill a puma and smear its blood all over my face." Elaborate details and far-fetched plans were our groups specialty. Its a shame we didn't dedicate more of that brainpower to planning the real aspects of our trip.

Finally we had made it to the last 30 minutes of our 3.5 hour hike (one way) and after three hours of what we had already been through, there were times in this last stretch that I honestly believed I would not make it to the top. I was so exhausted and the climb was so consistent in its steep climb and troublesome rocks and boulders that one had to pay attention to. And I'm pretty sure that there are portions of this last section that I frankly just don't remember because I was so focused on pushing myself one more, one more, one more step. I took frequent breaks, but they were never very long because I was already the caboose of the group and just wanted to get to where everyone else was. Ben and Ansel stayed with me and kept my moral up. At last we made it over the last rocks and the view of the Torres was incredible. It was so worth it. At the foot of the Towers was a small, emerald-green lake that we had not previously known about, and it was a nice surprise that we weren't expecting to see.

Finishing the trail was such an amazing confidence booster, but it was humbling as well. I was so proud of myself for making it all the way to the top because this was, hands down, the most legit hike or outdoor excursion I had ever done. And I've done some impressive ones. We had passed through so many different climates and terrain to get here, heat, wind, rocks, woods, gravel, sand, cold... And because of that, I suddenly realized... I am in no way, this cool. How did I end up with this experience? I am not this legit. I was so blessed to be able to challenge myself and be rewarded with such a view. I don't know how many people get to view the mountains from where we stood, from our perspective, with our pride and accomplishment. We were now part of a select few, an elite club. So what did we do next? Took ridiculous poses with the Torres, duh.

Who is excited?

Ah, mermaid pose...

And a sacrifice to the tower gods of course.

There was a most legit cloud at the top. It looked like a marshmallow. Apparently its a very rare sight.

The hike back was so much more enjoyable. Most of it was downgrade, and we had such a high from reaching the summit that time was just flying. We had made it back to where we first refilled our water bottles, when Lee and Ansel decided to forge a new trail back home. They decided that they would climb down the hillside and follow the river back to the first bridge we crossed. And then there were five: Ryan, Ana, Paco, Ben and myself.

When we got back to the top of the first section, the view was incredible. It would best be described as undescribeable, but I'm going to try anyway. You could take in so much at one time. The rolling hills were more impressive than any I have ever seen; they had perfect dips and curves and went on forever. Mountains, lakes, sky, clouds...all at once; and knowing that we just attempted and succeeded in climbing one of them made me feel so much more a part of what I was viewing. It was mine.

I thought a lot on this hike about all those lessons from high school biology so many years ago, how plants reproduce, symbiotic relationships between plants and animals, how mountains form...and I could only wonder at why they are all here. Why do they produce in the ways that they do? Why do they have the shapes and colors they have? They live to reproduce and to supply animals with food, but what more? Why are they here and what is their purpose? And I can only say that I think the best answer for me to those questions is: that there absolutely is a higher power. That we need to slow down, conserve, go with the flow, thank the universe, and that you don't always have to know what you're up against, plans fall through, expectations can be wrong and you may surprise yourself sometimes.

And now that we are on the subject of surprises...when we got back to camp, Megana was there, and we expected to hear how she spent her day south of the mountain. But as it turns out, she had met some other girls that were going her pace and went all the way up to the base of the final rocky, vertical climb. She had made it back to camp only 20 to 30 minutes before we did.

So I changed while Ana and Paco started a fire and people began dinner. I lied down in the tent because I felt like a knife had been stabbed through my upper right thigh. As a group we decided that if Ansel and Lee hadn't made it back in 45 minutes that we would inform park authorities. They showed up within 20, and we heard all about how thorny the riverbanks were and how they had to climb right back up to the real trail.

During discussions of where we would consume dinner (our tent, their tent), exhaustion and crankiness poked their heads around camp for a while. In the end we ate in the other tent, killed a bottle of pisco and moved the fiesta outside the cramped quarters with a second bottle. We lied on the picnic table again, watching shooting stars, and decided to go for the third and final bottle. More Disney songs commenced, Ana's hotdogs from dinner returned for the festivities and I peed twice in the forrest, which was probably the very same distance from our camp that the actual bathrooms were. When I returned from my second bathroom break everyone was calling it a night. We had had a very eventful day and it would not take long before we were all fast asleep.

The next day was Saturday, the 21st of March. Everyone woke up a little groggy, but it wasn't anything a hot shower couldn't fix. The water was steaming and strong. It was perfect. When I returned everone had eaten and was scrambling around putting up camp. Apparently we had missed our bus to the other side of the park and our camp angel walkie-talkied another bus to come get us. Within 10 minutes both tents were disassembled, and we discovered that a tent bag as well as two sleeping bag bags were missing, probably from the first, windy night. Much sooner than we had expected, we were on our way to our next adventure in Parque Nacional Torres del Paine. But when we got to our next campsite, we realized that there wasn't actually camping. But the wonderfully nice Park Rangers told us that we could make camp behind one of the sheds after the last bus of the day left.

With the Chilean flag at the Park Ranger station.

So we left our stuff at the station, Ben and Ansel caught their catamaran to the glacier where they would hike during the day and camp at night and the rest of us went up the trail to Los Cuernos (the horns).

It was far less difficult and much shorter than our Torres hike, but almost equally as beautiful.

Group shot taken with the timer setting.

We did our own little version of TLC's "waterfalls." There was a little beach on the side of the trail before we got to the lookout point, so we took off our shoes and played in the water for a while. It was freezing cold. It was water from the glacier runoffs and after a minute or so it made your feet numb it was so cold. And it made your feet so numb that they hurt.

My friend Ryan's foot.

The top of the lookout was sooooo windy. I was an amazing 360 degree view and we could even see the wind whipping the water up into small hurricanes over the lake.

When we got back to "camp," Ryan and Megana took a bus back because they were headed to the airport the next day. Ana decided to go with them and stay a night in their hostel because she was a little tired of camping. That night Lee, Paco and I found an abandoned boat to hang out in. We were having a good time, telling stories and having heart-to-hearts when suddenly is started to rain. Then it began to hail! When we were tired enough, we ran back to the tent and curled up in our sleeping bags to stay warm. But we had pitched the tent on a small incline and had to sleep perpendicular so we wouldn't roll onto each other in the night. The rain/hail kept up till morning when I woke up with freezing feet. I think if I hadn't been with two of the most positive people I know, there probably would have been a lot of complaining. We had a lot of time to kill in the morning, so we drew and wrote until the boys came back on their catamaran. Then we all left the park for Puerto Natales where we would meet Ana.

But Ana was not where she was supposed to meet us. And we had no real way of getting into immediate touch with her since her phone had died. We went to the hostel that Lee and Paco stayed in their first night before meeting up with us and left a message for Ana, then we called Megana to see if she knew where our friend would be. Megana told us which hostel they had stayed in the night before so we headed over there. About a block from there we saw Ana walking toward us and decided it was time to eat lunch. Carlitos probably got a good portion of their income that weekend from our group. We probably ate there a total of 10 times between all the mini-groups. We found a hostel, unpacked, showered and bought some wine. Horrible, cheap wine. We met a man in the hostel from the Isralean army and all played a little poker with the chips he had brought.

The next morning, Monday the 23rd, we caught the bus to Punta Arenas and saw this rainbow. You could actually see it all the way, from side to side, but I didn't have enough room between the buildings to capture it all.

When we arrived in PA we found a hostel for the night and went to the store for lunch and dinner groceries. Lunch was soooo delicious. I remember sitting in the kitchen of the hostel, with the sunlight shining on me, thinking "this is the best sandwich I've ever had (palta, really good cheese, and fried eggs on really good bread) and I'm eating it with my awesome group of friends at a strangers sunlit kitchen table with a view of the ocean. After some napping we headed out to the beach, Ansel tried a little fly fishing since he couldn't do it in the park because the water was too cold for fish to live in, and we had a foot-tour of the city. The cemetery was closed, so we didn't get to see that. It was supposed to be really beautiful.

We had bought two bottles of rum earlier because we wanted to having a rum tasting party. And we had wanted a rum tasting party because we were a little tired of all the pisco. So we opened them up and waited for the kitchen to free up. Ana and I made pasta with ground beef, and the spices weren't labeled very well so I just put in what smelled like it should be in there. Everyone really loved it and I felt very proud to be able to cook for them all. I also appreciated our rule that "those who cook don't clean."

We had a night out on the town and we all left for the airport in sets the next day. Lee left at 5 in the morning, Ana, Ben and I at 10 and Ansel and Paco that evening. I don't remember what I did when I returned home, but I'm sure I slept very well that night.

Whew! I told you this was not small work. Maybe I won't procrastinate so much next time. I have a lot more to tell about my time and travels here, so I promise I'll try to keep up with that. I don't believe any of my other stories should be this long, so if I can finish this one, I can do any of them... Thanks for taking the time to read all of this, whether it was in one sitting or four. And I hope you like the photos.

So much love,

Caitlin