Oh, Valdivia

Hurling at over 120km/hr, Rodrigo and I were making our way east towards Ruta 5, the main highway that runs through Chile like a main artery. Rodrigo, a supermarket man from Victoria, saw my thumb on Angol's city limits and picked me up. As we trucked along the Angol - Collipulli vein, we talked small and simple. Rodrigo was heading north to Santiago so he dropped me off in Collipulli and I waited for my next ride down south. After an hour waiting on the Ruta 5 entrance ramp, a man named Roberto Besara stopped and let me in his newly bought used white toyota pickup truck. Through a high pitched, lispy voice he jokingly warned me that a spare tire was not included in the sale so if we got a flat tire I might have to find another ride. He was heading to Temuco, about 1 1/2 south of Collipulli. I mentioned that I was making my way to Valdivia, coincidently where Roberto is from. Besides conversing about standard introductory matters, we moved on to talk more about Valdivia, the Mapuche natives of Chile, and Bill Clinton.

Later, friends that were in Temuco called and wanted to come along to Valdivia. After giving Roberto a US dollar as a gift of hitchhiking gratitude, I met up with Johnny Minnesota, Jess Wisconsin, and Melissa Missourri and hopped on a bus to Valdivia. Roberto cautioned me of the difficulty of hitching a ride for 4 people, especially since Valdivia lies on a vein about 40km west of Ruta 5.

Speaking of this main thoroughfare, Ruta 5, which according to Guinness World Records is the world's longest "motorable road", stretches from Alaska to the south of Chile. Around 4pm when school was getting out, schools near the highway released their student body, some of whom need to cross Ruta 5 to get home. Whizzing by kids walking along the side of the highway at 70mph just made me uneasy. Carefree teenagers took their sweet time in crossing. This is definitely something you'd never see in the US.

We arrived on a brisk, partly sunny afternoon. The sun dipping in and out of clouds made me

constantly second guess wearing my jacket. Valdivia is home to Austral University, and the youthful vibe of the city was apparent as soon as I stepped off the bus. Along the southern bank of Rio Calle Cale, people were out and about in their running shoes and biking shorts. Crew

teams were stroking oars on the river. Things were moving.

The gringo gang and I found a cabaña then ventured out to the market to buy burrito ingredients, Crystal cervezas, and pisco. Later that night, Johnny Minnesota and I set out into the Valdivia downtown. We stumbled onto Avenida Esmerelda and went into an Irish bar. The bartender was anxious to use his broken English. After a few minutes of spanglish, we started talking about the Inglés Abre Puertas teaching program. By unexpected chance, the bartender knew about the program and then proceeded to point to a regular sitting by himself at a table drinking a tall glass of Kuntsmann bock. "He is in program, too" claimed the bartender. "No me huevees" I said (which translates to something like "don't bullshit me"). Turns out that the loner was in our same program! Jeffery, a 20-something from Manhattan, is working at a high school about 45 minutes from Valdivia. He frequents the city on the weekends, especially this Irish bar. Jeff spoke with a true New York accent and his latino background brought about a quick and active personality. The way he interacted made me change the way I talked. I found myself saying things like "yeah, dog. I get you." and "true, yo." Though, it may have been the Kuntsmann cervezas talking.

The following day was exploratory. Lots of walking and looking. The gang of gringos journeyed out before me. Disregarding the existence of cell phones, I decided to go find them with the possibility of chance. Sure enough, after 45 minutes, I bumped into them on the other side of the river near Austral U. We explored more in search of microbrews. We saw sea lions sleeping and scratching themselves on floating docks.

I broke off from the group to play my guitar. I found a comfortable riverside lawn with a view and sang to myself. Blankets were flung open and small sidewalk shops opened to the increasing foot traffic. Valdivia was welcoming spring with a fireworks display. The sun set at 6:30 and two hours later the night sky was filled with kabooms of color. The connection I have of pyrotechnics and July 4th made me feel like I was home. It was a happy feeling. Oh, say can you see!

I enjoyed my visit to Valdivia. I only wish I had more time to explore the surrounding area that I've heard much about.

It was a sluggish Sunday. Overcast skies reflected my clouded head. And I made my way back to Angol.

3 Weeks: Sickness, Hitchhiking, and Independence Day

¡Pasó Agosto! There's a saying in Chile that sings to the tune of the passing of August. The welcoming of September means that one has been through the worst of the Chilean winter and has most likely avoided catching winter illness. They also say (well, my host father says) that August is the month in which the most old people die. So for the month to pass instead of your life is quite a relief. However, as you might assume, my gringo-filipino self does not adhere to said saying. Just in time for the weekend, on September 2nd, I got the sickness. I became a prisoner to my bed, entertained by what I had in reach; a book The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga, a Pablo Neruda book of poems, and a computer full of pirated movies. I ended up missing all of the following week of classes so that I could fully recover.
After days of doctor recommended 'lots of rest and plenty of fluids' I felt better enough to make a trip to Temuco for a friend's birthday. My friend Johnny Minnesota and I decided to save some money and make our way there by thumb. It may be the case that we were extremely lucky or hitchhiking in Chile is really this easy, but the very first car stopped for us and brought us all the way to Temuco. It was a really nice guy named Pablo who works in paint sales. We arrived with plenty of time to kill so Johnny and I people-watched for a bit and walked around. Temuco is much bigger than Angol. Lots more commotion.

The following week was packed jam with activities. September 18th is when Chile celebrates their independence day. On a partly sunny Tuesday, I had the honor of marching in the school parade through downtown Angol wearing a borrowed brown suede suit jacket. After waiting over an hour, my school, Los Nogales Politécnico, marched a glorious 3 minutes down the sidewalk filled street passing the mayor and other notable Angolinos.

Los Nogales march!

The next day at school, each classroom was ornamented with historical Chilean backgrounds and adorned with tables of traditional foods. Special guests were invited to the event which included a presentation of the cueca (Chile's national dance) by the students. The Cueca is a simply intricate dance involving sequences of turns and fanciful footwork. It also involves vigorous but elegant right-handed revolutions of a handkerchief. Apparently, the dance is intended to mimic a courtship between rooster and hen. Luckily, days before, I had reviewed a cueca youtube video and had a quick lesson by my co-teacher to show off my amateur dance moves. I amazingly stuck the landings and turned appropriately. So much so that several impressed guests told me that I dance the cueca better than most chilenos (though I'm sure it was just a display of their fine southern-chile hospitality). Thanks youtube!
Thursday involved a professor shindig at the school with empanadas and wine. I later went to the plaza to watch my little cousin, Ignacia, dance in her school's show.

little cousin Ignacia ↑

That evening began El Dieciocho (The 18th) marathon. The next few days would be a wash-rinse-repeat of: eat-drink-dance-sleep.

↓victoria and fernanda dancing the cueca

In Angol, the place to be during El Dieciocho is called Las Ramadas. It resembles a county fair you'd find in a small corner of the American southeast, but in place of rides there were "fondas" to eat, drink and dance. Imagine big tent-like setups with lots of tree branches covering the ceilings and walls. Tens of taca taca (foosball) tables riddled the center of the area as the foot traffic moved herdlike, mostly counter-clockwise, visiting the fondas. Barrels of chicha (a liquor/wine made from grapes or apples) lined the perimeter. Traditionally, chicha is drunk from a cacho (a severed horn of a cattle).



All day and all night, the Angolinos celebrated. Some more than others. It's common to see an inebriated passed out on the street.
By Sunday, I had had enough. Enough meat. Enough empanadas. Enough beer. Enough pisco. Enough dancing. Enough 6am late-nights. Enough hangovers. I spent the afternoon at my host grandparents' house, napping a siesta and watching Chile's military parade on TV.

Tia Mín with antichuchos (kebabs)

↑ abuelo & papá tomando vino

↑ mamá with the meat

I had heard about Las Fiestas Patrias all year long and I believe it lived up to the hype. I had an incredible time celebrating with my friends, my host family, and random Chilenos who were amazed at finding out that I wasn't Chileno. This year actually marks Chile's' bicentennial. So happy 200th, Chile. ¡Viva Chile Mierda!