...Strangerstiago?

Everywhere I go, whether it be the bus, the store, or street, I am greeted by blank stares and sometimes bashful smiles. From adults, small children, stray dogs...oh man, so many stray dogs (but that's a story for another time).

The more I get to know Santiago, the more I notice how homogenous the people are. It is very strange to me because Chileans don't appear to have a "look." They look like Americans....well white Americans. I'm not sure what I expected, maybe some consistent striking, or even subtle, feature. But, for a lack of a better word, they all look so regular. I, on the other had, stick out like three sore thumbs.

In my cohort there are seven of us, 5 black students (one who is  Puertorican, and thus afrolatina) and 2 "non-black" latinas (one from Mexico, the other from Ecuador). On our second day at work, we met the director. She scanned the group a few times and found  Mayra (la mexicana) and said with excitement "You look Chilean." She did another go around, and had a look of conviction on her face before she stopped at Jessica (la ecuatoriana) and said "...yeah, you too." She didn't seem to want to admit it, but said it more out of obligation. No comments for the rest of us. We didn't really expect to be included in the number, as we had been able to count on one hand the number of afro-descendents we had even seen in passing in the week prior.

Race in Chile is very centered around being either "Chilean" or "Mapuche," which is a very loosely used term to refer to the indigenous populations who include the Mapuche people but also several other indigenous groups that I guess people are either too lazy or too ignorant to acknowledge individually. The only black people in Chile immigrated from Colombia, Brazil, or the Dominican Republic (or so we have been told). Needless to say, when I am walking down the street it is as if the people here are experiencing 3-D TV. They stare as if they didn't know black people existed in real life.

Most people look at me, dumbfounded, so I have taken a liking to staring back and smiling until they realize how uncomfortable they have made me....or until I make them feel more uncomfortable than I am. In my mind I understand that it must be fascinating to see that people really do have brown skin and it wasn't just some crazy special effects for the movies.

Those who are brave enough to say anything to me, usually women in their late twenties or early thirties I'm guessing, usually comment on my hair, and usually have a look of guilt on their face and whisper as if it would be a crime to be caught communicating with me.  "Que lindo tu pelo" they always say...almost as if in school it's on the list of proper ways to greet people in public:
1. Older woman - Buenos días Señora _____.
2. Older man - Buenas tardes Señor______.
3. Random black stranger - Que lindo tu pelo.

This is a new experience for me, especially in a place that more or less looks like the States except for everyone is speaking in Spanish. I grew up in a town that didn't have a whole lot of black people, but had plenty of other colors too. Coming from the University of Michigan where there is current discourse on the #BBUM and Black Lives Matter movements, I am feeling grateful for even the smidgen of diversity that is present in Ann Arbor and on campus, even if it isn't representative of the state or nation. It sure beats the homogeneity I see here.

...Introductionsiago?

So the whole point of my being in Chile is to work on a research project. Running data, surveying women about how they chose to feed their babies and why... you know, the real nitty gritty work. All of this is to be done in 12 short weeks, which is really 11 weeks because the last week we travel, but if I'm being really honest is only about 10 weeks because of the long weekends and holidays here in Chile.

If you have ever done a research project, then you know how difficult it is just to get started. Before you can recruit your first participant you have to get approved by the IRB (Institutional Review Board), aka the big scary judges of research. The IRB is a group of super important, super detail oriented professionals that catch every shortcoming, pitfall, and mistake in your study design. They make sure your research is ethical and not putting people in danger for no good (or bad) reason --you know, no sending people to Mars without a spacesuit and opening the doors to the ship just to see what will happen.

Thankfully I don't have to do everything by myself. When I arrived to work the first day, I was introduced to a billion people who ended up not being relevant to the work I will be doing over the next approximate 10 weeks. Then I met four women who I am pretty sure will be invaluable resources as I complete my project: Maria, Paula, Maureen, and Nancy. These women are nutritionists, midwives, sociologists, baby whisperers, you name it. They have been super welcoming and probably more excited about my research topic than I am. I'm excited to collaborate with (ok mooch off of) these awesome women to produce some excellent research.

I haven't started working on my own project yet (still waiting for the final stamp of approval), but I have been able to observe what happens in their ongoing study. The study is looking at a nutrition intervention for moms and babies to see if obesity can be prevented or predicted based on moms weight during pregnancy and which type of food the baby gets in the first two years (breastmilk, formula A, formula B, solids etc.). I got to talk to moms about their experiences and awkwardly stand in a corner while Paula measured babies and mommies and asked a bunch of questions. It was awesome. And all the babies are super cute (sorry no pictures).





Poll: How long do you think I will have to wait until I finally get to start my project?


Answer in the COMMENTS  section!
A. One week
B. Two weeks
C. One Month
D. Forever

...Familytiago?

Leaving the airport we were greeted by our program coordinator and Manuel, the guy with the van that would take us all to our appointed destinations. Happy to get off of the less than comfortable plane, we were saddened to realize we would yet again have to be smushed into a small moving vehicle.

Ukulele in hand, I hiked across the parking lot with my companions, taking our time to sacrifice leg room and personal space. I really wanted to brush my teeth at this point. Manuel looked at me curiously, and I was quite prepared for a comment about my brown skin or the explosion of curls that were toppling over my head. Only when he opened his mouth he simply asked, "is that a violin?" Thrown off by his questions, and relieved to have been wrong in my assumptions, I explained to him I was was toting a tiny Hawaiian guitar, which seemed to satisfy him. At least for a minute. He later asked if it was allowed on the plane, a question I thought to be self explanatory as I had successfully smuggled it across the Americas. I then realized that what he wanted to know was if I had to check it or not; not doubt a way to see if I had money to frivolously throw away on extra baggage on an international flight. After reassuring him that it was allowed as my personal item, he seemed to lose interest in the foreign instrument.

Seven sardines plus three months worth of luggage each were packed into the backseat of a soccer mom van. It's amazing how much can fit in a car if you have just enough will and an eye for spatial reasoning. We were chatty, but mostly because we all were trying very hard not to think about our next immediate adventure: meeting our host families. Some of us had contact with them before hand, most of us did not. As we dropped people off at their various houses and apartments, I was the last to meet my host.

We pulled up to a tall building with a rod iron gate that separated me from my fate. The courtyard had nice tiling and a palm tree. Three gentlemen, two abuelos and one younger Peruvian greeted us in unison and we made our way through the lobby and up to the sixth floor. At this point the only thing I knew about my host was that there was a woman named Pilar Isabel. Arriving on the 6th floor, the door to apartment 605 opened just as we approached it. In the doorway stood a petite women who stood probably 4 and a half feet off the ground with a short bob and eyes that squinted when she smiled.

Pilar. She was very kind, showed me where my room was and encouraged me to have a seat and to

feel at home. She was adorable to say the least. I looked around the small apartment and wondered, "where's everybody else?" I soon learned that Pilar was a widow and her two daughters and grandchildren lived elsewhere in the city. So it was just the two of us. Just me and Pilar, in a quaint apartment for 3 months.



Poll

True of False: Pilar has never been outside of Chile's borders.


Answer in the comment section!

...Airportiago?

11 hours. 30 minutes. Probably 27 seconds. This is how much time I spent in the air traveling between the Detroit airport and Santiago.

14 hours. 6 minutes. An imprecise 42 seconds. This is how much time I spent on an airplane.

19 hours. 17 minutes. Lets go with 36 seconds. This is how much time I spent between walking in the doors of one airport and leaving the doors of another.

In the midst of these hours, books were read (okay, chapters of a book were read); games were played; selfies were taken (using a selfie stick no less); naps were attempted.... It was a fun, but exhausting trip.


We were all bright eyed when we united in the airport, greeting each other as if we were long lost friends who had been separated for many years. The seven of us were awkwardly babbling in  Spanglish, not sure when we should start our immersion experience and often thinking of phrases to difficult to translate while navigating a noisy, English-speaking airport.

I was excited to find out that on the flight from Atlanta to Santiago we were well equipped with USB ports to charge all of our technology, our favorite tv shows and new movies were at our fingertips.The flight was pretty empty so we were able to spread out...not that it helped us sleep any better. I was seriously hoping for a plane with those sleeping pods like from the Jetsons. The stewardesses moseyed down the aisles asking everyone "beef or pasta?" as they served us what they called dinner but looked more like a kiddy kitchen toy version of 1970's tv dinners. Twenty-ish minutes later they whisked away whatever remained and dished out headphones and eye masks, basically begging everyone to go to sleep so they didn't have to be bothered.


I obediently followed suit, putting on a Japanese movie and tried to make myself comfortable between my window seat and the vacant one to my side. I flipped, and turned, and readjusted my sanitary pillow a bajillion times, seeking some semi-comfortable position, but my legs were to long, or my side was too wide to fit in the  space. I drifted to sleep at some point, because I remember waking up to the most beautiful sight. The sun was just starting to peak over the Andes, and the sky was still jet back except for an orangish red line that outlined the peaks of the mountains. Reality was beginning to sink in that I really am going to be in Chile for the next three months. This is really happening!

Poll:

Predict what happens next! Leave your responses in the comments section.

A. I get stopped at customs for bringing produce into Chile.
B. I get left behind in the airport bathroom.
C. My luggage gets lost at the airport.
D. I get questioned about my carry-on items.
E. None of the above

....Flightiago?

2 days. Actually 1 day, 11 hours and 8 minutes, to be precise. In 1 day, 11 hours and 8 minutes I will be boarding the longest flight I have ever taken in my life. 13 hours of air time to Santiago; an overnight flight that is bound to mess up my sleep and leave me foggy and emotional when I arrive on the other side of the planet. I have never been to Chile before, so I am really excited to embark on this new experience, BUT why does it have to be winter when I get there? Thanks a lot, Southern Hemisphere.

I have had my bags packed  for 6 days and have been very creative about my wardrobe choices so as to avoid unpacking, rewashing, and repacking anything. Eh, so its been a dress week for me. I am so excited, but eveything still feels unreal. I keep telling people that I'm going, but somehow it feels fake to me still. I don't think I will really be attached to this trip until after I step off my flight at 8:06 am with crusty eyes and a strong desire to brush my teeth Friday morning.


Poll:

Who will I end up next to on the plane?
1. Susie Talksalot
2. Mr. Snoriepants
3. Baby Screaming Mi Mi
4. Adorable Headphones Guy
5. Flightus Anxietous


Cast your votes in the comment section!