...Valparaiso...iago?

The houses are all different shades of pastel blues and greens, pinks and oranges. They sit on a steep hill overlooking the ocean. No two neighboring houses are the same color. Valparaiso.

We took a bus from Vina into the city winding between mountains and ocean. They dropped us off in front of the plaza where the President made her speech for the Dia Feriado and where the students protested for education reform. It was peaceful when we arrived. The firefighters were showing some students their trucks and we were able to take photos with one of the antique vehicles. The streets were not distinguishable from the sidewalks so we were almost hit a few times, but we figured it out.

Our first stop in Valpo was up Cerro Alegre, one of the highest points of the city. We rode a janky funicular up to the top (these are apparently very popular in this country. We met a really cool artist that does screening and etchings using Mapuche culture and folklore as his inspiration. Lonko told us the story of the Man Bird who connected humans with the heavens and was gifted the ability to communicate between man and god. The story was captivating and the artwork became more beautiful the more he shared about their history.

We then ventured up the hill, admiring the houses and street art, all while burning calories from the high resistance climb. The art started off very simple, a mural of the city depicting the hills, the ocean and happy chileans, but the farther up we climbed the more extraordinary the art became. Before we left for Chile we had to research various things about Chile and it's culture. One of my topics was on the street art and I found a photo of a mural depicting a blue haired woman painted high in an alley. The photo stated it was in Valparaiso, but had no other details about where I could find her. Well, she's in an alley on Cerro Alegre.

Fascinated by the variations of the drawings and the respect artists have for each other (no picture was done on top of another), we took a bajillion pictures with our favorite pieces. We went up the hill and back down. On our descent, we all dropped our jaws and gasped to see a mural of a beautiful brown girl amplified along the wall of a warehouse. We had passed this corner before but none of us noticed the artwork that was behind us. Seeing it collectively as a group was amazing. We were so surprised, and excited, to see a girl who looked (sort of) like us so grandly displayed, especially in a country that has not hardly seen people with skin darker than a summer tan. Naturally we took pictures.

We also went to this art museum, Palacio Baburizza, that was extremely boring (and I really like art museums). There were almost no artwork done by Chilean artists and the few that were there were indistinguishable from the French and English artists we're familiar with. There were almost no depictions of the indigenous population in the works displayed. We did, however, find one moreno depicted in a painting. He was creeping in the background of a painting of two little (white) girls. It was weird.

We left the hill, mostly because we were suffering of hunger and needed a lunch break, and headed to the south of the city to see Pablo Neruda's house, La Sebastiana. It was a beautiful house overlooking the ocean. The audio tour that you listen to expressed how Neruda loved the sea and his home decor is a reflection of this. No photos were allowed to be taken, so I'll say that if you find yourself in Chile, take time to visit this house.

Valparaiso is a picturesque town and has a lot of character in it's architecture. The buildings and art tell a beautiful story. In comparison to Santiago, it is much less sterile and cold. Santiago is all steel and air pollution whereas Valpo is vibrant and open aired. It is probably one of the few places in this country that I'd visit again.

Poll: Would you rather....

A. Live in a beach house (because you love the ocean) but never be able to go near the water (no boating, swimming, fishing, etc.)

B. Live in an apartment/house of your desired size/style but never be able to leave (not go past your porch).

C. Be able to go outside freely but have to move/relocate every two years.

Leave your answers in the comment section!

...Raceiago?

I had an interesting conversation about race today.

The topic has come up many times since arriving in Chile amongst my program colleagues as we try to make sense of this cultural context we were dropped into.

When we selected to come to Chile for a research experience, I think we all had very different images of what Chile was and who Chilean people were. How they looked and talked. How they lived. How they danced. But in spite of a semester long course that was meant to introduce us to Chilean culture and history, none of us were prepared for what it is really like here. Particularly what it is like to be black in Chile.

I've mentioned in other posts about women asking (and not asking) to touch my hair and men whistling unwelcomed cat calls from their car windows at 8-o-clock in the morning (seriously guys, it's just too early for that; the sun isn't even up yet). Today was the first day I think I have been able to better articulate what I have been feeling about the interactions I have had here. 

First, let's take a step back.

I grew up in Ann Arbor, MI where most people are white and even the minority kids are often biracial with a white parent. I spent a lot of my life being too black for my classmates and not black enough for my black friends (and some family). Or at least that's how it felt. Being questioned about why I pronounce words the way I do (read: "you talk like a white girl"), if I tan in the summer time ("because your skin is, you know, already dark"). Girls asking me if I can teach them how to pop (I believe you youngins call it twerking these days). Adults asking me to read the welcome on Youth Day even though someone else volunteered to do it ("because you just speak so well"). 

I was often the only or one of two black students in my advanced placement classes (even though there were 4,000 students in my high school). Most of my teammates were white. For basketball, softball, track…you name it. By the time I got to college I was used to having people ask me about my black church, question if my black parents were still married, beg me to teach them how to “uh-oh” like Beyonce, show off their new cornrows from their trip to Cancun with their family for spring break. I was used to people being surprised to find out that I played in the orchestra at school, that I like knitting and that I read books for fun. Long books with no pictures. I am used to being an anomaly. I am not used to being novel.

I couldn’t figure out why I was so unusually bothered by Chilean women asking to touch my hair. Back home people ask all the time and I very promptly, but respectfully, say “No thank you, but I appreciate that you asked first.” Then I realized it wasn’t even the fact that they were inquiring about my hair that bothered me. It was the look of shock and awe that came along with the question that was, is, so unsettling.

Chile has had its fair share of political drama and social traumas. Race, as seen and interpreted by dominant culture here, has not been one of them. There are tense race relations between the indigenous people and euro-Chileans but for some reason it is not recognized as a race issue.

Today, I had an interesting conversation about race.

As native English speakers, a group of us were invited to talk with students in a graduate course practicing speaking in English in a scientific setting. The students came prepared with interview questions based on our individual bios. One question came up that sparked the race discussion:

“What do you think of Chile so far?”

One girl in our group opened her mouth, then shut it again, trying to gather her thoughts. Then she sighed and said, “let me preface my answer with, if you’re asking me if I’d come back to Chile, I would not.”

She went on to express the culture shock she and many of us have experienced; the ignorance we have experienced. Because of our skin and hair, people assume we are one of three things: Colombian, Brazilian, or Dominican. We are none of the above. There are very few black people in this country and the ones we see rarely are in a group larger than two people, very rarely make eye contact with us, and are even less likely to smile back when we try to acknowledge that we see them.

In the States, in my personal experience, black people in a mostly white community always acknowledge each other’s presence. With a smile, a nod, a handshake. If you don’t know what I’m talking about there is an episode of Blackish that explains “The Nod.” Needless to say, we were pretty sad when we realized we didn’t have a way to connect with the people who look like us. So our less than ideal situation got worse. (We left this part out of explaining our sentiments regarding this country.)

The professor of the class, who had studied in New Jersey and experienced race in the US and has a basic understanding for the history of race relations in the US was empathetic to our interpretation of Chile. Chile is very homogenous. To quote the professor, “everyone looks the same, everyone talks the same, everyone thinks the same, everyone is the same.” Thus, seeing anyone who does not fit the very narrow mold that is “Chilean” is very strange and new. Immigration to this country is very recent, not even 20 years have passed, and only about 5 years since black Latinos from other South and Central American countries showed up. So the comments about my hair and skin, although they are very annoying and frustrating, come from a place of innocence and curiosity. My blackness isn’t really a race thing, but more of a lack of exposure thing.

It makes me uncomfortable to be in a place where everyone is unaware that their well-meaning comments and questions would be seen as inappropriate where I’m from. It makes me uncomfortable to be in a place that historically has been so closed off to what has been happening in the rest of the world, heck the rest of the continent. It makes me uncomfortable to be in a position of teaching people about my people and my culture all the time. It’s exhausting.

On campus when I encounter white ignorance and when people expect me to speak for the entirety of the black race, I can point out how inappropriate that expectation is and refer them to Google to get their embarrassing race questions answered. In Chile even if I sent them to Google they have no frame of reference for what “black” and “white” mean for US Americans.

We went from a position of being mostly invisible at home, except for basketball players and musical entertainers, and being silenced when we speak out about racial injustices that are still happening today, to a place where we have the spotlight on us all the time. There is no place to blend in. There is no community of refuge. And we weren’t prepared for that. No one told us. This was not in our pre-travel seminars.

...Hillstiago?

Cerro San Cristobal...you thought you could defeat me.

From my bedroom window I have a pretty great view of La Concepcion Inmaculada (Virgin Mary) del Cerro San Cristobal. She stands tall and regal in the distance, looking over the city. She is illuminated at night, giving off a peaceful and angelic glow over all of the commotion of Santiago. I asked my host if there was a way to go and see it up close. The statue is visited by thousands of people every day, some even have frequent visitor cards (jk, there's no such thing).

We decided one Sunday to take the hike up the mountainside to see the giant glowing Virgen. Walking to Parque Metropolitano we passed by a street blocked off for a ciclobia, where there were families and couples and friends and neighbors biking and rollerblading and running. On the weekends the different comunas have different healthy-lifestyle promoting events and this is one of the more common events, especially in the summer.

Successfully avoiding getting run over by cyclists and bladers, we arrived at the park and saw that we could take one of two paths...the one up a concrete street that was occupied by less than ideal drivers or one through the  woods which seemed to more direct according to the map. We went with the woods.

We started off the journey lost. We couldn't figure out which path was the correct path that matched what we saw on the map. So we just kept walking toward what seemed to be closer to the top of the hill. At one point we were greeted by a stray dog that would walk ahead of us then wait for us to catch up, like he was playing follow the leader. After a while Kamaria named him Jesus (spanish pronunciation) as he seemed to be our guide through the wilderness. And the dog was right. He lead us up the mountain....well halfway up the mountain. That is when he ditched us for some wild hooligans that came sprinting down the mountain, jumping over logs and swinging from branches like Peter Pan's lost boys. I guess he thought they were more fun.

After we lost our canine captain, we had to rely on our Girl Scout skills and extremely vague trail signs. The signs were probably the least helpful thing I've ever seen. They don't tell you what color trail you're on. Which direction you should be walking in. Just a picture of a generic mountain with an arrow that says "you are here." No reference to the statue or the exit. It just assumed you knew where you were going.

After a series of coin flipping and following other hikers we finally found a way back to the cement path where we were safe from being hopelessly lost in the woods forever, never to be seen or heard of again. Another half hour later we finally reached the summit and stood before the Virgin in a sanctuary full of Sunday worshipers and non-Catholic tourists. The atmosphere was mostly reverential, aside from the teenagers who were running around. Some couples were there visiting a memorial sight. Old people were in the gift shop purchasing memorabilia and home decor. It was quite incredible to have an up close view of the woman I had seen in the distance from my bedroom window. It was also ironic how she looked so clean and holy from afar only to realize she was a pigeon stoop up close. Birds. Have they no respect?!

We stayed to see some local vendors, ate some really good popcorn and roasted peanuts and made the wise, wise decision to take the funicular down instead of risking getting lost in the woods again or getting hit by one of Chile's finest drivers. The funicular looked a little sketchy, but we were assured by an employee eager to use his English that the suspensions had been newly replaced so we were perfectly safe.

Sore legs and all, I can say that I have climbed up a mountain and lived to tell the tale. Ok, so it's really a big hill...details.

Poll! (I know you love these, right!)

What was the craziest thing we saw on our way up the hill.
A. Small children walking alone in the woods
B. A man doing a handstand on the guardrail
C. Fire breathing street performers
D. A crazy stray cat circling around itself
E. Kids doing crazy soccer tricks for spare change


Place your bets in the comment section!

....Oceantiago?

Chile had a Dia Feriado the third Thursday in May aka long weekend for us! On Thursday basically everything was shut down to commemorate the day the Chile won the war against Peru (which left Bolivia landlocked and without access to water and has been the source of problems between the countries ever since, but...). The President, Michelle Bachelet, made a speech about boring political stuff, and made some remarks about education reform (a hot topic here) and all while this was happening I was in a charter bus traveling to the ocean. A whole protest happened and we missed it.

With our unearned vacation days, we decided to take advantage of the opportunity to see more of Chile. Just buying the bus tickets was an adventure as we tried to swim upstream in the Friday evening rush hour commotion of the Tobalaba Metro Station.We found two different bus companies: one was poorly lit, jam packed and looked like it would take years to get a ticket, but a popular service, the other was bright, clean, and basically empty. We went to the empty one. The tickets didn't cost any more, and the women who were vaguely dressed like flight attendants were quite amiable and super helpful.

A week after our big purchase, we beat the sun and got on an early bus to Viña del Mar...barely. The metro station decided to take a bit of a vacation and not open until 8:00am, two hours later than normal. This wouldn't have been a problem if our bus didn't leave the station at 8:45 and most of us lived about 40 minutes away without accounting for the time it takes to transfer trains, walk through the station, etc...Thankfully we didn't have to leave anybody behind, although we seriously considered it when two people accidentally missed their transfer train. 

Viña del Mar is a cute little beach town. Our weekend shelter was on the 10th floor of an apartment building right on the beach (yes, with a view). We woke up to salty ocean air, early bird wakeboarders, and runners and zumba enthusiasts of all shapes and sizes. In a country where obesity is a bigger problem than in the US (shocking, right), it was nice to see a community that was taking physical activity seriously. We spent a good chunk of time that weekend walking up and down the beach, people watching, window-less shopping, and trying to forget about our lack of wifi.

One night we went to a discoteca, Xtreme (so cliche) where the DJ played a bunch of early 2000's R&B and reggaeton hits...just for us. It was funny at first, but we quickly grew annoyed with all of the English lyrics. Seriously, I  did not go all the way to Chile to listen to Sean Paul and Lumidee sing about their teenage romances. Once the locals packed in out went the english songs and in came what we were looking for. It was pretty fun, mostly because the people felt the need to comment on how they knew we weren't from there not because of our obvious complexion differences, but because we could dance and Chilean girls are rhythmically challenged. But there was this one older woman who was showing us up, busting out what were sure to have been the latest moves from her beach zumba class.

It was a nice long weekend. I can finally say I have been in the Pacific Ocean! 

Poll: The club wasn't the only place where we heard American pop & RnB classics. Guess what song was playing at McDonalds:

A. Gettin Jiggy with It - Will Smith
B Thriller - Michael Jackson
C. Yeah - Usher
D. All of the above
E. None of the above, McDonald's doesn't play music.

Answer in the comment section!

...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!