I´ve decided Chile is a magical, magical, magical place. I couldn´t think of a better synonym, there.
Only in this country do you have Brujaterias (witch stores, literally,) national epics with table-shaking psychics, and tarot readers as populous as clandestine stolen-watch vendors.
A couple weeks ago I fled to a small wine region in the south called el valle Colchagua, at the invitation of a good friend, Luis. His home is featured in some of the images below, an ancient, 16th century fundo. The fundo system is very similar to the colonial North American seigneurial system of wealth distribution: a rich and influential patrón (often a Spaniard, or one from an "old family," despite the fact that everyone is a scion of a long lineage) controls the land and finances of a small community of workers, whom often congregate around the main house for holidays or festivals, seek education from employed schoolmistresses (if they´re lucky,) and get medical treatment every few months (again, if they´re lucky.) In this fundo, there was a chapel (which would put most North American Unitarian hardware stores to shame) and theatre to seat 300. Luis´ family held this home for generations, until the socialist regime of Salvador Allende, in the early 1970s, when it was annexed, and 25 families moved in.
You can imagine the scale of this place.
Three years of socialism, depending on whom you talk to, was either a curse or blessing for this country, but ultimately led to a bloody military coup on September 11th, 1973, under the iron fist of Augusto Pinochet. I´m oversimplifying here, but it was messy. Estimates range from 3,000 to 30,000 dead, depending on whom you talk to. Some of these dead were the more outspoken inhabitants of Luis´ fundo; shot, or worse, in some of the various courtyards of this cloistered labyrinth.
Fast forward a few decades and we have a decadent Jordan, relaxing with some friends in hedonistic splendour on what is esentially a chilean burial ground. Smoking fantastic Senegalese pot, drinking enough red wine to drown Dionysus, and listening to live Mapuche throat-singing with Luis´ 35 dogs. 35.
The first night I had trouble sleeping, despite the wine, women and song, but decided to take a walk in the courtyard. Before I opened my door (they all lead outside) I heard footsteps in the gravel. Expecting someone to be taking a stroll, I opened the door, only to find horror movie-grade backlit trees and that misty moonlit miasma you think would only exist in a Friedrich painting (a little overdone, I´ll admit, but I´m setting the ambiance.) Nobody was outside. I went back to bed, a little perturbed (I heard the footsteps, really) and they started again. With some distilled courage, I decided to open my door again, and, nothing. Eventually I fell asleep.
The next morning, over breakfast, I told one of the housekeepers, Luz, about the footsteps. She crossed herself (honestly,) and told me to be careful. She had heard sounds of children crying a couple of times, sometimes right outside her window. Luis had heard the footsteps the night before and said it was nothing new. The day proceeded like any other in the country, taking tours, chasing ducks, playing with puppies, reading Borges, profound conversations in countless languages, pretense. That night I went to bed late.
This time the footsteps were louder. This time they were dragging something heavy, back and forth. I was less drunk and less courageous, but convinced this couldn´t be phantasmic, perhaps one of the gardeners working ludicrously early. I opened my door and the footsteps abruptly stopped. Nothing. I closed my door, and not a second afterward, something SLAMMED into my door. It felt like the whole wall shook. I locked it with hopeful futility and tried to sleep, which didn´t happen until dawn.
An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little before it will explain itself.
...I can´t wait to get back there.
27.6.06
4.6.06
30.5.06
I literally smell a riot.
I drove back from San Juan de Pirque this afternoon, and the city smelled worse than usual. It wasn´t a wave of nostalgia that brought tears to my eyes, having spent only a few nights on a mountainside in the country, but tear gas.
Actual tear gas.
It turns out I´ve missed quite the party in my neighbourhood. Students of Colegios in Santiago are protesting for more fund allocation, a story we´re all familiar with. Public education in this country isn´t very good, from what I´ve gathered, and the student´s protest headquarters is about 2 blocks from my house. The carabiñeros (military police,) with their AK-47s, are a little intimidating not to mention the bonfires in the streets.
I´m shedding a single, perfect tear for their plight... Or maybe it´s just the acrid miasma of opression.
Actual tear gas.
It turns out I´ve missed quite the party in my neighbourhood. Students of Colegios in Santiago are protesting for more fund allocation, a story we´re all familiar with. Public education in this country isn´t very good, from what I´ve gathered, and the student´s protest headquarters is about 2 blocks from my house. The carabiñeros (military police,) with their AK-47s, are a little intimidating not to mention the bonfires in the streets.
I´m shedding a single, perfect tear for their plight... Or maybe it´s just the acrid miasma of opression.
22.5.06
Pedantic Semantics. (See what I did there?)
Spanish is an interesting language.
In a formal mode, when addressing someone, you use the he/she/it form of a given verb. Mira:
You, familiar friend, have: tienes. He, that guy over there with the revolutionary scarf, has: tiene. You, important man I don´t know, have: tiene. In French, you address formally with the second person plural (and the accompanying vous,) perhaps having something to do with their largesse. In Spanish, you use the third person singular.
It´s like linguistically avoiding eye contact, or the inadvertant, shoe-gazing glare of a servant.
In a formal mode, when addressing someone, you use the he/she/it form of a given verb. Mira:
You, familiar friend, have: tienes. He, that guy over there with the revolutionary scarf, has: tiene. You, important man I don´t know, have: tiene. In French, you address formally with the second person plural (and the accompanying vous,) perhaps having something to do with their largesse. In Spanish, you use the third person singular.
It´s like linguistically avoiding eye contact, or the inadvertant, shoe-gazing glare of a servant.
21.5.06
18.5.06
Rumble in the Barrio.
Enough of the maudlin posts.
I´m back in Chile. It´s good to be home. I really missed the voracious school girls, the excess of mayo, the atmosphere of magic realism mixed with bus pollution, the curious foreign glares.
Last night the sunset made the sky look like it was on fire. Then I woke up this morning to an earthquake. God, it was fun. Ragnarockin´ if you will.
You´d think it would be terrifying, your whole apartment moving around, but it felt more... ludicrous. I guess because there´s really nowhere to run, you sort of resign yourself to the futility of escape and enjoy the bumps. It was barely a big one by Ring of Fire standards, but you could definitely feel it. My bed moved, unrelated to any ouija turbulence.
It was a nice welcome. I just wish I had someone to greet me at the airport with a slow-motion clap. I´ve always felt worthy of one, but they never seem to happen.
Grumble.
I´m back in Chile. It´s good to be home. I really missed the voracious school girls, the excess of mayo, the atmosphere of magic realism mixed with bus pollution, the curious foreign glares.
Last night the sunset made the sky look like it was on fire. Then I woke up this morning to an earthquake. God, it was fun. Ragnarockin´ if you will.
You´d think it would be terrifying, your whole apartment moving around, but it felt more... ludicrous. I guess because there´s really nowhere to run, you sort of resign yourself to the futility of escape and enjoy the bumps. It was barely a big one by Ring of Fire standards, but you could definitely feel it. My bed moved, unrelated to any ouija turbulence.
It was a nice welcome. I just wish I had someone to greet me at the airport with a slow-motion clap. I´ve always felt worthy of one, but they never seem to happen.
Grumble.
5.5.06
Lahja Söderberg.
My mummo passed away last week, and I'm in Canada for the funeral.
In fact, she's sitting in a jar next to me right now in a velvet bag. I'm trying not to look at it too much.
It's funny how much you learn about a loved one when they pass. I was very proud of the life she lived and the lives she touched after her 96 years. Imagine living through countless wars, failed promises and dance crazes. Friends with welled eyes recalled stories of her wrestling in Finland, her lime green Mustang with white leather interior, her repeated marriage proposals from gruff miners, and all of her fire and brimstone in South Porcupine, Ontario. Most of the service was in Finnish, and if you think Finns are dark, check out a funeral. It felt like a David Lynch film, only harder to follow the plot.
If any good had to come of this it's that we reconnected with my mom's brother, his wife, and four kids. Losing a family member swelled our family significantly. I have cousins who look like me, who have similar tastes in wine, women and song. Cousin Carl even likes Arrested Development.
If anyone actually reads this thing, I've copied a section of the eulogy I delivered. It was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.
"Lahja Soderberg has been old as long as I can remember, but never in spirit. Though separated in these last few years by a continent, our mummo has never been far from our thoughts and our hearts.
Mummo left her native Finland at the age of 18. She arrived in this country on the day of her 19th birthday, dragging meager suitcase and new hope. She wanted a new start in the new world, a place where she could begin again and truly create something. Myself, my brother, my sister, my cousins, my entire family live as the next chapters of this beginning. She came a long way for a new life on a voyage we can't even fathom. She crossed oceans of fear, of uncertainty, and of exhaustion, with few possessions and bigger dreams.
Such voyages no longer exist in this world. But instead, live inside of us as we carry on our lives, here in Canada.
To me, Lahja Soderberg was the perpetual chaser. I was a nightmare as a child. She was the braider and baker of pulla, the matriarch with the funny accent, and the singer of hilarious Finnish children's rhymes about flatulent dogs. I used to play with the flubby skin on her arms that made her laugh and her eyes crinkle. Her eyes were always crinkly.
A little old lady with the fire of heaven, Mummo lived a truly remarkable life. I have always been proud of what she has accomplished here with us, with her works. I hope that in 75 years I can look back upon the creation of a dynasty, the generations of blondes in my wake the way I hope she did in her last days. I hope one day to have a family of my own, carrying on her voyage in their hearts.
Mummo, we love you, and you will be missed, everyday."
I really hope she's somewhere else, other than in this velvet bag in the livingroom. Tell your grandparents you love them.
In fact, she's sitting in a jar next to me right now in a velvet bag. I'm trying not to look at it too much.
It's funny how much you learn about a loved one when they pass. I was very proud of the life she lived and the lives she touched after her 96 years. Imagine living through countless wars, failed promises and dance crazes. Friends with welled eyes recalled stories of her wrestling in Finland, her lime green Mustang with white leather interior, her repeated marriage proposals from gruff miners, and all of her fire and brimstone in South Porcupine, Ontario. Most of the service was in Finnish, and if you think Finns are dark, check out a funeral. It felt like a David Lynch film, only harder to follow the plot.
If any good had to come of this it's that we reconnected with my mom's brother, his wife, and four kids. Losing a family member swelled our family significantly. I have cousins who look like me, who have similar tastes in wine, women and song. Cousin Carl even likes Arrested Development.
If anyone actually reads this thing, I've copied a section of the eulogy I delivered. It was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.
"Lahja Soderberg has been old as long as I can remember, but never in spirit. Though separated in these last few years by a continent, our mummo has never been far from our thoughts and our hearts.
Mummo left her native Finland at the age of 18. She arrived in this country on the day of her 19th birthday, dragging meager suitcase and new hope. She wanted a new start in the new world, a place where she could begin again and truly create something. Myself, my brother, my sister, my cousins, my entire family live as the next chapters of this beginning. She came a long way for a new life on a voyage we can't even fathom. She crossed oceans of fear, of uncertainty, and of exhaustion, with few possessions and bigger dreams.
Such voyages no longer exist in this world. But instead, live inside of us as we carry on our lives, here in Canada.
To me, Lahja Soderberg was the perpetual chaser. I was a nightmare as a child. She was the braider and baker of pulla, the matriarch with the funny accent, and the singer of hilarious Finnish children's rhymes about flatulent dogs. I used to play with the flubby skin on her arms that made her laugh and her eyes crinkle. Her eyes were always crinkly.
A little old lady with the fire of heaven, Mummo lived a truly remarkable life. I have always been proud of what she has accomplished here with us, with her works. I hope that in 75 years I can look back upon the creation of a dynasty, the generations of blondes in my wake the way I hope she did in her last days. I hope one day to have a family of my own, carrying on her voyage in their hearts.
Mummo, we love you, and you will be missed, everyday."
I really hope she's somewhere else, other than in this velvet bag in the livingroom. Tell your grandparents you love them.
9.4.06
Gloves, loves and Amanda Lepore.
Trying to speak a new language is like trying on a glove you find in the gutter. The reluctance, the disgust, the potential comfort of a gooey new dialect all seem to be possibilities. Secretly you want to try it but you´re afraid you´ll contract something embarassing or maybe slip your hand inside only to find it fits, it´s warm, and you like it.
I´m practicing Spanish everyday. The lovely Piña is helping me a lot, when we´re not making out. It´s just frustrating because I know I sound like an idiot. It would be nice to be oblivious, but unfortunately it´s not my style. I´ve grown accustomed to sounding eloquent and anything less is compromise.
Aside from sounding intelligent, I miss my friends, red licorice, and Tim Horton´s coffee, whose marketing engine would be pleased to find is consistently nostalgiac among the few Canadians I meet. Not because it´s particularly good, only because it´s one of the few symbols we have left to cling to.
Machu Picchu has been moved to the middle of next week. Instead, here´s something completely different.
I´m practicing Spanish everyday. The lovely Piña is helping me a lot, when we´re not making out. It´s just frustrating because I know I sound like an idiot. It would be nice to be oblivious, but unfortunately it´s not my style. I´ve grown accustomed to sounding eloquent and anything less is compromise.
Aside from sounding intelligent, I miss my friends, red licorice, and Tim Horton´s coffee, whose marketing engine would be pleased to find is consistently nostalgiac among the few Canadians I meet. Not because it´s particularly good, only because it´s one of the few symbols we have left to cling to.
Machu Picchu has been moved to the middle of next week. Instead, here´s something completely different.
1.4.06
Trippity Serendipity.
It´s funny how blondes stick together.
I´ve been making a serious effort to avoid the cynical expats living down here (they fan themselves in their linen and complain about a lack of balsamic vinegar,) but it seems unavoidable to strike up conversations with other gringos. Right now I can have noun conversations with my Chileans. ¨Glass?¨ ¨Yes, glass.¨ ¨Table?¨ ...and so on. It gets a little old. Anyway, it´s refreshing to be found somewhat interesting, and not just a linguistic charity case. But I digress.
Buying a cactus in Providencia, I was caught on some hidden camera show. Sensing a ruse, I toyed with this faux police officer who demanded my passport and to search my bag. Taking an exaggerated whiff of my backpack, he quizzically asked ¨Drugs?¨ to which I responded ¨I´ve got plenty, just take what you want.¨ Fortunately the sweet gremlin of a Señora who sold me the cactus interceded on my behalf and whacked him over the head with a palm leaf.
Who am I?
Anyway, some lovely blonde girls had seen this bizarre scene from afar, and offered to translate the release form I had to sign afterward. They invited me to a vegan barbeque. What, pray tell, does one eat at a VEGAN barbeque? Anyway. The recommended an organic restaurant near my apartment that has the sexiest serving staff I´ve ever seen. I´ve decided to become a regular.
Eating brunch there this morning some adorable German girls invited me to go to Machu Picchu. I leave on Thursday.
Jordan.
I´ve been making a serious effort to avoid the cynical expats living down here (they fan themselves in their linen and complain about a lack of balsamic vinegar,) but it seems unavoidable to strike up conversations with other gringos. Right now I can have noun conversations with my Chileans. ¨Glass?¨ ¨Yes, glass.¨ ¨Table?¨ ...and so on. It gets a little old. Anyway, it´s refreshing to be found somewhat interesting, and not just a linguistic charity case. But I digress.
Buying a cactus in Providencia, I was caught on some hidden camera show. Sensing a ruse, I toyed with this faux police officer who demanded my passport and to search my bag. Taking an exaggerated whiff of my backpack, he quizzically asked ¨Drugs?¨ to which I responded ¨I´ve got plenty, just take what you want.¨ Fortunately the sweet gremlin of a Señora who sold me the cactus interceded on my behalf and whacked him over the head with a palm leaf.
Who am I?
Anyway, some lovely blonde girls had seen this bizarre scene from afar, and offered to translate the release form I had to sign afterward. They invited me to a vegan barbeque. What, pray tell, does one eat at a VEGAN barbeque? Anyway. The recommended an organic restaurant near my apartment that has the sexiest serving staff I´ve ever seen. I´ve decided to become a regular.
Eating brunch there this morning some adorable German girls invited me to go to Machu Picchu. I leave on Thursday.
Jordan.
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