...is getting and Armadillo.
Alive, from a petstore, for 50 lukas.
Chile.
25.7.06
22.7.06
Chilenismos, Chickenismos.
Over the past few months of living in this long, skinny nation of classist latinos and humiliated llamas, I´ve grown quite fond of their funny little Spanish dialect. I honestly think there are generally fewer synonyms in Castellano than in English. This isn´t intended as a valuative judgement, but my teeny dictionary has led me to believe this is true. Anyways, as a result, there is a collection of bizarre sayings and modismos (Spanish slang) indigenous only to Chile, providing subtlety where simple adjectives won´t suffice. Many of which involve chicken.
Yes, chicken.
Let´s consider this national obsession with pollo. In list form.
1. Hueon.
Translation: Asshole, buddy, friend, dickhead, compadre.
Etymology: Huevo, or egg. Potentially the most important word in Chileno.
2. Pololo. (Polola.)
Translation: Boyfriend, (girlfriend.)
Etymology: Play on pollo, or chicken.
3. Pico.
Translation: Crude way of saying wang.
Etymology: From the Spanish word for beak.
4. Pollo sobre la velador.
Translation: Having an affair.
Etymology: Motels spring up in Santiago like mushrooms. They are designed for
infidelity, and even have privacy-curtain car air-locks in their parking garages to preserve modesty. Most popular times to rent a room are during lunch hour on weekdays, where they serve you a quick bite with your quick bite. Means chicken on the nightstand.
5. Huevas.
Translation: Balls.
Etymology: Eggs. Feminine eggs. Can´t explain this.
There are more. Many more. I bring this up with Chileans and they have no idea what I´m talking about, it´s so ingrained, so absorbed in the fabric, this culture of chicken, that they don´t see it everywhere. Only with foreigners can I discuss this phenomenon. It´s not like there are a lot of chickens here, or anything... at least not more than anywhere else. Although, for real, sometimes Chilean chicken eggs are blue. Honest. Spade a spade.
I suppose English has a little bit of this, but definitely not as much as the Chilenos. What´s a Saturday night, afterall, without some cock and chicks?
Yes, chicken.
Let´s consider this national obsession with pollo. In list form.
1. Hueon.
Translation: Asshole, buddy, friend, dickhead, compadre.
Etymology: Huevo, or egg. Potentially the most important word in Chileno.
2. Pololo. (Polola.)
Translation: Boyfriend, (girlfriend.)
Etymology: Play on pollo, or chicken.
3. Pico.
Translation: Crude way of saying wang.
Etymology: From the Spanish word for beak.
4. Pollo sobre la velador.
Translation: Having an affair.
Etymology: Motels spring up in Santiago like mushrooms. They are designed for
infidelity, and even have privacy-curtain car air-locks in their parking garages to preserve modesty. Most popular times to rent a room are during lunch hour on weekdays, where they serve you a quick bite with your quick bite. Means chicken on the nightstand.
5. Huevas.
Translation: Balls.
Etymology: Eggs. Feminine eggs. Can´t explain this.
There are more. Many more. I bring this up with Chileans and they have no idea what I´m talking about, it´s so ingrained, so absorbed in the fabric, this culture of chicken, that they don´t see it everywhere. Only with foreigners can I discuss this phenomenon. It´s not like there are a lot of chickens here, or anything... at least not more than anywhere else. Although, for real, sometimes Chilean chicken eggs are blue. Honest. Spade a spade.
I suppose English has a little bit of this, but definitely not as much as the Chilenos. What´s a Saturday night, afterall, without some cock and chicks?
14.7.06
People don´t rue enough things these days.
It´s a great verb.
Let´s take blogger, for example, who´s code is so messed I can´t provide proper epithets for my photos.
However, can you really rue anything other than "the day"?
Allow me to provide captions.
1. Protecting the precious, precious grass from invading urbanism. Due to earthquakes, much of Santiago lies on shakey ground, and you see a lot of matchstick support pillars buttressing walls and buildings. Vacant lots are everywhere in my neighbourhood and look like these little urban-renewal sanctuaries, when in fact it´s a product of economic collapse. Cute.
2. The white elephant of the singing forest. Construction projects that lose funding become a nightmare for municipal beauracracy here, and often are left as half-resurrected lazarus pits, called white elephants in Chileno. When the wind is right this place whistles, hopefully.
3. Speed lines.
4. The leperous cathedral.
5. Noli me tangere.
6. In vino ventas.
7. And now for the swimsuit competition.
8. Mediocre landscape.
9. Peeling bubblegum baroque.
10. Geeze, Guevara (Dam, 2006)
11. Rue.
Let´s take blogger, for example, who´s code is so messed I can´t provide proper epithets for my photos.
However, can you really rue anything other than "the day"?
Allow me to provide captions.
1. Protecting the precious, precious grass from invading urbanism. Due to earthquakes, much of Santiago lies on shakey ground, and you see a lot of matchstick support pillars buttressing walls and buildings. Vacant lots are everywhere in my neighbourhood and look like these little urban-renewal sanctuaries, when in fact it´s a product of economic collapse. Cute.
2. The white elephant of the singing forest. Construction projects that lose funding become a nightmare for municipal beauracracy here, and often are left as half-resurrected lazarus pits, called white elephants in Chileno. When the wind is right this place whistles, hopefully.
3. Speed lines.
4. The leperous cathedral.
5. Noli me tangere.
6. In vino ventas.
7. And now for the swimsuit competition.
8. Mediocre landscape.
9. Peeling bubblegum baroque.
10. Geeze, Guevara (Dam, 2006)
11. Rue.
11.7.06
10.7.06
Everything in lists from now on.
1. I accidentally bought PIG CHEESE at the grocery store. Made from pig´s milk. Is this edible? I have no idea. Is this normal? Evidently in Chile. Sow teet squeezings.
2. Sow teets.
3. I was given a gigantic promotional sign for Bilz y Pap, spokesaliens for the most terrifying, bad trippy, papaya flavoured soda. He always watches. The lidless eyes.
4. There´s a fantastic chilean modismo about wandering through the world of Bilz y Pap, which basically means either detached oblivion or paralyzing hallucinations.
5. Lidless eyes.
6. I lost my cellphone about 3 weeks ago and I´m feeling more liberated than usual. I´ve decided to try and grow a beard.
7. Of bees.
8. Daza, my streetwalker puppy, lost a tooth chewing my onitsuka tigers (sic.) It was tragic, poetically just, and simultaneously cute, until it dawned on me she may be addicted to heroin.
9. Remember pig cheese? Imagine the aftertaste.
10. I walked into the pharmacy to buy bandaids (Cruce Verde - think Shoppers Drugmart) and there were 6 stray dogs sleeping in piles of sawdust. In a fancy boutiquey drugstore.
11. The word for drag queen in Spanish is travesti. Homo-nyms.
12. My friend Pablo fed me entrails. Innards. Steaming innards, with parmesean cheese. Must think of way of getting back at him.
13. The lockerroom at my gym reminds me of Rough Trick Night at the Black Eagle.
14. Everything is delivered in this city via bicycle with lawnmower motors. Including porno. When will North America learn.
15. I planted pot seeds in the plaza in front of my house. Time lapse photography to follow.
16. I´m auditioning for Chilean television next week.
17. Got a tour of the slums (horribly called the poverty tour) by a couple friends. Felt nauseous. Some people live in BAGS.
18. Had a full-on, wasted conversation in Portuguese. Portuguese is bad, drunk Spanish. Burned face with joint. Scarred for life, heading to Buenos Aires for some backseat, backalley skin grafts.
19. Sarah arrives in 3 weeks.
20. Are any of you goddamn people actually going to visit me?
2. Sow teets.
3. I was given a gigantic promotional sign for Bilz y Pap, spokesaliens for the most terrifying, bad trippy, papaya flavoured soda. He always watches. The lidless eyes.
4. There´s a fantastic chilean modismo about wandering through the world of Bilz y Pap, which basically means either detached oblivion or paralyzing hallucinations.
5. Lidless eyes.
6. I lost my cellphone about 3 weeks ago and I´m feeling more liberated than usual. I´ve decided to try and grow a beard.
7. Of bees.
8. Daza, my streetwalker puppy, lost a tooth chewing my onitsuka tigers (sic.) It was tragic, poetically just, and simultaneously cute, until it dawned on me she may be addicted to heroin.
9. Remember pig cheese? Imagine the aftertaste.
10. I walked into the pharmacy to buy bandaids (Cruce Verde - think Shoppers Drugmart) and there were 6 stray dogs sleeping in piles of sawdust. In a fancy boutiquey drugstore.
11. The word for drag queen in Spanish is travesti. Homo-nyms.
12. My friend Pablo fed me entrails. Innards. Steaming innards, with parmesean cheese. Must think of way of getting back at him.
13. The lockerroom at my gym reminds me of Rough Trick Night at the Black Eagle.
14. Everything is delivered in this city via bicycle with lawnmower motors. Including porno. When will North America learn.
15. I planted pot seeds in the plaza in front of my house. Time lapse photography to follow.
16. I´m auditioning for Chilean television next week.
17. Got a tour of the slums (horribly called the poverty tour) by a couple friends. Felt nauseous. Some people live in BAGS.
18. Had a full-on, wasted conversation in Portuguese. Portuguese is bad, drunk Spanish. Burned face with joint. Scarred for life, heading to Buenos Aires for some backseat, backalley skin grafts.
19. Sarah arrives in 3 weeks.
20. Are any of you goddamn people actually going to visit me?
30.6.06
Como sobrevivir en los fundos embrujados.
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.
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
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