Bienvenido Amor!
Is the song that's playing while I sit here drinking a cup of Nescafe instant coffee. The entrepreneurial side of me kicks in. A man could make an absolute killing if he were to open up a cafe that sold real (non instant) coffee down here. Then the thread in my mind really starts to unravel. No, it wouldn't be about the money at all, but rather providing a product that Valparaiso desperately needs. Why stop at coffee? I could import fullbodied microbrews from the Pacific northwest by the half barrell as well... Some seriously bomb breakfast scrambles with fresh bell peppers, onions, potatoes, eggs topped with a light layer of cheese and some Aji de Chile sauce that taste good any time of the day. Burritos, which are also extremely scarce down here, and quesadillas with some imported pepperjack cheese might be appreciated as well. So anyone who is interested, let me know how much money you're willing to put up and I'll find the Chilean contact who can get the business license so it is legitimate. Just a small project for the future.
Despite the non existant ¨real¨ coffee, microbrews and burritos, life here is absolutely amazing. Two weeks in, and I have already fallen in love with the city and the Chilean people. The majority of Chileans that I have met are super nice, willing to talk, and go about their days in a relatively unhurried manner. Unless of course they're in a hurry. What ¨we¨ would call politeness when walking on the street, such as letting people pass in front of you, or waiting your turn to cross the street, is a little different here. No one seems to get offended when another pedestrian gets cut off, but rather calmly find another way around. Possibly this isn't an intrinsic social fact, specific to Chile, but of big cities in general. And Valparaiso is a big city indeed. The other day, I walked up to Cerro Bellavista, one of the most touristic hills in Valpo. The world renowned poet/writer Pablo Neruda had a house, now called La Sebastiana that exists as a museum, on this hill. I was originally intending on visiting the late Neruda's house, but decided to walk as far up the insanely steep hill as my dogs would carry me. With only a few rest stops, I made it to where the dirt roads adorned wth enormous ruts begin, and the old pavement ends. With a beautiful view (as the name implies), I could see all the way past Viña to the sand dunes of Reñaca to the north, Valpo's port district to the south, and many house strewn hills in between. With the setting sun illuminating the ships in the harbor, I started the great descent and thanked the cosmos for life as I know it.
Since the last time I dropped some lines out to ya'll in tv and radio land I have gotten sick and recovered. Yes, I survived! A friend kept telling me to go to the pharmacy and get pills that are sold over the counter that would supposedly make you feel better. I was skeptical, but when the cough, sinus discomfort and colored nasal discharge failed to cease, I took my friend's advice and trekked down to Cruz Verde pharmacy to investigate. I informed the pharmacist what symptoms I was experiencing and she produced a small box out of her synthetic drug stash in the back. I didn't feel too comforted when she told me to take a pill every 6 hours and then asked the young cashier standing next to her if that was correct... With a here goes nothin' attitude, the miracle pills got me back on my feet carreteando in no time flat. Pharmacies are like rabbits here, on just about every corner, without their furry, biological counterpart's high reproductive rate.
I also bought a cell phone off the street. Skeptical about this endeavor, I asked my friends to accompany me so I didn't get ripped off. I like the fact that I paid $20 dollars for the phone, microchip and charger, and another $20 for the minutes I put on it. Later on that day, a fella called me saying that the phone belonged to his uncle, an unfortunate soul that had his phone stolen. But my conscience remained intact, bad things happen to good people all the time. And I had just invested $40 bucks in improving my social life abroad. Our friend from Western, and also my former next door neighbor, Marie, had her purse stolen right out from under her nose while she and her friends were sitting in a circleon the beach in Viña. Not aggressive robbery, but sneaky for sure. So far, I've been fortunate and have taken good care to guard my belongings. Knock on wood.
A side note from the present moment, a ragged looking gentleman just stumbled up to the bar where I am seated immediately to my right. With a rough voice, he asks the bar tender for a glass of wine, which the barkeep produces in an enormous, antique jug from behind the bar. Pouring the man a glass of clear wine, the vagabond lets it sit there for a minute or two eyeing it wondrously. In one fell swoop, the man downs the glass of fermented drink followed by a series of hacking coughs then pacing restlessly around the bar. I am reminded at the dangers of alchohol and its potential to destroy lives and consume its consumer. But really the bar is a cool little joint with Italian decorations, an old, sturdy bar top and a couple of regulars seated at a table. The old music playing at a comfortable volume in Italian versions of You Are The Sunshine Of My Life and It's 5 O'clock give priceless ambiance to this old haunt. And it's also during times like these that I realize just how beautiful yet fragile life is and how fortunate I am to be me. I think the bartender knew the man had no money, but as willing to provide the man with a glass of his favorite, destructive vice nonetheless.
Another excellent time here in Chile came on Saturday with a couple hours of basketball. About 15 to 18 people showed up, only 4 of those being gringos and the rest Chilenos. I was sick at the time, but decided to play anyway. I once again realized shortly in, that I love to play pick up games of basketball. Some of the opponents were good, others were piss poor, and others could shoot, lights out, with a hand in their face on command. It was almost dark when we stopped, not by choice, but because there were no lights and the compound we were playing in was closing. I find myself waiting for next Saturday at 3 o'clockto roll around to hoop once again.
They say that when you start dreaming in a foreign language, you really have it down. By no means am I claiming to be an expert, but I had my first dream in Spanish last night. It was ultra strange because I was conversing with my 10 year old cousin from Michigan, Shelby. Go figure right? Maybe you have a future speaking Spanish Shelb. My ma, step dad, Shelby, her older sister Jenae, and younger brother Kyle were seated on the grass in a circle and Shelby was cranking out the Spanish like no other. Any dream interpreters out there want to throw their hat into the ring about what my first dream in Spanish means? This sub conscious experience was encouraging if not a bit odd...
Alrighty folks, I think it's time for me to can it and let you get on with your lives. Love from Chile, this is Elvagabundonumeruno, which I have since learned means homeless person rather than traveler in Spanish, signing off.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
¡Dieciochado! ¿Me chacay?
Buenos dias uno y todos,
Once again broadcasting from the heart of Chile, this is Elvagabundonumerouno from Valparaiso. Well, I can honestly say that I´ve never had 5 straight days of such fast, innocent and endearing fun as I have in the past "working week". That your trust should not waiver, I must clarify that the past 5 days were anything but a working week for nearly every Chilean, save the Microbus, Taxi and Collectivo drivers, a handful of locales (small corner stores) owners, tv and radio announcers, high-class pyrotechnics engineers and probably a few more overachieving enterprises that I´ve forgotten. I think I´ve mentioned before that the 18th is Chile´s Independence Day. And at an even 200 years since shrugging off the Spanish Crown´s dominion, El Bicentenario absolutely dwarfed any 4th of July celebration I´ve ever seen. Just today, I saw a television commercial advertising some bank card, that went something along the lines of, "Let´s imagine Chile without its freedom¨. Cut to scene with cartoon characters, all adorning mustaches and goatees (to mimic the Spaniards), with an official sitting behind a desk that says,"In the name of the Crown we must do something-or-rather. Long live the Queen!" The other mustached cartoon characters unenthusiastically agree, followed by a narrator that says, "But 200 years of freedom is more fun", cut to scene with clearly noticeable bare-faced cartoon characters enjoying themselves in a backyard at an asado (barbeque). With all the schools, universities, and most professions on holiday, we proceeded to carretear (partake in fiestas) with the best of ´em.
Arriving in Santiago at 4:30 in the morning, I picked up my mochila grande from the baggage claim with a relieved feeling, thinking that, if my backpack can make it through LA and Bogota, maybe I can too someday. I proceeded through customs, paying the $140 USD repatraition fee that the U.S. charges Chileans to enter "the homeland", I say bollocks to that prideful and nationalcentric term, and vice versa. I dutifully declared the plant material that I had in my pocket, but the officials seemed unconcerned at my bag of Spitz sunflower seeds. I then changed the $85 USD that I had in my wallet into Chilean pesos. To give you an idea, right now about 500 pesos is equal to $1 dollar. A 20 minute busride from Valparaiso to Viña del Mar costs about 350 Chilean pesos, to take the Metro (a much quicker and more comfortable way to travel between the two cities) costs about 400-450 pesos. A 1 litre beer is anywhere from 1,200-2,000 and I payed 2,500 pesos for a plain cheeseburger and fries. A more typical Chilean food, the empanada de pino costs about 700-800 pesos. My friend Kristin described pino the best, as "beef stew with eggs and olives inside of (leak proof) bread. Parenthesis my own.
Possibly factored into the cost of living, but absolutely priceless is the sheer beauty of this place. Palm trees, smooth and sandy beaches, dunes, high rise apartment and office buildings, naval and transportation ships moored in the bay, immaculate sunsets, not to mention the Chilean women all currently compose my definition of absolute beauty. Most of the Chilenas I have met thus far are warm and friendly, with a slight fascination for gringos and the U.S. culture. With long, flowing, dark hair and eyes to match, most of them don´t seem to experience the obesity problem that plagues countries like Australia and the U.S. If I know that looks are important to me, but not by any means the whole kit ´n caboodle, and proclaim it thus for all you folks out there in tv and radio land, that still makes me shallow huh?
Yesterday we went to the sand dunes in a town just north of Viña called Reñaca. Thats Wren-yah-cah amigos. A couple of other groups of friends from Western, one group studying in Valdivia that included my former next-door neighbor, Marie, and another group that included a friend from the Ham, Laura all met up out at las dunas. We rented a sandboard at the going rate of 3,000 pesos, or $6 dollars per hour. It wasn´t until a Chilean dude, who strangely introduced himself as Clayton as well, gave us a small thing of candle wax (vela) did the sport kick into high gear. It was flippin´ sweet riding that board down the enormous hills of sand, and it didn´t hurt when you crashed! Unlike longboarding. Hang ten broseph!
El dieciocho, or the 18th, was Chile´s actual Independence Day, although, as I stated earlier, the festivities spread themselves nicely out over 5 or so days. Krisitin and her host mom, Antonieta and I went shopping the day before at a flippin´ huge supermercado, properly entitled "Jumbo". There were seriously about 4 floors of parking garage below an enormous warehouse filled with all sorts of groceries and house-hold necessities. What a better way to celebrate 200 years of freedom than with a back patio family asado (BBQ). Choripanes (chorizo sausage in a bun) topped with pebre (a suped up Chilean version of pico de gallo sauce), vacuna (baby cow), asparragus, pasta salad, chips, pickles and more were all among the delacies served at our asado familiar. Fancha (beer and orange Fanta soda), some amazing Chilean wine, and pisco (a type of hard alcohol made from grapes) graced my pallate to wash it all down. These liquids also catalyzed a sweet musical session consisting of two guitaristas, myself and another very talented Chileno, playing and singing songs by Creedence, John Denver and other Cuico (a style of music typical in Chile) songs in the living room. I tell ya´ what, we sounded darn good after a couple fanchas, vasos de vino and piscos.
I am presently staying in a pension owned by Kristin´s boyfrien Ian´s fmaily in Valparaiso. Now that may sound like a friend´s sister´s childhood dog´s grandmother story, but I am absolutely honored to call these people and other Chileans I have met my new friends. It was extremely gracious of Antonieta to put me up in her house for a few nights, serve me salmon and rice dinners and basically take me in as one of her own. But, I figured that it was time to find a place of my own and start pulling my own weight, at least a little. So I took Ian up on his offer to stay in a little windowless room in his family´s pension for around $160 dollars a month. Not bad at all considering it comes with a shared kitchen, baño, washing machine and a television set with just about any channel you can imagine. Not that I am going to be watching the accursed box too awful much, but it is nice to tune into an episode of Friends or Simpsons every once in awhile.
Needless to say, it´s goodtimes down here in Chile. Today everyone had to get back to the grindstone and I am doing somewhat of the same. Time to buy some groceries and seek out something meaningful to do with my time, either a job or a volunteer opportunity.
Long-winded? Yes. Necessary? Maybe not. But from the South to the North, on up that good ol´ Pacific Coast, this is Elvagabundonumerouno signing off. PEACE!
Once again broadcasting from the heart of Chile, this is Elvagabundonumerouno from Valparaiso. Well, I can honestly say that I´ve never had 5 straight days of such fast, innocent and endearing fun as I have in the past "working week". That your trust should not waiver, I must clarify that the past 5 days were anything but a working week for nearly every Chilean, save the Microbus, Taxi and Collectivo drivers, a handful of locales (small corner stores) owners, tv and radio announcers, high-class pyrotechnics engineers and probably a few more overachieving enterprises that I´ve forgotten. I think I´ve mentioned before that the 18th is Chile´s Independence Day. And at an even 200 years since shrugging off the Spanish Crown´s dominion, El Bicentenario absolutely dwarfed any 4th of July celebration I´ve ever seen. Just today, I saw a television commercial advertising some bank card, that went something along the lines of, "Let´s imagine Chile without its freedom¨. Cut to scene with cartoon characters, all adorning mustaches and goatees (to mimic the Spaniards), with an official sitting behind a desk that says,"In the name of the Crown we must do something-or-rather. Long live the Queen!" The other mustached cartoon characters unenthusiastically agree, followed by a narrator that says, "But 200 years of freedom is more fun", cut to scene with clearly noticeable bare-faced cartoon characters enjoying themselves in a backyard at an asado (barbeque). With all the schools, universities, and most professions on holiday, we proceeded to carretear (partake in fiestas) with the best of ´em.
Arriving in Santiago at 4:30 in the morning, I picked up my mochila grande from the baggage claim with a relieved feeling, thinking that, if my backpack can make it through LA and Bogota, maybe I can too someday. I proceeded through customs, paying the $140 USD repatraition fee that the U.S. charges Chileans to enter "the homeland", I say bollocks to that prideful and nationalcentric term, and vice versa. I dutifully declared the plant material that I had in my pocket, but the officials seemed unconcerned at my bag of Spitz sunflower seeds. I then changed the $85 USD that I had in my wallet into Chilean pesos. To give you an idea, right now about 500 pesos is equal to $1 dollar. A 20 minute busride from Valparaiso to Viña del Mar costs about 350 Chilean pesos, to take the Metro (a much quicker and more comfortable way to travel between the two cities) costs about 400-450 pesos. A 1 litre beer is anywhere from 1,200-2,000 and I payed 2,500 pesos for a plain cheeseburger and fries. A more typical Chilean food, the empanada de pino costs about 700-800 pesos. My friend Kristin described pino the best, as "beef stew with eggs and olives inside of (leak proof) bread. Parenthesis my own.
Possibly factored into the cost of living, but absolutely priceless is the sheer beauty of this place. Palm trees, smooth and sandy beaches, dunes, high rise apartment and office buildings, naval and transportation ships moored in the bay, immaculate sunsets, not to mention the Chilean women all currently compose my definition of absolute beauty. Most of the Chilenas I have met thus far are warm and friendly, with a slight fascination for gringos and the U.S. culture. With long, flowing, dark hair and eyes to match, most of them don´t seem to experience the obesity problem that plagues countries like Australia and the U.S. If I know that looks are important to me, but not by any means the whole kit ´n caboodle, and proclaim it thus for all you folks out there in tv and radio land, that still makes me shallow huh?
Yesterday we went to the sand dunes in a town just north of Viña called Reñaca. Thats Wren-yah-cah amigos. A couple of other groups of friends from Western, one group studying in Valdivia that included my former next-door neighbor, Marie, and another group that included a friend from the Ham, Laura all met up out at las dunas. We rented a sandboard at the going rate of 3,000 pesos, or $6 dollars per hour. It wasn´t until a Chilean dude, who strangely introduced himself as Clayton as well, gave us a small thing of candle wax (vela) did the sport kick into high gear. It was flippin´ sweet riding that board down the enormous hills of sand, and it didn´t hurt when you crashed! Unlike longboarding. Hang ten broseph!
El dieciocho, or the 18th, was Chile´s actual Independence Day, although, as I stated earlier, the festivities spread themselves nicely out over 5 or so days. Krisitin and her host mom, Antonieta and I went shopping the day before at a flippin´ huge supermercado, properly entitled "Jumbo". There were seriously about 4 floors of parking garage below an enormous warehouse filled with all sorts of groceries and house-hold necessities. What a better way to celebrate 200 years of freedom than with a back patio family asado (BBQ). Choripanes (chorizo sausage in a bun) topped with pebre (a suped up Chilean version of pico de gallo sauce), vacuna (baby cow), asparragus, pasta salad, chips, pickles and more were all among the delacies served at our asado familiar. Fancha (beer and orange Fanta soda), some amazing Chilean wine, and pisco (a type of hard alcohol made from grapes) graced my pallate to wash it all down. These liquids also catalyzed a sweet musical session consisting of two guitaristas, myself and another very talented Chileno, playing and singing songs by Creedence, John Denver and other Cuico (a style of music typical in Chile) songs in the living room. I tell ya´ what, we sounded darn good after a couple fanchas, vasos de vino and piscos.
I am presently staying in a pension owned by Kristin´s boyfrien Ian´s fmaily in Valparaiso. Now that may sound like a friend´s sister´s childhood dog´s grandmother story, but I am absolutely honored to call these people and other Chileans I have met my new friends. It was extremely gracious of Antonieta to put me up in her house for a few nights, serve me salmon and rice dinners and basically take me in as one of her own. But, I figured that it was time to find a place of my own and start pulling my own weight, at least a little. So I took Ian up on his offer to stay in a little windowless room in his family´s pension for around $160 dollars a month. Not bad at all considering it comes with a shared kitchen, baño, washing machine and a television set with just about any channel you can imagine. Not that I am going to be watching the accursed box too awful much, but it is nice to tune into an episode of Friends or Simpsons every once in awhile.
Needless to say, it´s goodtimes down here in Chile. Today everyone had to get back to the grindstone and I am doing somewhat of the same. Time to buy some groceries and seek out something meaningful to do with my time, either a job or a volunteer opportunity.
Long-winded? Yes. Necessary? Maybe not. But from the South to the North, on up that good ol´ Pacific Coast, this is Elvagabundonumerouno signing off. PEACE!
Friday, September 17, 2010
Pirate Looks at Forty
It never fails, airports bring stress to many of those who find themselves inside their walls. And today, well the other day, Tueday, September 14th, was no exception. At 4:30 in the morning en route to Sea-Tac, we missed the exit to the airport that set us on a direct course for I-5. A large sign flashed the announcement that it would take a mere 12 minutes to drive to Seattle from where we were. Not tempting at all. The GPS dutifully alerted us with multiple beeps that we could turn around at the next exit. Tension relieved. The moment I said goodbye to the 'rents, an enormous weight was lifted from my shoulders. No one being responsible for me but myself still has a supremely liberating effect each and time I experience it. I had set out "on the road" surrounded by so many people, but yet, completely alone. Like I said, a marvelous feeling indeed. No one to rely on and no one to be accountable to or for, except me.
Checking in at the United Airlines kiosk, the self-proclaimed "Easy Check-In" where there are nowadays roughly 5 or so agents for about 30 of these self-use kiosks. A prime example of technology's replacement of human beings. When the automatic scanner for your passport or ID lies a good 18 inches to the side of the screen, it might as well be in Siberia. It was then that an ugly side of humanity reared its head immediately to my left where an unfortunate situation turned into something much worse.
Two males who, to the best of my knowledge, were going to Mexico had had their two separate names combined into one on the E-ticket printout in hand. The lady that was assisting them was short and had a noticeable "Asian" accent. Now, I know that Asia is an extremely broad term, but with no other visible adjectives, I decided to use it despite its political incorrectness. I think you may have a good idea where this is going. The white male's passport was taken by the United agent while the other, Latino kept his head down quietly. The white guy proceeded to severely mock the lady in frustration of the error in his best attempt at an "Asian" accent. Racist, derogatory remarks, such as (earmuffs), "this is an airport, not a f*cking McDonald's... and no, I do not want pickle with that" were uttered in an extremely debasing manner. All the while I was thinking, you idiot, if you had even so much as glanced at the computer print outs, you could have saved all this headache as well as being put on blast on the internet for the all the world to see. A redneck spectacle that resorts to racial slurs and bigotry when a trifle doesn't fit in line with your measly plans. You disgust me.
It was at that exact moment when I had to make a decision. Do I speak up and say something along the lines of, "Hey pal, that racist bullsh*t has no place here or anywhere, she's doing her best at 5:00 in the morning. You try moving to a foreign country, learn the language AND get rid of your bassackwards hick accent". Or, do I keep my mouth shut and settle for the status quo? I recently saw a special on TV about childhood bullying in the schoolyard. The specialist remarked that roughly 85% of the kids present for an abusive incident are essentially "supporting actors", or rather, bystanders watching the negative action take place. It is these individuals that have the power to either add their input in order to change the negative action, or passively observe and let it occur. Life is just a really big schoolyard, and I was (in this case) the supporting actor that allowed this man's frustration to boil into real, obvious, and terrible racism. Honestly, looking back on the situation, it could have been one of those new-fangled reality shows where people are tested on they will react to a situation that is morally wrong. Needless to say, I would not want my performance to air on national television, but if the incident were to be shown to millions of people, I guarantee the lesson would be pounded home much more effectively than by walking away from the situation, or even just by writing about it.
We can hypothesize and idealize our reactions to situations that conflict with our ethical tenets, but until the moment comes in which we are actually tested, hypothesizing and idealizing is all we are doing. Passively sitting around designing hypothetical social experiments that could potentially arise in life, and predicting our reactions. Part of why I felt so strongly about what I experienced at the check-in booth is my sense of failure at conforming with my own moral framework. I know that deep rifts are present among people and among groups of people because of perceived visible differences such as skin color, body size/shape, accent, religion, and the list goes on and on. But there is more genetic variation within one "race", than among different groups of people separated by geographic proximity. The difference lies in behaviors that are considered to be normal from one group to the next.
The purpose for this entry in my online, and very public journal is to hold me accountable to act when that moment comes that really tests my ethical framework. If I say that I believe something such as, racism is wrong, I should be willing to defend what I believe is right through actions. Verbally commending our fellow humanoids for going out of their way to perform an action that we perceive as morally correct and scolding them for an action that we perceive as wrong is imperative. Next time that uppity gringo racially degrades the airline attendant, the worker at the DMV, or any other service-oriented profession that we are pre-conditioned to despise, I must speak out for what is right. Putting this into print for everyone and their grandmother's dawgs to see will help me do just that.
All for now. This self-chastising publication has been brought to you, in part, by Elvagabundonumerouno. Good night tv and radio land.
Checking in at the United Airlines kiosk, the self-proclaimed "Easy Check-In" where there are nowadays roughly 5 or so agents for about 30 of these self-use kiosks. A prime example of technology's replacement of human beings. When the automatic scanner for your passport or ID lies a good 18 inches to the side of the screen, it might as well be in Siberia. It was then that an ugly side of humanity reared its head immediately to my left where an unfortunate situation turned into something much worse.
Two males who, to the best of my knowledge, were going to Mexico had had their two separate names combined into one on the E-ticket printout in hand. The lady that was assisting them was short and had a noticeable "Asian" accent. Now, I know that Asia is an extremely broad term, but with no other visible adjectives, I decided to use it despite its political incorrectness. I think you may have a good idea where this is going. The white male's passport was taken by the United agent while the other, Latino kept his head down quietly. The white guy proceeded to severely mock the lady in frustration of the error in his best attempt at an "Asian" accent. Racist, derogatory remarks, such as (earmuffs), "this is an airport, not a f*cking McDonald's... and no, I do not want pickle with that" were uttered in an extremely debasing manner. All the while I was thinking, you idiot, if you had even so much as glanced at the computer print outs, you could have saved all this headache as well as being put on blast on the internet for the all the world to see. A redneck spectacle that resorts to racial slurs and bigotry when a trifle doesn't fit in line with your measly plans. You disgust me.
It was at that exact moment when I had to make a decision. Do I speak up and say something along the lines of, "Hey pal, that racist bullsh*t has no place here or anywhere, she's doing her best at 5:00 in the morning. You try moving to a foreign country, learn the language AND get rid of your bassackwards hick accent". Or, do I keep my mouth shut and settle for the status quo? I recently saw a special on TV about childhood bullying in the schoolyard. The specialist remarked that roughly 85% of the kids present for an abusive incident are essentially "supporting actors", or rather, bystanders watching the negative action take place. It is these individuals that have the power to either add their input in order to change the negative action, or passively observe and let it occur. Life is just a really big schoolyard, and I was (in this case) the supporting actor that allowed this man's frustration to boil into real, obvious, and terrible racism. Honestly, looking back on the situation, it could have been one of those new-fangled reality shows where people are tested on they will react to a situation that is morally wrong. Needless to say, I would not want my performance to air on national television, but if the incident were to be shown to millions of people, I guarantee the lesson would be pounded home much more effectively than by walking away from the situation, or even just by writing about it.
We can hypothesize and idealize our reactions to situations that conflict with our ethical tenets, but until the moment comes in which we are actually tested, hypothesizing and idealizing is all we are doing. Passively sitting around designing hypothetical social experiments that could potentially arise in life, and predicting our reactions. Part of why I felt so strongly about what I experienced at the check-in booth is my sense of failure at conforming with my own moral framework. I know that deep rifts are present among people and among groups of people because of perceived visible differences such as skin color, body size/shape, accent, religion, and the list goes on and on. But there is more genetic variation within one "race", than among different groups of people separated by geographic proximity. The difference lies in behaviors that are considered to be normal from one group to the next.
The purpose for this entry in my online, and very public journal is to hold me accountable to act when that moment comes that really tests my ethical framework. If I say that I believe something such as, racism is wrong, I should be willing to defend what I believe is right through actions. Verbally commending our fellow humanoids for going out of their way to perform an action that we perceive as morally correct and scolding them for an action that we perceive as wrong is imperative. Next time that uppity gringo racially degrades the airline attendant, the worker at the DMV, or any other service-oriented profession that we are pre-conditioned to despise, I must speak out for what is right. Putting this into print for everyone and their grandmother's dawgs to see will help me do just that.
All for now. This self-chastising publication has been brought to you, in part, by Elvagabundonumerouno. Good night tv and radio land.
Friday, September 10, 2010
When I Paint..... My Masterpiece
Buenas noches uno y todos!
Yo soy Elvagabundonumerouno and I chose this very moment to start writing to you out there in tv and radio land because the television is just not as captivating as my own mind. But seriously what a strange and (almost) universal device that has come to play such a big role in our lives. Even poor people seem to have television sets. I remember going to Mexico, sometimes outside (Rosarito area), sometimes inside the city limits of Tijuana and building houses for a few select families that were destitute and poverty stricken. My family and I went for one week out of the summer to the U.S.-Mexico border to build houses and serve. I had the opportunity to experience the [mission trip] for 5 summers when I was younger. Those who felt called would administer "vacation bible schools" to the young-ins around the neighborhoods, and organize impromptu worship services to the Christian God. I found myself up on the framing crew, putting in bird-blocks when the walls were put up, but on top of the roof was my favorite place to work. Snapping chalk lines across the plywood would ensure accurate placement of nails and never going within the 3 feet range of the the edge would ensure you not falling off. Simple enough. We, meaning Westerners, would probably label the model of houses these families were receiving as more of a shed, but the Mexican families were always grateful for our work and the end product. Another side note about the build sites, there was never usable electricity on site, so, it was up to us able-bodied chicks and dudes to mix the concrete, saw the boards, nail them together, and weatherproof the mother. But back to my original point. Even these poor families who could not afford adequate housing had television sets. I would imagine that they had tapped into the informal cable or utilized what used to exist as a free source of media, the RABBIT EARS to pick up a few channels. I must pause to squeak out a somber and reminiscent tune on the violin sitting next to me to commemorate the slow but eventual extinction of free media. VIVA EL RADIO!!
I talked to my good friend Kristin today in Viña del Mar via Skype. What a miraculous invention indeed. I cannot believe that shit is still free. I will be arriving in Santiago, after stops in L.A. and Bogotá at 4:45 de la mañana on the 15th. Three days later is the annual commemoration of Chile's día de la Independencia when the Chilenos took up arms and decided to get the fuck out from under Spain's powerful and long-grasping thumb. This was in the year 1810, just two days after Mexico decided to do the same exact thing. Eleven years later on the 15th of September, what is now known as the autonomous nations of Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras Nicaragua y Costa Rica. Here are a few of the words I learned para celebrar.
proclamar - to declare
el recorrido - run/journey
las fiestas patrias - patriotic holidays
la antorcha - torch
Celebraré con una cerveza en la mano izquierda y una antorcha en la otra, gritando por la calle Limache, ¡gracias a Diós por este día de libertad!
Yo soy Elvagabundonumerouno and I chose this very moment to start writing to you out there in tv and radio land because the television is just not as captivating as my own mind. But seriously what a strange and (almost) universal device that has come to play such a big role in our lives. Even poor people seem to have television sets. I remember going to Mexico, sometimes outside (Rosarito area), sometimes inside the city limits of Tijuana and building houses for a few select families that were destitute and poverty stricken. My family and I went for one week out of the summer to the U.S.-Mexico border to build houses and serve. I had the opportunity to experience the [mission trip] for 5 summers when I was younger. Those who felt called would administer "vacation bible schools" to the young-ins around the neighborhoods, and organize impromptu worship services to the Christian God. I found myself up on the framing crew, putting in bird-blocks when the walls were put up, but on top of the roof was my favorite place to work. Snapping chalk lines across the plywood would ensure accurate placement of nails and never going within the 3 feet range of the the edge would ensure you not falling off. Simple enough. We, meaning Westerners, would probably label the model of houses these families were receiving as more of a shed, but the Mexican families were always grateful for our work and the end product. Another side note about the build sites, there was never usable electricity on site, so, it was up to us able-bodied chicks and dudes to mix the concrete, saw the boards, nail them together, and weatherproof the mother. But back to my original point. Even these poor families who could not afford adequate housing had television sets. I would imagine that they had tapped into the informal cable or utilized what used to exist as a free source of media, the RABBIT EARS to pick up a few channels. I must pause to squeak out a somber and reminiscent tune on the violin sitting next to me to commemorate the slow but eventual extinction of free media. VIVA EL RADIO!!
I talked to my good friend Kristin today in Viña del Mar via Skype. What a miraculous invention indeed. I cannot believe that shit is still free. I will be arriving in Santiago, after stops in L.A. and Bogotá at 4:45 de la mañana on the 15th. Three days later is the annual commemoration of Chile's día de la Independencia when the Chilenos took up arms and decided to get the fuck out from under Spain's powerful and long-grasping thumb. This was in the year 1810, just two days after Mexico decided to do the same exact thing. Eleven years later on the 15th of September, what is now known as the autonomous nations of Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras Nicaragua y Costa Rica. Here are a few of the words I learned para celebrar.
proclamar - to declare
el recorrido - run/journey
las fiestas patrias - patriotic holidays
la antorcha - torch
Celebraré con una cerveza en la mano izquierda y una antorcha en la otra, gritando por la calle Limache, ¡gracias a Diós por este día de libertad!
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Changes in Latitudes Changes in Attitudes
Well hello again ladies and gentlemen of our shared floating rock in the sky!
Soy Elvagabundonumerouno! and I want to start off today with a semi-apology for the rant that I launched from the leather lazy boy yesterday. Although I think it may have been necessary for all ya'll to understand a few of the issues that I feel strongly about, it may have come off a bit uppity and even preachy. This past June, I graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree with emphasis in Cultural Anthropology and Spanish. That's right, the over-arching infrastructure that has guided my life for the past 4 years is no more. Bittersweet. So June 16th found me wondering... What to do next? While I was wrapping up my senior year I was applying for a position with NISGUA (The Network in Solidarity with the Peoples of Guatemala) as a Human Rights Witness. As a student of Anthropology and Spanish, this opportunity stood out as a type of "higher calling" endeavor that would have involved a certain degree of danger, but also could have given a powerful voice to the indigenous peoples of Guatemala that are still being persecuted in their native homeland. The human rights situation in Guate has been atrocious since 1962 when a military dictator overthrew the government in a coup d' tat that brought about a bloody genocide and civil war that lasted over 35 years. Disappearences of indigenous peoples, college professors, news reporters, and citizens who believed in a just society were "the norm", rather than the acception during this period of time. But discrimination and brutalization continue to happen to residents of Guatemala by the soldiers that are supposed to be protecting them. As a real-world example of the oppression that probably happens on many more occasions than just the one that was brought to my attention, imagine you live in a family with ancestors that lived in the area before Western contact. Now imagine that you have to walk nearly 30 miles to the nearest town with a market in order to get the essentials your family needs to survive. In the late afternoon sun on the return trip back home to your village, military soldiers toting machine guns with bayonets attached to the barrels stop you and your family at an "unofficial checkpoint". They demand that you give them all the food you have just bought at the market, roughly enough to supply your family for the next week or so, and all the money and valuables you are carrying. This could even include the clothes off you and your childrens' backs. To make matters worse, when you, as head of the patriarchal household, report the incident to government officials, they do not believe you because of your ethnicity. If you need another example, continuing from one of the threads from yesterday's rant, think of the nearly ultimate power that corporations have in today's world. Now apply that power over a relatively defenseless population such as the people descended from the indigenous tribes of what is now Guate. A man named Pascual Bernabe Benitez once came to Western Washington University and vividly described mining companies that have reservations on exploiting the Guatemalan people's land and the politically impotent class of people that reside in rural areas. The kind of exploitation that comes with mega-projects such as mines and dams engineered to generate electricity is manifested through extreme degredation of the land. In many of the ancient Mayan cultures from whom present day indigenous people have descended, the individual and the land are one in the same. It may seem a little odd to upper- or middle-class Westerners to not distinguish between people and land, but with a little imagination and a dash of empathy, these people's world views and their understanding of their places/roles in the world can be somewhat tangible. Ancient and present day Mayans believe(d) they were born of the earth and all of its landforms, inhabitants, and intricacies are sacred. Many would say that these people need these damned dams or mines to generate a viable product in order to compete in the global market place. Sorry, but that race has already been won. Powerful nation-states such as the U.S., its allies, China, etc. enjoy victory over the global marketplace every day. The proof lies in the fact that these nations are composed of middle-upper class citizens and are not plagued by such extreme poverty as many other locations in the world experience. The political clout derived from the priveleged fruits of globalization allows these nations to make powerful decisions at the global level such as whether or not to endorse multi-national treatises (Kyoto, international courts, etc.)
Now I know exactly what you're thinking, Elvagabundonumerouno is just a ranter! Well, my goal is to provide some information about my own life but also to focus on advocacy for the voiceless. I didn't end up getting the Human Rights Witness with NISGUA. There were something along the lines of 21 applicants for 4 or 5 positions, and I am inexperienced living life in the global south. At first it was quite a disappointment, but I soon realized there are literally an unlimited number of adventures to be had on our shared floating rock in the sky, that's earth for those of you who are a little slow on the uptake. So, I bought a one-way ticket to Santiago, Chile (I know I know, waaaaay more affluent and Americanized than rural Guatemala). But that is partly what this blog is for, for all ya'll to judge if I'm the type of person who solely advocates from the comfort of my living room, or if I believe there is a possibility for a more socially just world. Stay tuned in radio land!
Soy Elvagabundonumerouno! and I want to start off today with a semi-apology for the rant that I launched from the leather lazy boy yesterday. Although I think it may have been necessary for all ya'll to understand a few of the issues that I feel strongly about, it may have come off a bit uppity and even preachy. This past June, I graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree with emphasis in Cultural Anthropology and Spanish. That's right, the over-arching infrastructure that has guided my life for the past 4 years is no more. Bittersweet. So June 16th found me wondering... What to do next? While I was wrapping up my senior year I was applying for a position with NISGUA (The Network in Solidarity with the Peoples of Guatemala) as a Human Rights Witness. As a student of Anthropology and Spanish, this opportunity stood out as a type of "higher calling" endeavor that would have involved a certain degree of danger, but also could have given a powerful voice to the indigenous peoples of Guatemala that are still being persecuted in their native homeland. The human rights situation in Guate has been atrocious since 1962 when a military dictator overthrew the government in a coup d' tat that brought about a bloody genocide and civil war that lasted over 35 years. Disappearences of indigenous peoples, college professors, news reporters, and citizens who believed in a just society were "the norm", rather than the acception during this period of time. But discrimination and brutalization continue to happen to residents of Guatemala by the soldiers that are supposed to be protecting them. As a real-world example of the oppression that probably happens on many more occasions than just the one that was brought to my attention, imagine you live in a family with ancestors that lived in the area before Western contact. Now imagine that you have to walk nearly 30 miles to the nearest town with a market in order to get the essentials your family needs to survive. In the late afternoon sun on the return trip back home to your village, military soldiers toting machine guns with bayonets attached to the barrels stop you and your family at an "unofficial checkpoint". They demand that you give them all the food you have just bought at the market, roughly enough to supply your family for the next week or so, and all the money and valuables you are carrying. This could even include the clothes off you and your childrens' backs. To make matters worse, when you, as head of the patriarchal household, report the incident to government officials, they do not believe you because of your ethnicity. If you need another example, continuing from one of the threads from yesterday's rant, think of the nearly ultimate power that corporations have in today's world. Now apply that power over a relatively defenseless population such as the people descended from the indigenous tribes of what is now Guate. A man named Pascual Bernabe Benitez once came to Western Washington University and vividly described mining companies that have reservations on exploiting the Guatemalan people's land and the politically impotent class of people that reside in rural areas. The kind of exploitation that comes with mega-projects such as mines and dams engineered to generate electricity is manifested through extreme degredation of the land. In many of the ancient Mayan cultures from whom present day indigenous people have descended, the individual and the land are one in the same. It may seem a little odd to upper- or middle-class Westerners to not distinguish between people and land, but with a little imagination and a dash of empathy, these people's world views and their understanding of their places/roles in the world can be somewhat tangible. Ancient and present day Mayans believe(d) they were born of the earth and all of its landforms, inhabitants, and intricacies are sacred. Many would say that these people need these damned dams or mines to generate a viable product in order to compete in the global market place. Sorry, but that race has already been won. Powerful nation-states such as the U.S., its allies, China, etc. enjoy victory over the global marketplace every day. The proof lies in the fact that these nations are composed of middle-upper class citizens and are not plagued by such extreme poverty as many other locations in the world experience. The political clout derived from the priveleged fruits of globalization allows these nations to make powerful decisions at the global level such as whether or not to endorse multi-national treatises (Kyoto, international courts, etc.)
Now I know exactly what you're thinking, Elvagabundonumerouno is just a ranter! Well, my goal is to provide some information about my own life but also to focus on advocacy for the voiceless. I didn't end up getting the Human Rights Witness with NISGUA. There were something along the lines of 21 applicants for 4 or 5 positions, and I am inexperienced living life in the global south. At first it was quite a disappointment, but I soon realized there are literally an unlimited number of adventures to be had on our shared floating rock in the sky, that's earth for those of you who are a little slow on the uptake. So, I bought a one-way ticket to Santiago, Chile (I know I know, waaaaay more affluent and Americanized than rural Guatemala). But that is partly what this blog is for, for all ya'll to judge if I'm the type of person who solely advocates from the comfort of my living room, or if I believe there is a possibility for a more socially just world. Stay tuned in radio land!
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The Only Thing Constant is Change
Hello folks in TV and Radio land!
This is Elvagabundonumerouno dropping in from the comfort of a leather lazy boy recliner in the town where I grew up, Clarkston. Looking out the back sliding-glass door, I can see the glistening lights of Lewiston across the Snake River. If it weren't for said river, life in "the valley" would most definitely be less enjoyable, or maybe not even exist. The first Western U.S. historians found the Nez Perce Native Americans living on a plateau on the Eastern side of the river at the confluence of the Clearwater and Snake Rivers. As I write about the native peoples that inhabited this land long before any European ancestors even set foot on the continent, I start to wonder what the indigenous people's names for the rivers are. Did the U.S. Government ever consider repatriating the initial names of geographical landforms and monuments when they granted them the rights to utilize destructive yet lucrative vices on their small plots of land? It seems like relatively small pickens in the vast scheme of the brutalization that the natives had (and still have) to endure. I can only imagine the uproar that Patriotic U.S. Citizens would launch at such an idea. But I am a firm believer in euphemisms, cliches, and other corny sayings such as "you must reap what you sow". I also believe that the price for what was done to indigenous peoples not only here in the U.S., but everywhere around the globe has not been paid even in part. That being said, it seems to me only right that the economy is in shambles, that the "happiness index" continues to fall, and that the debt our nation has amassed is at an all-time high. What doesn't seem right to me, and what all U.S. residents might not know is that corporations have the same rights as individuals, political elections are bought, and that the U.S. Government spends way more money on military spending (foreign wars, "homeland" security, and surveillance technologies) than education. The above examples represent issues of structural violence that is now legitimized and normalized to the point where they are not very important to the average "American". And I could probably sit here in my lavish lazy boy bitching and moaning about what I may or may not believe to be just in today's society for four more hours. Instead I think I'll go to bed and follow up on el primer blog del vagabundonumerouno manana. Oh, one more thing. I stole the title of this blog from a Volcom sweatshirt I saw years ago. Petty much?
This is Elvagabundonumerouno dropping in from the comfort of a leather lazy boy recliner in the town where I grew up, Clarkston. Looking out the back sliding-glass door, I can see the glistening lights of Lewiston across the Snake River. If it weren't for said river, life in "the valley" would most definitely be less enjoyable, or maybe not even exist. The first Western U.S. historians found the Nez Perce Native Americans living on a plateau on the Eastern side of the river at the confluence of the Clearwater and Snake Rivers. As I write about the native peoples that inhabited this land long before any European ancestors even set foot on the continent, I start to wonder what the indigenous people's names for the rivers are. Did the U.S. Government ever consider repatriating the initial names of geographical landforms and monuments when they granted them the rights to utilize destructive yet lucrative vices on their small plots of land? It seems like relatively small pickens in the vast scheme of the brutalization that the natives had (and still have) to endure. I can only imagine the uproar that Patriotic U.S. Citizens would launch at such an idea. But I am a firm believer in euphemisms, cliches, and other corny sayings such as "you must reap what you sow". I also believe that the price for what was done to indigenous peoples not only here in the U.S., but everywhere around the globe has not been paid even in part. That being said, it seems to me only right that the economy is in shambles, that the "happiness index" continues to fall, and that the debt our nation has amassed is at an all-time high. What doesn't seem right to me, and what all U.S. residents might not know is that corporations have the same rights as individuals, political elections are bought, and that the U.S. Government spends way more money on military spending (foreign wars, "homeland" security, and surveillance technologies) than education. The above examples represent issues of structural violence that is now legitimized and normalized to the point where they are not very important to the average "American". And I could probably sit here in my lavish lazy boy bitching and moaning about what I may or may not believe to be just in today's society for four more hours. Instead I think I'll go to bed and follow up on el primer blog del vagabundonumerouno manana. Oh, one more thing. I stole the title of this blog from a Volcom sweatshirt I saw years ago. Petty much?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)