Guachos--The Chilean Cowboy, in all its glory.

I'm not a vegetarian. I eat meat and usually I don't feel any guilt when I do consume an occasional chicken, but like the words of Anthony Bourdain when he visited the underworld South of Chile, in its rowdy, spur-clad gang of cowboys, rodeos here just make you sad. After the agonizing chase, the calf is beat with a hefty club, in Bourdain's words, its like watching the night's dinner being tenderized right before you. The rodeo I attended, however, was on a much smaller scale, in terms of brutality, size, and excitement.

Joe, Lena and I arrived at the dirt road turnoff at 12:15, fifteen minutes after the supposed rodeo was to commence, according to the Pichilemu City festivities for Independence Day weekend. We saw the cows waiting in the pin, a lone horse waiting by a large Chilean flag, and a small handful of Chileans milling around taking pictures of the empty arena. "This is a Chilean rodeo?" both Joe and Lena exclaimed with shock and dissapointment. But once again we forgot, we're on Chilean time, which means things start appox. three hours later, if you're lucky.

We asked around, ultimately landing with the old man sporting a large black cowboy hat, he seemed to at least look like he was in the know. Between his thick rural Chilean accent and my lack of Spanish knowledge, I discerned that the rodeo wouldn't be starting for another, well, few hours. Chileans never give you a straight answer and even if they don't know the answer, they'll tell you what they think you want to know. For example, asking directions on the street, you should expect to ask three others because Chileans will make up an answer instead of just telling you they don't know. However, in the humbling kindness that almost all Chileans exude, our friendly cowboy told us we could wander the fields surrounding the valley, including the farm up the dirt path.



From a distance, I spotted a few pinned up llamas and ventured in that direction before voicing my desire to my friends. I'm not sure why, but I have an obsession with llamas. This also includes Alpacas, I'm giddy with excitement for Peru for this reason. But more enthralling, as it turned out, was the house beyond the furry creatures. The real cowboys were getting ready and preparing for the apparently real rodeo. We snapped photos, after asking first, and in turn, the pack of "rowdy" men shared vino tinto in a carved horn with us. It was much more exciting than the actual rodeo that started an hour later. We left after the break with a couple from Santiago. "Foama," he said in regards to his opinion on the rodeo. English translation, boring. They were stopping through Pichilemu and agreed to give us a ride. In Chile, hitchhiking is the most common mode of transportation for students and for three study abroad students in the rural south, we'll take advantage of that.

September 11th: A day to Remember--in Chile too.

Yes, Friday was September 11th, but the U.S. wasn't the only country to mourn the disappearance of lives on this tragic anniversary. Chile has a dark past too. It's a touchy subject in Chile and one I don't want to lament about on my blog, you can do the research on your own if you are truly curious. But what I do want to comment about is my observations of the day. USAC cleverly removed the students from Santiago, the capitol and political front runner of protests and demonstrations on September 11th. The day reserved to protest any frustrations with the government, according to our Chilean neighbor, Jorge. Foreigners, I've been told, are dealt with severely for any interaction with protests.

Despite our avoidance of Santiago, in the port-city of Valpraiso, we observed a small group of 30 protesters waving signs and chanting for justice. Firefighters lined the downtown city corners, their purpose was veiled with donation cups, but I believe differently. I returned to Santiago on Saturday to find out that three people died in the city that night as a result of the protests.

In respect and generally curiosity, my roomies and I wandered to the small city of Cementeria. It's not a city, but it could be as expansive as it is. We visited the monument for the people that disappeared during the dictatorship of Pinochet. Next to the picture of one man read the sign, "?Donde Estan?"

Studying in the shadow of Lincoln.

For my mum and dad, a picture of the Museum de Bellas Artes, just 10 steps from my apartment to the front door entrance of this magnificent building.

A block away, in Parque Forestal, Lincoln's head creates a welcome distraction. I had no idea he was so loved down south.

Pomaire.

Lesson of the day.

(Isla Negra, pictured are my roommates, Joe and Lena.)


Grocery shopping in Chile:

Like the expensive jewerly, purses, etc. that are locked in glass cases in department shoes in the U.S., in Chile, the goods valued at the grocery store include chocolate bars, coffee, and ice cream. I'm still trying to figure this one out, but it does stop me from buying those guilty pleasures.

My other Chilean grocery store secret, they don't sell peanut butter. This killed all of 3B's plans of making a peanut butter/coconut stir fry. We improvised with soy sauce, however, and it was just as delicious.

Futbol-Brazil v. Chile...a rumbling.

Being abroad means taking your chances with ailments in the form of: oh no, what did I just eat because I am so not feeling very...wait...........................good. Wednesday night, it was my turn. While the Chileans were rumbling from the intense futbol match with Brazil, apparently it was a close 2-2 game for most of the rally, except in the end when Brazil scored two seemingly impossible goals, my stomach was making noises that rivaled the neighbors' groans. Hopefully I'm over that for the rest of the trip, or at least while I'm still in Chile.

Change of plans: excursion numero uno.

The original plan for the weekend was Mendoza, Argentina. Wine, biking, and rafting. Life doesn't get much better than that, right? Especially when it's only a three hour bus ride over the border, however, with such a short weekend because of our USAC excursion on Friday, Lena and I postponed our mini-adventure for another weekend for a more extended stay.

This Friday brought Isla Negra (yes, black island, but no, not actually an island, as it turns out) and Pomaire. The latter is a dusty, pottery village an hour south of Santiago. Comprised mainly of indigenous potters, it's difficult to imagine life in Pomaire, except visions of red clay and tourists. While there, we experienced pottery in the making and empenadas baked in the brick oven. Before two hours were up, we herded back into our tour bus for the primary home of Nobel Peace Prize winning poet, Pablo Neruda. Sitting on a hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean, Neruda's home in Isla Negra is beautiful without even looking inside, however, after stepping into the interior, the rooms are just as enchanting as the sea beyond. I was not familiar with Neruda's poetry before, but without knowing anything about him, I can guess from his many collections of shells, ships, mermaid statues, globes, pipes, paintings, and more, that he was quite the character. Outside, beyond his final resting spot and his rusted iron chain fence, lies the head of Neruda, atop a large rock looking out into the endless sea.

We weren't allowed to take pictures inside of his home, however, I did take a few pictures of the vista.

Here's a sample of Neruda's poetry.

Fleas interest me so much
that I let them bite me for hours.
They are perfect, ancient, Sanskrit,
machines that admit of no appeal.
They do not bite to eat,
they bite only to jump;
they are the dancers of the celestial sphere,
delicate acrobats
in the softest and most profound circus;
let them gallop on my skin,
divulge their emotions,
amuse themselves with my blood,
but someone should introduce them to me.
I want to know them closely,
I want to know what to rely on