My best friend, Sara, and I went to Viña del Mar this weekend with Pablo's family from church. Viña is a vacation hot spot for the six million of us residing in Santiago, though the tourism books claim it doesn't amount to much. Thanks to the divine weather and good company, my experience was far from mundane.
I caved-in and bought a "banano". That's right folks, I now proudly own a fannie pack. They're cool here, so you'll have to take my word on that. Sara and I plan to bring the style back to the states - they're just so practical!
We bought picnic food and hit the beach ASAP. The beach was busy, but not overly crowded, and after downing our sandwiches I laid back and my eyes gently closed. My backpack was right by my feet but I had the thought that I should probably be touching it. My toes stretched forward and I didn't feel it so I opened my eyes to see a high-school-aged boy unzipping my backpack. At the sight of me he walked away and I looked around meeting the eyes of everyone who had been watching the "almost theft" happen. I busted out laughing. Too predictable!
The curious part to me was that no one said anything. There were definite onlookers. Granted, fear is a motivator and sometimes pick-pocketers come armed, but I feel like given a similar situation in the states, we would speak up. I'm fortunate I didn't wait another moment to open my eyes or my few possessions would have surely been swiped, but seriously?!
However, I must say, stereotypes are far from all-inclusive. One of my favorite (now) experiences of renewed faith in Chileans was a day a few weeks back when the temperatures in the city soared. I had eaten garbanzos the night before and woken-up sick the next morning, causing me to not work my morning hours nor eat much of anything. I assured myself I was well for night classes and hopped on that metro that was quite possibility one hundred degrees too warm for my state of being.
Still numerous stops away, I was dizzy and losing consciousness. Looking around at those seated next to me I admitted, "No siento bien." The man sitting diagonal from me advised I get off the train and I took his advice, only to fall to the floor as soon as I stepped foot on the pavement. He had followed me off the train and tried to help me walk. Again, I sunk to the floor and the next thing I know I was on a stretcher in the metro station!
I was taken to a small back room where the metro workers brought me a glass of sugar water and cool rag to wipe off my face and neck that was now drenched in sweat. The man who had followed me off the train was there and had carried my purse.
If ever there was an opportunity to take advantage of an opportunity to steal, I'd say a passed-out gringa would be one of them! However, not only did he wait there until I felt recouped, he flagged down a cab, took it with me, refused to let me pay for it, and gave me his # in case I had any further troubles!
So what do I think of Chileans? Inconclusive. The culture may teach me to be on guard and not let that trust I grew-up cherishing rule my decisions, but all confidence in the virtue of humanity here is far from gone.
Here I have a wonderful Chilean family who loves me regardless of how much of their food I eat, how little chores I do, how many times I don't understand the words they say, or how many times I've woken them up when I come home late. They renew my hope and encourage my heart.
God knows what we need when we need it and his faithfulness to me in recent weeks has been completely undeniable.
