Re-gifting...

Not once; twice. I re-gifted two gifts in the same night from the same person at the same party I last-minute invited her to attend with me. Poor sister.

It was the moment before the white elephant game would begin that it hit me. The movies I had my brother wrap-up for the game were given to me by Jess. She stood beside us as I whispered to Brandon and we busted-up laughing.

The first present picked was the present I wrapped from me. A couple scarves I've never worn and some lip gloss. "You gave that away?" I hear her ask. What? This too! Oh no...she really had given me one of those scarves...just last Christmas in fact. The reason it was never worn was that she mailed it to me in Chile. Since it's summer in South America in December and it just turned winter here, I never wore it! Having just returned from Central Asia where I bought a surplus of scarves, I thought it best I give some away. Dang it. Not the one from her...

Brandon and I nervously waited in hopes of the movies remaining unopened so Jess wouldn't discover there was yet another re-gift from her. I talked one person out of opening that one, but finally the present pile dwindled so low that it was inevitable. The gift was opened and I shouted-out that it was a re-gift from Jess. Tears sprang from my eyes the laughter was so intense.

I suppose next time I invite one of my siblings to a party I'll refrain from giving away things they've previously given me. Ahem. Unsuccessful re-gift right there!

'Tis the Season

Grandma got run over by a reindeer
coming home from our house Christmas Eve...

A gray-haired woman sways back and forth from her seat in the balcony as the Christmas entertainer sings. The living room is packed-out with walkers and canes, white hair and glasses, Christmas sweaters and broaches. There's eggnog with rum and hot cocoa with peppermint schnapps. A kind round of applause follows each Christmas carol as the retirement home residents give their ears a short rest before straining to hear the next song.

It's experiences such as these that make being a temp quite rewarding and inspire me to have a very Merry Christmas.

Zakhar

She's two months old, but came premature and malnourished. Her mother took her twin sister home, and their home is far away. So little Zakhar stays in the NICU until she can learn to grow.

Her stomach surgery was successful. It took place shortly after she came into this world. Nevertheless, she can't seem to keep food down. The doctors and nurses have tried everything. The only thing she seems to be missing is human interaction.

I heard this little one's story and volunteered to hold her. Thank goodness my friend Debbie came along. We were ushered into the NICU and the nurses set-up two plastic chairs in the middle of the room for us. We changed our shoes and put on gowns.

Then the nurse with the best English told me to put her down my shirt! The tiniest little baby I have ever seen with every bone of her body visible, and I was somehow supposed to put her down three layers of clothing without breaking her. Debbie & I were completely overwhelmed and in a country where genders do not mix, the male nurse was of no help to us.

Finally I got her situated enough for me, comfortable enough to stop her cries, and correct enough to appease the nurses. There we sat for over an hour, and when our time came to a close she had her milk and kept it down.

Pray for Zakhar. It's already a miracle that she's still alive. Today I held that miracle skin-to-skin as I watched mothers enter the NICU to hold their little ones as they wiped away tears with their head scarves. Babies often die here. I'm not a mother, yet the thought of that sort of pain spurred one of the nurses to ask me to pray and spurs me to ask you to do the same.

Donkey

There once was an old man, his son, and their donkey. They set-off on a journey that would take them from village to village.

When they entered the first village, the old man rode atop the donkey as his son walked beside. And the people sneered, "What a selfish man! He rides in rest as his poor son must walk."

Having overheard their sneers, the old man had his son join him on the donkey as they entered the next village. And the people sneered, "What an abusive man! The poor donkey is burdened by the weight of both man and son."

Having overheard their sneers, the old man and his son both climbed off the donkey and walked beside as they entered the next village. And the people sneered, "What a stupid man! Neither he nor his son have the sense to utilize the donkey for its intended purpose."

The moral of the story: Everyone has an opinion. Many times these opinions are in stark opposition. Respect them all, but know you'll never please them all. Make it your aim, rather, to listen to a voice that actually matters.

Purple Sparkle Flip-Flops

Purple sparkle flip-flops are my work shoes. There are pink ones, too, but I've pretty much claimed one of the purple pairs. They're about an inch too small, but since they're only worn in the hallway I figure it's okay.

Each day I offer up most the Dari I know in effort to greet the doorman. "Salaam Alaikum. Chetor asteen? Hoob asteen? Sahat Shooma hoobas? Tashakor. Hoob astom." I'm pretty sure most those words aren't even spelled right, so don't learn from me, just know it says something like, "Peace to you. How are you? How's your health? Thank you. I'm good."

Watching locals greet one another looks like a competition for who can think of the most things to say while the other is talking. The men place their hand over their heart as they utter each word. Women don't generally greet in public, but I've found in private, we kiss. Mostly I get 3 kisses, but I've had up to 6. We've ended with our right cheeks each time, but have started with right or left. All this adds up to a bunch of rules I apparently still don't know!

But I do know to take off my shoes when I enter a building. It's nice when there are house shoes available, but if not, my sockfeet will do. House shoes are absolute necessity for the bathroom though, as this is always a very wet place. There is usually a pair of flip-flops just inside the door if you aren't already wearing some.

House shoes, however, are just for hallways. As soon as your feet hit carpet, those house shoes rest at the door. Sometimes if a room gets crowded your house shoes disappear before you return to them, but they're usually just a door or two down.

After taking my purple sparkle flip-flops on and off a half dozen times throughout the day, I return to my moccasins to go home, where my brown fuzzy slippers await me.

Pomegranate & Persimmon

A month gone by and with it, my initial appreciation of this place attempting to flea as well. My saving grace, a solitude to hear the call to prayer once again and an evening free to enjoy a pomegranate. This after a day away from the city, spent laughing in fellowship with new friends.

In English we may say, "stop and smell the roses", and I in fact literally did just that a mere three days ago. Life is absolutely about trade-offs; accepting the good and the bad of each new season. Perspectives change and I finally admit not everything is a fairy land, but I refocus on all that says that oh, it actually is.

This afternoon a woman brough tears to my eyes. According to her, my hair is beautiful, my toenail color is beautiful, and I, in fact, am beautiful. As the Persians so graciously reply, "Your eyes are beautiful." If anyone should know beauty it would be this woman, but she actually mentioned on various occassions that she herself was not beautiful. Humbled and honored to chat with her for hours, she filled my heart with joy and reminded me to cherish the moment, all the while smiling, opening up to me, and slipping in more flattery.

Before tonight I had not heard the call to prayer in days. No, it never stopped. It happens multiple times a day whether I am here or not. I simply was not hearing it because I stopped listening. I can likewise so easily overlook beauty because I forget to see it as such. I can start to make cultural assumptions based on incomplete observations. I can let petty overtake precious.

I'm in a land full of pomegranates and persimmons. Sweet and inexpensive, these fruits are to my avail each and every day. I have twenty minutes available to peel and taste a pomegranate. I've learned that looking at a persimmon and thinking it's a tomato entirely does it an injustice. I'm starting to cherish that which became ordinary as precious once again.

Barf

The Persian word for "snow" is "barf". I learned this last night in the presence of junior highers and we soon started joking around about "barf days" and "barf balls" and the like. I decided about a week ago that I wanted to see snow on the mountains that surround the city sometime before I leave here in a few weeks.

This morning I awoke and there it was! Barf-capped mountains to the east. I snapped a photo from the roof of the house and tried to enjoy the scene before the sun melted it away. My desire to see snow was so quickly fulfilled that I started to think I must decide on something else I want to see before leaving here...

But for now I've settled on contentment; contentment to take life as it comes and relish in the moment without creating unneccessary wishes I really can't effect anyhow! I don't know what tomorrow will bring, but I'm going to enjoy it for what it is. And perhaps something I perceive to be as disgusting as "barf" will turn-out to be something as beautiful as a fresh white "snow".

You Good Smasher

In preparation for a big NGO volleyball tourney today, my team had a little practice yesterday. We drove all the way across town in the slam-on-your-breaks, hurry-up-and-go traffic only to a arrive and discover there was construction on the court. My German teammate, Wilfred, made a call and soon we were ushered into a garden with a small dirt court inside.

I've never played ball in a garden before, and the flowers here are so pretty. They actually have two names for roses; they're that common. One word is for the ones that smell really a lot, and the other for the roses that are quite beautiful but not all that fragrant.

I broke the rules and uncovered my head for the rally despite being in the presence of men. Navid, a local guy we met, joined our game which worked-out perfectly since we only came with five people. He spoke German in addition to Dari, which while being convenient for others on my team, offered me no service at all. The only thing I understood from him was "sorry" and "you good smasher"!

I wish I was still a legit volleyball player so I could be a smasher instead of a hitter.

That's not a bathroom!

Visiting a medical clinic in a little village just outside the city last Monday, I encountered friendly people and unforgettable images.

The ground of the clinic was covered with a sea of blue from the burkas the women wore. Little lumps on mother's laps wriggled as they awaited their turn to receive vaccinations. Those little ones who came out from under the veil revealed eyes masked black by kohl.

Culturally speaking, these precious babes risk danger by appearing cute because they would catch the eye of the evil spirits and their lives might be taken. Babies die so frequently in this country that without knowledge of proper health education, this superstition could almost make sense.

My next stop was at the women's clinic where I received a tour of the gardens and medical facility and then hung out with the workers. A couple young boys tried to snap photos of me from outside the gate and I went over to do the same to them. I sipped some tea and learned some local lingo until I could wait no longer.

"Where is the bathroom?" I hadn't seen one and had low expectations, but when I was led outside the building and the man pointed up the hill, I knew I was in trouble. The wooden shack was not too different from the shanty the boy jumped through on Slumdog Millionaire. Propped on some stilts, it had a door and a hole that led to the ground. Squatty potty to say the least. I think others had missed the hole entirely and I hiked up my pants and walked nice to the spot that looked the least contaminated.

I have a picture. I'll refrain from posting it. You can thank me later.

Chicken Street

Our anticipated shopping experience came to pass just the other day at a bazaar we call chicken street. This term of endearment came from the chickens they used to sell in this area known for tourism.

One must mentally prepare for the inescapable confrontation with beggars and bartering with shop owners. Even still, my mind could not be ready for the encounters that would ensue.

Woman in blue burka. Child barely walking in hand. Both with outstretched arms. Kohl painted round child's eyes to cast away evil spirits.

7-year-old boys and girls. Pack of chewing gum in hand. Grab hold of your hand. Don't let go as your minutes turn to hours and they cling to their chance to earn some $.

Man in a shop. Unfolding tapestry after tapestry. He states a price. You counter offer. Patiently keep looking and don't back down. He rejects your price, only to accept it minutes later.

Load up in van. Children swarm you in the dirty street. Try sticking gum through window cracks. Van starts to move. Children run. Run until they catch you. Indeed they have earned the small $ you slip out the window.

Fat-Bottom Sheep

Morning calls to prayer dissipate as deeper sleep keeps me in a coma away from the noise. Dust overtakes everything. Leaves of trees are painted with such a thick coat of brown that they look to be in an imaginary land. Streets are flooded with vans, cars, motorcycles, bicycles, carts pulled by stronger people than me, and herds of fat-bottom sheep.

The other day we ventured south of the city to a rural area in a beautiful valley. A medical clinic lies at one end, but the view beyond that is simply fruit trees, a river, and precious children. The village leader invited us to lunch and thanked us for being there. I did my best to listen to his inspiring words while interacting with these little boys who somehow convinced me to give them my sunglasses. I figured the boys would forever wear that pair of cheap Charlotte Russe glasses, but to my surprise they returned them to me prior to departure. On the way out of the valley was a man shepherding his flock of fat-bottom sheep...with a rifle.

I learned to count to 10 in Dari yesterday thanks to a group of fun girls at an orphanage. They already knew numbers 1-10 in English so I contributed by teaching them Spanish. We also learned how to give a Hi-5 and say my first and last name. All the necessities, right? Driving home that night on the trashy corner of our street was a heard of...fat-bottom sheep.

First Breaths in Asia

Whew! Just pulled up my blog only to fumble around in a language I don't even recognize! For a moment there I thought my hopes of blogging to be unreachable.

This morning I awoke at 4 a.m. Not sure how jet lag causes you to awaken early when back home it was 6:30 p.m. About 30 minutes later the beautiful call to prayer graced my ears and my friend and I shuffled to the rooftop to better soak it in. There are mosques on either side of the guesthouse where I'm staying. With starry sky above and shadows of mountains in every direction, the nuisance of traffic noise fought to drown out the chants flowing from places unseen.

The weather is perfect, though I will say wearing a scarf over your head causes greater warmth than one might expect! That being said, I still wish it wouldn't slip off every other moment. I'll learn.

Other than the calls and the clothes, this land doesn't seem all that foreign. My suspicion is that the longer I'm here, the more I'll find that to be true.

Life's Intracacies

Today I held a real human brain in my own two hands. Though my initial thought about that is disgust, my second thought is marvel. I went to the Bodies Exhibit and reveled at beautifully detailed veins and arteries, muscles perfectly strung together, tiny fetuses obviously already wonderfully made.

Outside my window thunder roars and lightning strikes in yet another summer thunderstorm. My dog will surely freak out until it ceases, but maybe that's good since more family stuff has happened today and my mom will have a buddy.

An image flashes through my mind of my babysitter's son and me, 5-years-old at the time, swinging in the backyard. As our feet stretch toward the sky, we sing new verses to "He's got the whole world in his hands". What a marvelous thing.

In Omaha

Sitting at the reception desk at a law firm, I realized that close to four months have passed not only since my last post, but since the earthquake, and shortly thereafter, my return home. I now fill my time with family, friends, and temp jobs. Still discontent on settling down in the city of my birth right now, that leaves this period of time as merely the "interim" of what was and what is to come.

I wouldn't be content as a receptionist or administrative assistant in the long-term, but switching it up every few days or weeks keeps me entertained enough. This week I hopped into a position that allows me not only to answer a phone that never stops ringing, but also to try to appease the seven lawyers who can't all play by the same rules. If that were not enough, I am also responsible for keeping the fish alive and making sure the break room has clean dishes and a water-stocked fridge. I've learned that creatures like that of Meryl Streep on the Devil Wears Prada do in fact exist and it makes me ever-so-grateful that the word "temp" is tacked onto my receptionist title.

It's my second summer of the year. The first signs of fall revealed themselves as I lived without power, food, water, or communication my last week in Conce and I arrived in Omaha to the remaining signs of winter. Storms and record rainfall have prevailed, but the hot, humid summer is now upon us. All the while, this is home, and that makes it a great place to be.

4 weeks

The sounds of Havana floud my room upon my recent return from tonight's asado. It's a disco across the street; no worries, I have not fled to Cuba. By day seagulls caw overhead, by night music blares from within.

It is 2:42 am and I sit here on my bed realizing I have now been in Conce four weeks...that's a month. I don't understand where time goes, but one short month from now I'll be boarding that plane...

Meat and wine settle in my stomach. It was my first asado in Conce, which I find rare given the normal frequency of Chilean bbqs. Wednesday I taught my first class with the new English institute I'll be working for this next month. Those students planned tonight to welcome me and I'm thankful we seem to get along since we'll be spending 9 hours a week together over the next month!

In seven hours I'll be teaching once again. At 11 am I have a class of high school boys that I must admit, I enjoy quite a bit. The other day one of them asked if he could ask me something bad. I said, "sure" of course. He asked the difference between "f* it" and "f* you". I can only dream of what they'll ask me tomorrow!

Que duerman con los angelitos

History Lesson of the Day

Raul is my oldest student; probably upper sixties. He's a dedicated member of my 8:00 conversation class and I believe talking to be one of his greatest hobbies. We began discussing childhood memories and how past sibling discrepancies can affect adulthood in a less than positive way.

"This conversation takes me back," he stated, and then in his less-than-perfect English, he recounted the following:

It was December 15, 1973 and my brother had invited me over for dinner. Before long the military patrol was at our doorstep arresting my brother and me. They took us to the stadium where I was held until December 23. My brother, however, was imprisoned for eleven months. He was ironically moved to my mother's hometown in a city up north near Antofagasta. They eventually had to let him go because they couldn't prove his allegiance to the government.

Before moving to Chile, my Lonely Planet book had enlightened me to the tumultuous past of this country. Even still, history has never been my forte and I would have never guessed the number of times the topic would come up in conversation. One of my co-workers in Santiago had recently moved back to Chile after his family was exiled during the rule of Pinochet. He grew up in Australia, which was one of a handful of countries that welcomed Chileans with open arms during the dictatorship.

I recalled another co-worker's mention of this time as I lay on my stomach soaking up ultraviolet rays at the beach today. The front cover of my recently purchased copy of El plan infinito lay open in front of me. As I gazed upon the photo of Isabel Allende, I remembered Chris, my co-worker, describing the many times he and his cousin Isabel would go to the beach together in Venezuela. "She had an ass this big," he commented as he reached his hands out to the side, "and she would wear a thong this big," he showed me with his fingers. The reason the two Chilean natives were in Venezuela was indeed because of the military dictatorship.

Raul continued his story with further background information:

The leftist party had the radical idea of dissolving the economy. They increased our salaries dramatically and I was suddenly able to afford anything I wanted. My brother and I were university students at the time and I remember lines growing long everywhere you went to purchase something.

Of course, the wealthy were displeased with the changes and this led to the formation of the coup who proceeded to overthrow the government September 11, 1973. Anyone with suspected allegiance to the socialist party was at great risk. My brother was a leader at our university and it was a mere three months after September 11 that they found us.

It's events such as these that grant me a bit more understanding as to why this culture is so pillo (takes advantage of any lack of attentiveness).

Life Update

New Year.

Peru and back.

Change of cities.

Whole new life.

If you need to find me, I´m here:

Barras Arana 1375, depto. 301

Concepción, Chile