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Guest columnist
Xicana Travelougue: Week 1
Sarah Rafael García

Ireland was one of Papi’s travel tales. Although Papi himself never traveled beyond Mexico and the United States, he infused my mind with limitless opportunities to cross over different borders.

“Mira mija, you’re American, tu vas tener la oportunidad de conocer ese país. Imagínate, one day you’ll go there!” His ink-stained fingertips tapped on the newspaper page that told of some green countryside in Ireland. Papi worked in the print room of the OC Register for 10 years; along the stories printed he also shared the lives of the other immigrants who worked with him. Needless to say, Vietnam, Samoa and Colombia are also countries on my travel list and he is the reason I share my stories.


Finally, at the age of 40, here I am. Writing in Ireland. “Si Papi, I know, I know you were right. It’s more than I could’ve imagined back then.” But from this point on, I have to learn to live and write for myself. I have chosen to present a final piece to him in a country that struggles with preserving their identity—as many of us do.

I’m in Cork, Ireland on a study abroad experience through early August. I look forward to sharing this country with you in the weeks ahead.


Beyond Timoleague
For Papi

Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
The odor of musk resurrects the past.

I turn my head for an escape,
agony unearthing the stones at my feet.
Wish it away! Wish it away.

Find solace in the damp grass.
Inhale until the malady subsides,
fill all the crevices within.
It’s not even past!


The clucking of life,
Cacrack, cacrack.
Cwaw, cwaw.

Rising, quietly, misty view ahead.
Shiny mudflats adorned with winged spirits,
savoring sweetness of grassy hues.
The buzzing at my head,
the earth pressed in my palms.
In such stillness, life goes on.

Behind me,
silence echoes—swaying to and fro.
Buried crosses,
endless knots,
a whispered name.
Shhh…listen to it again.


Once a prayer, today a reminder.
Peace will never be.
Nor here, nor there,
the past is never dead.

Forever in my thoughts,
“May his soul be at God’s right hand,”
because I know I am not.

(A response to a visit to Timoleague. Inspired by "The past is never dead. It's not even past." -- William Faulkner & "Timoleague Reveries" by Steve Wilson.)




Sarah Rafael García is a writer, community educator and traveler. She has trekked the Great Wall of China sixteen times and backpacked Australia from Melbourne to the Daintree Rainforest. Since publishing her memoir Las Niñas in 2008, she continues to share her passion by founding Barrio Writers and hosting Wild Womyn Writers workshops.
Her writings have been featured in Connotation Press, Label Me Latina/o, Brooklyn & Boyle, LATINO Magazine, Santanero Zine and Flies, Cockroaches and Poets. Sarah Rafael is currently attending Texas State University’s MFA Program in Creative Writing. Her works promote community empowerment, cultural awareness and global sharing. www.sarahrafaelgarcia.com

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This is the last but drawing of my travel themed Moleskine. There's just one more little page to fill. It's a travel sketchbook with a bit of a twist as I've created all the drawings at home with the souvenirs and memorabilia that I have brought back from my trips. Actually, not just my trips. This book also contains souvenirs from my friends travels too. That's the good thing about being a memorabilia artist; people always seem to bring me bits and bobs back from their trips. For example, a friend brought this back from the Leonardo da Vinci exhibition at the National Gallery, London, earlier this year.

I started this Moleskine on the 29th of April 2009. I cannot even begin to think of how many hours work, and love, have gone into it. I think that it is my favourite sketchbook so far. In fact, it most definitely is. I am very proud of it. And now there is just one more page to go. Will I ever finish it?

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Previously I mentioned that I thought that end-paper artist would be one of the most the perfect jobs for me. Here's another; font designer. I couldn't be happier than when I am playing around with words and letters.

One of the reasons it's taken me so long to post this drawing is that, as some of you may know, Blogger have been making changes. And, apparently it's now much easier to make posts. Apparently so.

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This is an example of one of those drawings that pisses me off. Actually, it's myself that pisses me off. I cannot blame the drawing. I piss myself off for not knowing where to stop. Originally, I set out to draw a nice piece of lined paper, a pen and a little bit of a brainstorming doodling session. That was it. But part of the way into it I started seeing a brain, and then the sea, and some land, and I just kept adding layer upon layer until I ended up with what looks like a bloody pirates map. Not that I've ever seen a pirates map. Then, I was so annoyed I smudged it all with my sleeve. Purposely, I should add.

I don't know what else to say.

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Lost for a day in Achutupu, San Blas, Panama

Losing my sister in Panama for a day was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Mary Rose told me I should not have gotten on the plane. There were so many could’ve, would’ve, should’ve moments. My sister and I are lucky this story contains a sweet ending. When I saw my cousin at the airport with her son and no Emily, I feared the worse. My sister Emily showed up ten minutes later and saved me a few gray hairs.

Our moon guidebook specifically said, “Do not confuse the great snorkeling spot of Achutupu in El Porvenir with the island Achutupu three hours away.” How I managed to buy one airplane ticket only, leave my sister behind in Panama City, land on a small airstrip for Achutupu where the “airport” consisted of a shelter and a few wooden benches is the story I’ve told repeatedly. The story also went viral via the phone tree. By the time the next and last plane landed two hours later and it was obvious there was no Emily Palacio on board, I broke down in tears and soon everyone on Achutupu (Dog Island) knew the story of how I became stranded on an island with no running water, let alone internet service, or hotels.

Piña Coladas can make a ridiculous plan sound sane. At an internet café, were only able to buy one ticket on Aeroperlas before our time on the computer was up. I went first and then the flight was sold out. Our plan was to go to the airport early and buy another ticket on Air Panama. Had we been going to an island with hotels and a larger airport, El Porvenir, we would have both been able to get there. Later, my sister said there were flights to El Porvenir. I actually thought I was going to El Porvenir in San Blas. Instead, I found myself on an island with Kuna Yala inhabitants who didn’t speak English or Spanish, near the Columbian border.

With our usual Panamanian timing, Emily and I arrived ten minutes before my flight to Achutupu. I had to make a split decision and Emily urged me to get on the plane, saying she will meet me there in two hours or she would be fine in Panama City for a day. As I waited a butterfly fluttered over me. There were two people who spoke Spanish (the rest spoke the dialect of the Kuna Yalas who live on Achutupu). They told me the butterfly would bring me good luck in finding my sister. My sister and I made a plan to be in touch by email. When my phone read No Service, I panicked and started to cry. The women felt sorry for me. I thought I would be staying at Hotel Kuna Niskua. They explained that this hotel was in Wichub Huala three hours away and that if I went there, I might miss my 6 am flight back to Panama City in the morning. They convinced me to spend the day with them.

I made the best of being lost on a faraway island. The daughter of the lady I stayed with took me swimming at a nearby island by canoe. My host killed a chicken for me and grilled it over a fire and made rice and patacones (green plantains). It was one of the best meals I’ve ever had. The Kuna people treated me extremely well and, although I was worried about my sister, I had a feeling everything would work out well. I did my best to enjoy myself. I know my s

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[Last installment of what I call a quasi-vision quest. Read first installment here and the previous one here.]

The dog and I have three choices for where to bed down for the night. The first niche rests on a ledge surrounded by four-foot boulders, facing southwest; it offers the widest view, and I judge it would be exhilarating at sunrise. Problem is, it's so well enclosed, my dream-bears could unexpectedly come upon us in the dark, through no fault of their own. The second is on the plateau, but affords only bare rock for sleeping space, since large red ants have colonized everywhere else. So we must take the third, on the face of the mt., that provides some safety from oscine or insect. There's space enough for the dog and a smaller for me to keep watch. I don't plan on sleeping; that's not what I'm here for. I take my last photo.

After securing Manchas's food high up a scrawny pine and my untouched crackers on a ledge, where neither can be reached by Mr. Bear, and as the sun caresses the crest of the western mountains, I light my second cig and wait. For what?

Not unlike the early Great Plains indigenes, to my rear I can see "Pike's" Peak, which is still visible all the way to the Kansas border. Unlike those first Americans, I wasn't drawn here by any belief or understanding of the Great Spirit embodied in that rocky mountain. I am very like campers and tourists who consider the area more suited for pitching tents and hill-climb racing. A crown on the eastern mountains gleams of urban lights of Colo. Springs. How far away have I really come?

But the dog and I are alone. We're so high up, no park noise reaches us, no electrical lighting, though throughout the night, jet engines and airliner's flashing lights high up will too often pass over. As the daylight leaves us, most of the birds cease their activity and communing. One last drink of water for both of us to toast the coming night.

After maybe an hour of starlight my mind ceases dwelling on daily concerns. I don't have to worry, plan or decide anything about the house, the job, the truck or the world I left behind, even though only for this night. So what then will I "think" about? The brain requires something to occupy itself and exist, no?

Some time later I realize how by myself I truly am, and not simply in the sense that no one sits beside me. More, I'm not in a room by myself, surrounded by my electronics, furniture, paper and constructed walls, enclad by my modern man-ness, there's little here of creations or possessions of artificial making. I have the small thin blanket, clothes and bare necessities. No tent or sleeping bag to enclose me; I won't even make a primitive man's fire to keep away my bears or relieve the night's chill when it comes--the closest I'll get to deprivation. I consider going totally bare skin, but am too civilized and don't want to shock Manchas.

So what's the deal about being alone out here? First, it's disorienting. The organic and inorganic that normally root you to society's concrete foundations are absent, and I miss them. Light waves of vertigo flow through me, as if I'm repeatedly on the verge of falling from lack of reference to hold onto. I keep righting myself and my mind grasps for reliable and familiar objects, purposes and goals, but they're not there. Right before the sensation threatens to reach an anxiety attack, it stops. It will flash back later, but only in minor, tolerable versions.

Now something else threatens: my heartbeat is the loudest thing about, no owl will hoot this night, no cougar will snarl here. Silence only seems to promise boredom. Will I not make it till dawn because I died of that? How unromantic. How, boring.

Manchas stirs, twirls and circles to find better footing. He lies down and attempts to hold onto the slope with his nails to keep from sliding. He does this a few times through the night, but will succeed in getting much more sleep than I.

I take a swallow of water. It tastes incredibly good, more refreshing than I can remember. We're down to a quart.

I peer into the darkness under the trees where the stars don't reach. I imagine primitive man doing the same, with his survival sometimes at stake if he fails to see something. I remove my glasses to see as he saw and wonder how my genetic line made it through those times. Seeing so poorly, my ancestor must have easily qualified as beer food. Yet, I'm here, so survival of the fittest must not be the whole story. Pure luck played some part.

After awhile of the darkness-peering I look to the heavens. I haven't googled what I saw and don't plan to. At the time I assume it is some optical imprint from staring at the darkness. Everywhere between the stars fills with a mosaic, that reminds me of Palenque inscriptions carved in the stone there, but these aren't Maya. Mine are abstract, without any characteristic design, lacking rational meaning. Their complexity, intricateness beg capturing, drawing onto paper that I have but won't use. Their beauty stays in my mind to this day. At some point they fade into the black of outer space. I assume I can make them appear again by repeating the process. I probably didn't have my vision, but I feel slightly exhilarated, anyway.

I expected the wind would kick up during the night but it stays light, hardly reaching us, down as we are below the crest. A couple of gnats and horseflies visit briefly, about all the wildlife that makes its presence known to us. This will not qualify for an episode of Wild Kingdom.

The near full moon is high up now. At least I can see Mr. Bear if he tries making it down the two narrow path to us. But I doubt we'll be entertained by that; it's too damn steep. Manchas rises, this time not just to find a better spot. He stares fixedly, to what looms above us, listening for something on the crest. It's nothing large or he would bark. Probably a chipmunk or such. He'll do this a couple more times tonight, again never barking. Just staring. Maybe wondering. He finds a new spot.

I can't find my own. I should have done more removing of smaller rocks to make a comfortable bed for the two of us. I take naps, but the mt. doesn't allow me more than some minutes of sleep. My shaking knees awake from what will be the last nap; they shake from the cold. They won't stop. I don my sweatshirt. It doesn't stop the knees. Then it's all my legs. I wrap them with the blanket. That doesn't work either.

I do the math. It averages fifteen degrees cooler here than the maybe fifty-five in the Springs. That means it's something like forty, maybe colder. No wonder I'm shaking. The Boy Scout motto pops into my head. Dummy me may be prepared for a vision, but not for the mt.'s cold. I could find some wood to build a fire, but it might take me out of what we climbed so high to find. Now to see if a little temperature deprivation will help find that vision.

Manchas of course isn't shaking. Curling up with him doesn't help me enough to make it worth tolerating his dog smell. He's my companion, comrade in this, but there's an olfactory limit to all friendships. The sweatshirt and blanket feel like they've lost their thickness. My shivering becomes uncontrollable. It's too dark, unsafe to go down to where it's undoubtedly warmer. After what feels like forever, I give up trying to control the uncontrollable and let the cold in.

My body is hallucinating. Not visually, not through any of the five senses. Some other way. Maybe it's early frostbite symptoms. Don't matter. I just shake. My body feels different. Disconnected. Sighing. Restful. And then the shaking stops.

But the feeling doesn't. Where the cold and the mt. took me and my body, I don't know. It stays on, in me. Now weeks later, it's still here. Another place I can be, put myself into. It's good. However long it lasts doesn't matter. I'm sure I could produce it again.

And it's more than just a physical feeling. I'm looking at many things as if I'm turned sideways, from an angle I think others might not see. I won't explain all of what I see from there, because it won't necessarily mean anything to anyone.

At sunrise I don't go atop the crest to check what Manchas had heard--no cause for spoiling the mystery, though no bear was definitely a disappointment. But I knew two things. In a sense, the mt. had physically beaten me. And I let that mentally beat myself. We were leaving, but both of us were taking some of the mt. with us. Manchas is a housedog, but every night now he's reluctant to go inside. I think he wants me to sleep on the patio with him. I don't know why I haven't yet.

On the other hand, the beating I, at least, took had its other side, as already described. I took that from the mt. when we went straight down its side instead of returning on the longer route. Several times we slid, fell, struck things, but managed to not break anything.

A couple we passed on the trail called us early risers. "We spent the night up there." They looked at us disbelievingly. That was fine.

I'd only gone twenty-four hours without food and wasn't really hungry, but stopped at the Hungry Bear in Woodlawn Park. I ate only half of the delicious breakfast and drank half of the juice. I'm usually a pig about a great meal but just wasn't hungry. Believe me when I say you've got to eat there--blitzes, pastries, home-style cooking like restaurants used to serve. Before our decline in the world.

We took Colo. 76 to avoid civilization for as long as possible. People warned me about delays because of flooding and "the fire." They didn't warn me about how I'd react to it. Miles of road and acres of black naked trees on both sides. You turn a curve thinking you've seen the last of it and there's another mountainside's worth of burned tree and almost bare ground.

My reaction disturbs me. I don't think of the homes burned, the family tragedies, the lost income, ugly devastation. I see Nature. Earth's life cycles. Equilibrium returned to imbalance. I can't find in myself compassion for the "loss" suffered here. What happened just seems right. That's the mt. in me talking.

I haven't told you everything of my quasi-vision quest because this piece is long enough as it is. Mine obviously differed from tatiana's; hers reads of the real and the believing. If you haven't yet, do check out her post for something further out than mine.

I end with sitting out on the patio a few days ago. A hawk flew over Manchas and I, coming to rest twenty feet up in one of my trees. He stayed for minutes, long enough for my wife Carmen to hear me and come out to see it, so I wasn't hallucinating. Hawk stayed longer than you might imagine. He was wonderful. I saw him again soaring another day. I can hope he'll decide to nest in that same tree. Who knows--maybe the mt. sent him to remind me.

Not that I can forget.

RudyG

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[Third installment of what I call a quasi-vision quest. Read first installment here and the previous one here.]

Except for Manchas's taking a crap on the way back down to the trailhead, our descent's uneventful. I wonder how he managed to take one, since he'd barfed up a stomach-full earlier. At least whatever he might have gotten from the pump water hasn't plugged him up. I assume he's tougher than me and certainly don't want our adventure cut short because of my dog's possibly daintier constitution; friends might say I used him as an excuse.

Repeatedly, as we retraced our steps down the trail, in the back and sometimes the front of my mind is one thing: bears. I'd been told they and the rarer cougar had been sighted in the area, but some of that might have been tourist-luring hearsay. Yes, bears make it even into Denver suburbs, and every few years a cougar wanders down our I-70 greenbelt, but we're to blame for pushing them out of their native habitat, which is where Manchas and I now walk. So, they probably won't be mauling us cause they've left to go malling.

I don't know if others "suffer" similarly, if it's just "racial memory" homo sapiens carries that surfaces in our bear-dreams, but over the years bear dreams always disturb my sleep more than my falling-dreams, no matter I've never seen one outside a zoo or circus, the kinds of places I no longer frequent. In any event, as we enter a heavily canopied trail sector, I find myself looking into the forest depths for bear. During the remainder of the trip, I'll continue doing this.

Park literature and my readings swear that bears are not aggressive unless provoked or accompanied by cubs, I assure myself, so I only need worry about the latter case, right? But in fact what worries me is that I keep reassuring myself. Where's that come from? As a sapient--and a relatively emotionally stable one--I should be capable of setting worry aside, given I've at least read considerable amounts about bear. I'm not ignorant. However, my head fails to function accordingly.

When I'm not searching forest shadow for momma and baby bear, I scan for scat, even though I can't differentiate between bear, cougar or velociraptor poop, other than possibly by size. More "racial memory" from millions of years prior to evolving into the sapiens species? Or do bears from past dreams represent more than introspection about my emotions, my personality? These cute questions keep entering my head, keep pushing other thoughts aside, making me question whether I can guide my thinking toward revelations that will indeed lead to, if not a real vision, at least considerable relief from my muddled, too familiar ways of thinking. When I ask Manchas if he's afraid of bears, I realize I ask the ridiculous; bears normally fear and avoid his type.

On the other hand, cougars don't; Manchas's type is traditional cougar cuisine. They're known to lure a dog away from others to where they ambush them. A friend of mine from Boulder raises Australian cattle dogs, and earlier this year the rest of his hounds brought him all that was left of one a cougar had cornered: its rolling head came to a stop at his feet. This is why I keep Manchas leashed all our time here. Despite his high intelligence--for a dog--he would run off after a big cat, thinking nothing about the difference in size from our pet felines back home. And I don't want him winding up like my friend's dog. After all, it was Manchas's mom.

Blogger Alice left a comment on my first installment of this venture: "Make sure your location is known." I take her advice and write a note I leave on the truck floorboard concerning where we're headed. I can't help leaving a potential last joke, though not my best ever: "If anything happens to me, I assume the dog will drag back my remains."

As prepared as we can get, the two of us veer off the trail, making our way up. Passersby below, peer up, possibly wondering what the hell we're doing. I try not to think the same. Despite not being as steep as a direct climb, the hill's pitch promises to be a challenge. The backpack's relatively light, the heaviest contents, the quart and a half of water. Crackers don't weigh much. Manchas's food does, which reminds me of La Bloga readers who advised not to put him on restricted intake; they're not here to carry it. It's mostly soil underfoot here and pine needles galore, but navigable, nevertheless. At least for the first few hundred feet and first half hour. Until it steepens.

We're not quite alone yet. Chatter from the trail below fades, with an occasional barking dog or revving truck motor dimly reaching us. Manchas's paws point uphill, and he manages it easily. I have to switch to stepping diagonally to keep solid footing and not slide from loose soil and ground rock underfoot.

Perhaps an hour later we've got into a rhythm, if you want to call twenty-minute stretches of climb separated by five-minute rests a rhythm. Real climbers, nonsmokers and fit, young people could do it better, but we don't care because they're not here. Our hearts beat strong, or maybe are being beaten, and I nearly forget the bears. I do forget about the lower level of oxygen we're taking in.

Manchas's tongue hangs low enough to lap at the pine needles, so we stop for a drink; he wipes his up, I take a swallow, which will be my regular portion throughout. The word stamina pops into my head, something to get us to the top, I think. I assume the dog's got it, and I need to somehow magically find it in myself. It's there, it's what always gets me through my day, my job, larger home-maintenance I take on. I will not forget that word.

Another hour later our goal appears no closer than when we began. We've been in the midst of thin forest. My walking stick serves like someone stronger alongside to assist old me through trickier parts of the path. Actually, the paths I expected we'd follow never appear. Nothing large like deer have left markings about, at least that I can see. No matter we're only a few hundred feet from where thousands of tourists tread, the dog and I are the disturbers of nature here, the space between the pines untrammeled until we mar its pristineness.

One other evidence of disruption is a cave-niche where fires charred three large rocks to warm the rare visitor. The soot makes me realize we've passed many blackened trees bare of leaves. Lightening, I finally realize. We're high up the type of terrain where Colorado's electrical storms leave loving evidence of their might. Might they while we're here? Right now it's cloudless above. Wind's constant, though never howling or rocking us.

In our third hour, a different word pops up: deprivation, though I don't know why. The climb hasn't been so demanding as to consider quitting. And I don't feel "deprived." So whence the thought? We don't deprive ourselves of rest; if anything, we stop more frequently and longer each time. I'm not tempted to crack open the crackers; going without food for even twenty-four hours is no biggie. Workaholics, of which I am one, do it often, simply out of negligence. Deprivation. Will have to think about that more.

We're high enough that we begin to see the tops of other mountains, even though the pinnacle of ours still lies distant. Breathtaking--at least when I can manage to draw one. Panoramic--though Manchas might be unimpressed. Solitude--turns out there are no cabins or homes visible from here. A great quiet--what I least expect--no sound of teeming wildlife, except for one or two small birds at a time.

I don't know if it's the fourth hour or what. Have no watch. Wife Carmen "made me" bring her cell, to keep her apprised of our safety. I'd tried it below, but no service. I'll use it at the top because she "made me" promise. She didn't realize how the out-of-touch factor heightens one's sense of . . . danger? Word doesn't fit. But something like that. Anyway, the phone likely can tell me the time, but I don't want to know; would mar the "primitiveness" of our walkabout.

Trees thin even more. Now they make their hold between large and larger rocks that increase in numbers, sometimes blocking our way. Ten feet, fifteen in size, they become obstructions that make travel harder and harder. Again, unexpected. Our pace slackens, sometimes having to backtrack to find better route.

Manchas's short four legs no longer rate superior to my longer two. And where before he helped pull me, I now lead, although it's futile to tow him. Eighty pounds of him don't come up easily, especially where a step of rock measures a couple of feet. He's starting to enjoy this less, I can see.

No hawks, though one soars in the distance, few flying insects, just some really big ants that I'll need to make sure don't nest under our spot come nightfall. Gotta keep away from ticks as well, for his sake.

Whatever time it is, however long we've gone, the boulders wear at my stamina. They're almost all we walk on and over; dirt, gravel and needles have become more dangerous, when we do cross them. Manchas likes this even less. A couple of times he resists following or jumps when I'm not ready, and I barely save myself from falling by ramming my forearms against or over a rock. Both are soon well scratched and painful, though not enough to matter. Pain is our word here. Muscles ache, head's throbbing somewhat. Maybe it's the altitude, too.

My brain's superior to his in finding passable trail. His vision seeks paths within a few feet in front of him. Mine peers further, anticipating, calculating, better planning which to take. We two have been this for tens of thousands of years. I do better at it; it's one reason I don't wear the leash.

Twice, Manchas gives me a "no" look, determined. He will not attempt to climb this rock or that path I'm trying to convince him is the best available. I'm tempted to give in to picking him up, but know he does too well at learning new routines. If I do it once, I'm dead; he will make me do it even when not required. Both times I'm forced to invent a totally different path or tweak one into finer and finer increments that he'll accept.

When we reach the edge of a rise that's drained us for I don't know how long, the relief from seeing there's only one mountain above us--ours--feels as if we've emerged from hours in a lightless cavern. We're beat. The top of our mt. is almost in sight, just a few more hundred feet. But the boulders in front of us will definitely not let Manchas pass. The two of us have come as far as we'll get, today or any day, unless I carry him, somehow. Fat chance.

There's service here, so I call the wife to let her know we're here, and exclude any negative information, like about my forearms. We probably have a couple of hours to prepare for nightfall.

The dog eats, wipes out the water I give him. A good swallow for me; the larger canteen's half empty. Maybe we don't have enough. But at least stamina's no longer required; we simply have to sit. Danger seems irrelevant; nothing about. Deprivation remains a possibility.

The crags we came for aren't visible unless we reach the top. That may have to wait for another time. Their majesty below almost frightened, and I admit relief at not having to learn if I can stand watch with them for an entire night. That might test more than a vision suddenly facing me.

We gaze, we stare, and breathe. The opposing mountain's nearly covered with pine. Essentially, we stand above tree line. It's too quiet to believe. Questing for a vision will start in a while, I suppose. For now, some rest, a smoke, a break.

RudyG

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by Thania Muñoz

(Today's installment by Thania replaces Dan Olivas's usual Mon. post. He needed to attend to family. See Thania's first installment about her visit to South America here.)

Santiago de Chile is very cold. It has rained a few times and the city has been dealing not only with the regular winter season flu, but also the infamous “swine flu” or whatever name they have given to it now. Officials have advised people to be careful, to take care of themselves and avoid crowded places.

Not a lot people have followed this advice; everyone is out and about, downtown stores are crowded and bars and restaurants haven’t lost that much business. I’ve been taking care of myself. I avoid crowded places, but I still walk the streets of Santiago every day.

It’s funny. Santiago hasn’t changed a bit. I honestly thought I wasn’t going to be able to recognize places and people, but it hasn’t been that way; my friends say that I haven’t change a bit, either. I guess the three years since my last visit is not as long ago as I thought.

I arrived on a rainy morning at “my family’s” house. They received me with warm sopaipillas, a traditional Chilean snack or appetizer that is fried and made out of flour, lard, pumpkin and salt. It's traditional for Chileans to eat them during the winter season, especially when it rains, because they are warm and delicious. It compares to having a cup of hot cocoa and cookies for us back in the states.

Almost every day late in the afternoon we gather in the kitchen, waiting for the pastry to be taken out of the oil. Street vendors also sell them outside metro stops or at street corners, but as in most cases, homemade ones are exceptionally good. As I caught up with my family that morning, I had a few sopaipillas and a cup of warm tea.

The first time I went to Chile I lived with the Arteaga family for six months and after all the good times we spent together I now consider them my family. Back then they used to rent out rooms of their house to students from places like England, Haiti, Germany, Perú, Brazil and Chile.

Living with the Arteaga family is one of my most cherished memories. They taught me all there is to know about Chilean culture. The Arteaga sons were one of my many idioms--bad words included--instructors. I still remember how I used to write down words I heard in school and read the whole list to them when I got home. After a few laughs, they’d explained them to me with detail and examples. I’m a quick learner when it comes to idioms. Some easy ones include “flaite” or “cuico,” and some of the hard ones, “agarrar pa'l leseo,” “barsa,” “fome.” Any guesses?

The Arteaga family is originally from southern Chile, from a town called Los Angeles (yes, as in California), and during the summer I went on vacation with them to meet the rest of the family. Mr. Arteaga’s family has a “fundo” there, a house in the country or a rancho, with a brick oven, next to a river. I went during the summer so during the day everyone would go swimming or sunbathing at the river.

At night we sang, played the guitar and some of the older ladies even gave “cueca” lessons, Chile’s national dance. During this trip I ate and drank traditional Chilean food: warm “humitas” (similar to Mexican tamales) that are usually eaten with chopped tomatoes and sugar on top; drinks such as a homemade white wine mixed with blended strawberries, and “chicha,” a fermented drink made of grapes or other fruits.

When I started this post I didn’t intend to write about food, but being here has brought back all those wonderful memories. As of now, I’m almost done eating a cheese empanada, and later I’m going to Paseo Ahumada, a lively and crowded pedestrian street downtown to buy some sweetened warm peanuts. Enrique Lihn, a Chilean poet, has a wonderful book of poetry named after this street:

Que los que se paren,
en Ahumada con la Alameda,
escuchen si corre un poco de aire,
el relincho del caballo de Bernardo O’Higgins.
(Paseo Ahumada, 1983)

I’ll stop at this point and maybe hear the horse’s neigh.

Thania Muñoz
de Santiago

p.d.: Dieting is forbidden in Chile, I swear.

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What a fabulous Friday!  Storyteller and author Joseph Bruchac visited my school for a presentation to our sixth and seventh graders this afternoon.   I am in awe of this man, who kept 200 middle school kids spellbound for an hour and fifteen minutes.  I can't say I was surprised, though. If you've ever heard Joe Bruchac speak, you know what a captivating storyteller he is.

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Joe's message, for the kids and all of us, is to honor the stories that are  part of our lives.  Stories can teach us, keep us safe, and give us courage when we need it the most.  My class had just finished listening to SKELETON MAN as a spooky read-aloud this morning (nothing like cutting it close), so the kids loved asking questions about the book right away.  They're working on their own fictional pieces now and relished the opportunity to chat with such a prolific author about his writing practices. Joe's advice to writers, young and old, won't come as a surprise:  If you want to write, spend lots of time writing. If you want people to read what you have written, spend lots of time rewriting.  Joe's latest book, BEARWALKER, is due out from Harper Collins in July. 

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