SWSS HAS MOVED

Hey guys (I think 6 of you?)! I've moved to smallworldshesaid.tumblr.com

Please folow me there!  I'll also be revamping the blog/site in the next couple months. Yay!

latest infatuation.

Antanas Mockus, Former mayor of Bogota, Colombia

“While I was the mayor of Bogotá, I received occasional death threats. Therefore, I had to use a bullet-proof vest. I made a hole right where my heart is. The hole was in the shape of a heart. I believe this kind of gesture, gave me indeed more protection."

And from an interview...

Q: Your most famous antic, which was symbolic, was mooning a roomful of rowdy students. Why did you do that, and what did you feel?

A: A very strong emotion, a very complex emotion generated a drive — what I did, what is called in English, mooning. When I was mooning the students I felt two extreme feelings, one that I was giving myself to them. I was allowing them to pressure me, but on the other side it was the extreme refusal.

Learn more about Mockus, who also just lost in Colombia's presidential election 2010.

summer as a graduate.

I just graduated (three weeks ago)! And have been in the throes of internal conflict- should I keep looking for a respectable job, establish myself, find a way to not get embarrassed when asked what I planned on doing with a history degree? Or should I lavish in the regimented laziness of a postgrad summer? Seeing friends, going to concerts, reading books that have gathered dust on the reading list, and finally taking those guitar lessons before excuses of age take over? Either way, I'll be waking up everyday a little sad and uncertain. But this is new for me and I think an important lesson in how to responsibly have no responsibilities but the personal ones. A good exercise in adulthood I hope.

I said goodbye to Bellingham. Thank you for some very good moments.

materialism, liberation, and sex and the city

This Stranger review of Sex and the City 2 also doubles as an op-ed piece on misguided contemporary feminism at the intersects of class and gender politics. Blegh, sorry for that bs. I'm wrapped up in history papers. Graduating soon!

follow your h.e.a.r.t. (hard equations and rational thinking)

found here.

life as...

a hallway.

$6.55

...is my current account balance. Seven days until first paycheck. gah

I went to a Chilean rodeo.

Story published in Revolver Magazine

“Close the damn door, portero!” yells the man beside me at the inattentive gate-watcher, seconds after belching his beer-laden breath in my face. The sun is beginning to set, but the rodeo's festivities here in Caleu, a dusty town nestled in the coastal hills west of Santiago, are far from over.

This hot Sunday afternoon marks my first rodeo ever. Having grown up gringa, I thought I'd ingested enough all-American media to feel familiar with the cowboy competition. This also fed my first misconception --that the rodeo is a uniquely U.S. tradition.

The rodeo is as unique to the U.S. as the cowboy. In other words, where you find a Spanish legacy, livestock and the vaqueros who herd them, you'll find the rodeo tradition. This is also embarrassingly obvious considering the term “rodeo” is derived from the Spanish word, “rodear,” meaning to round-up.

Twice a year, Caleu’s Club de Huasos holds a rodeo show that brings in almost all the local rodeo enthusiasts as well as those from neighboring regions. The huasos, or Chilean cowboys, are dressed head-to-toe in their traditional garb: a silk and wool poncho, long-sleeved button-up shirt, jeans, cowboy boots, spurs, and a straw sombrero. Wearing these heavy layers in the sweltering summer heat is itself an admirable achievement.

The three hour competition consists of about 30 to 40 “rounds” which judge the ability of horse-riders to control the cow as a partner team, with points added or subtracted according to factors too numerous to list.

In one round, teams of two huasos work together to control the movements of an energetic calf. One team consisted of a father and his son, who couldn't have been older than 13, but whose youth was only revealed by the prepubescent voice he used to skillfully sequester the cow. When the competition ends, points are tallied, winners are recognized and the crowd funnels into a canopied area where mismatched tables and chairs surround a humble dirt dance floor. Blasting from the stage is a range of music, from Cumbia, to ranchero, to la Cueca (the Chilean folk dance), while local caterers serve Chilean favorites best accompanied with a national beer.

“The club and rodeo are still as popular with the community as when I joined at 14,” says Carlos David Gonzales Villelon (54), former Club de Huasos de Caleu president (2004–2006). The rodeo has been a mainstay in Caleu for over 80 years, recalls Villelon, whose father and grandfather were also avid huasos.

“Even during the [Pinochet] dictatorship, this tradition continued. For the most part it was untouched by the horrors that mostly took place in Chile's urban centers. This tradition went on as always.”


But what makes the rodeo so special to this community? “This rodeo involves all the traditions that we value. All the folklore, food, entertainment, everything we identify ourselves with. It represents our happiness,” says Gloria Bernales Alvarado, Caleu native, rodeo announcer and event co-organizer. I would later find out that the young cowboy from the competition was her 12-year-old son.



“It's also the only community event that brings everyone from Caleu together,” Alvarado added. “People who stay at home all day, who even many residents rarely see, all come out for the rodeo. It truly unites us.” She went on to describe how the culture and history of Chile's countryside translates into what the people value.

“In rural Chile, rodeo culture is the one sport that is vital to the health of the campo community. It teaches children positive values like camaraderie and respect towards people and animals.” Like its U.S. counterpart, Caleu's rodeo is much more than the rodeo competition. It's a family-friendly patriotic celebration, the social glue of the local community, a rustic summer block party. As the night came to an end, the music from the rodeo continued to fill the valley, promising local light-sleepers a late morning start on their farm chores. Rubbing the dust out of my eyes I pondered the day's weirdness; weird that a traditional fiesta in the remote countryside of central Chile could feel oddly familiar. Perhaps the recipe for rodeo entertainment is fundamentally the same, no matter where you are.

Similar fixings, but with Chilean soul.

After I interviewed the rodeo announcer, she gave me some honey from her husband's bee farm

I wrote about organic wine in Chile.

A few months ago, I visited some organic vineyards, interviewed (in Spanish) nature-lovin' winemakers and an oenologist/specialty wine vendor, and drank a lot of free wine (to help with the Spanish). Then I flew back to the U.S. and frantically wrote this story for The Wine Times the day before the deadline, and a couple days before my Spring quarter commenced. Published today.

Invade a hospital

photo courtesy the matchstick factory

diggs

Temp space in Bellingham. Until I move out in July for the great unknown.

Also instead of succumbing to adderall (which did NOT work last year), I've deactivated the Facebook account in an attempt to stay focused on school work, papers, etc. now that I'm back at college. Maybe I should have just downloaded this super self-control program.

before I cut my hair...

...these locks had a mind of their own. Look at that unbridled free spirit of a mane. Upon coming back to the States a couple weeks ago, I cut my hair to a just-below-the-chin bob partially in an effort to feel more like the 'adult' I still fear I'll never be, and partially with the hope that this visible change, in a very token way, would reflect some kind of internal transformation that an extended trip beyond the homeland is supposed to invoke. Didn't really accomplish either.

If styled right, the cut could pass as emo high school dropout goes clerical assistant. Ya know, decent. But most often than not, it just makes my head look bigger than it already is. New hair, new living context. Back at school, stationary, too easily sliding into/between boredom or anxiety, very cold. Why can't I stay in one place and feel a lasting sense of purpose?!

While I'm complaining, I also dropped my camara into the frigid Birch Bay water at the highest tide (meaning I didn't even get any clams out of it). So this post is an homage if you will (let's!) to the long hair, the ephemeral freedom, and the Nikon point-and-shoot that journeyed through the Americas and lived in Chile not too long ago though feeling pretty long ago.

Random Photos from August 2009 - October 2009 (not chronologically ordered)

Mazatlan, Mexico

exhausted at Costa Rican border crossing

Panama City to Cartagena, Colombia

San Pedro de la Laguna, Guatemala

Pacaya Volcano, Guatemala

Lago Atitlan, Guatemala

Near San Ignacio, Belize

Cozumel, Mexico

Mexico D.F.

Near Palenque, Mexico

Guanajuato, Mexico

Cabo San Lucas, Mexico

Quito, Ecuador

constant state of departure, while always arriving

Terremoto (Earthquake)

homemade white wine (high alcohol content not for the faint of heart alone)

splash of fernet (disgusting Argentine licorice liquor will give it that nice earthy color)
fatty scoop of pineapple ice cream (ice cream in beer? nothing has ever made so much sense)

I wanted to post before I left Chile, but that didn't happen. I also had all these ideas for post topics that really gutted the beast of introspection. They carried the right amount of sincere retrospection without getting oversentimental. But I'm already back in (the greater) Seattle (area) and, to borrow the words of a fellow traveler, it feels like I just woke up from a long dream. I wish I had a go-to recap statement that was inspiring, original, and sufficiently encapsulated my last 8 months abroad, but I'm drawing a lazy jetlagged blank. Let's just say I had an amazing time, improved my Spanish, and find myself suddenly appreciating Seattle's cool air and persistant greyness (for the moment).

I had a pretty raucous despedida at the Piojera, a crowded working class bar that was christened "the fleahouse" when a pre-Pinochet Chilean president walked into the popular dive and disgustedly called it so before walking out. Their famous drink, the Terremoto (earthquake), will rock you. It's cheap (less than 4 dollars) and one gets me properly shitfaced.

Anyways, I'm not sure how interesting this blog will get from here on out. I'llprobably continue with the recipes and crafty whatnots, until my next big trip.

Here are some random last shots from around Santiago:

At the Museo de la Memoria, remembering the Pinochet dictatorship

View of Santiago from San Cristobal hill

Colombia is with you Chile, post-quake condolences

Going-away with the Santiago Times staff at the Piojera. Ciao Santiago!

Tsunami Alert

waiting for an apocalypse is kind of boring

"god living in Chile right now is like living in an overzealous apocalypse movie script in a cheezy Hollywood producer's rejects pile"

While writing my last post, a hotel admin rep hurried over to where I was sitting in their restaurant (the only one), and at first I thought "Oh shit they've caught me, the jig is up, they've figured out what an opportunistic leech I am. I'm gonna be kicked out of the hotel and I'll have to walk out completely shamed" but no, he was telling me they were evacuating the building because of a national tsunami threat alert. So that was the sense of urgency I felt in the restaurant- it had nothing to do with me overstaying the short welcome my single orange juice order afforded me, but rather the staff thought I didn't speak Spanish and didn't know how to warn me of the impending natural disaster. Looking out the window, they were serious. Swarms of people were hurrying uphill, many worry-stricken on their cellphones trying to get a hold of family members. Just 15 minutes ago Chile's government issued a national tsunami alert after three earthquakes hit Rancagua near Santiago. Since the February 27th earthquake, aftershocks have been a frequent occurrence in and around Santiago. Being further south, well away from the continuing tremors, it was easy to distance myself from that chaos until now.

climbing to safety or to salvation

Like any curious quasi-journalist I followed the mob. They ascended the hills as recommended by the public announcements. Noticing a muddy steep trail that seemed a shortcut, I followed a few others frantically climbing through thorny brush, helping up strangers with trembling hands, being hoisted by a few construction workers with rope pulleys up a slope definitely not intended as an effective tsunami escape route. As we emerged from the foliage, we came upon crowds of schoolchildren, working professionals, construction workers, much of the city, facing the bay partly worried, partly annoyed at the abrupt inconvenience (well, not the school kids). Some groups were huddled around radios, sharing earphones. After a while, the crowd sort of looked like a restless audience waiting for the next band to play on the mainstage, casually chatting with their respecting social circles, waving down old friends, others alone blankly staring ahead with arms folded.

The tsunami was estimated to arrive around 1pm. It was already 1:30 and now that I was at a safe vantage point, with cold, wet feed, muddied shoes, and scratches I was kind of pissed the massive wave didn't come so I could face it with my point-and-shoot. Though many had already returned to their interrupted routines down the hill after the initial panic died down, officials recommended staying uphill until further notice. Since Puerto Montt sits within a bay, with the additional protection of bay islands, the talk is that the risk is low to non-existent.

So I found another hotel uphill, out of harm's way, drinking a coffee, once again a lone customer in an opulent restaurant, enjoying a BeeGees [reunion?] concert on the hanging plasma. Ah ah ah ah stayin' alive.

I hope buses are still leaving Puerto Montt so I can make it to Santiago in time for the Franz Ferdinand concert I've got to cover. How irrelevant press pass freebees (to see a band I don't even like) seem when the whole country is sliding over a submerging geoplate.

Puerto Montt, Panitao, and Lentils

Lentils are like tiny green potatoes

This is the first time I've ever made lentils. They were good, but needed additional reinforcements. Sometimes the best meals are the odd, personalized combinations that satisfy immediate cravings. For a couple months during my junior year in college I devoured a bowl of cottage cheese doused in Tabasco sauce every day, sometimes for every meal. On this cold day in the Lakes Region of southern Chile, I wanted fried eggs, toast, and guacamole with my lentils dammit. And it hit every spot.

lentils
onion
garlic
tomato
avocado
lemon
eggs
bread
salt and pep

~soak lentils in water overnight (yes this part sucks and defeats the purpose of craving-satiation), chop tomato, garlic, onion, cook lentils in water on med-heat, toss chopped tomato, garlic onion, add sald and pep, mash up avocado with lemon juice and salt, toast bread, fry eggs in butter, occasionally stir lentils until done (about 25 min) and serve with wooden spoon (must be wooden!), butter up toast, wash down campesino feast with mate and processed orange "juice"~

Panitao, Chile

An afternoon on Steve's parcela as recounted in an email to a friend:

"...Today I had nothing to do so I walked to Silvia's house. A small, yellow, makeshift slumshack affair with low ceilings (a foot above MY head) and uneven floors. Her husband works for Steve a couple days a week- but that's an erratic schedule determined by rain patterns. I walked there (about a mile from Steve's house) under the pretense of buying bread, which Silvia bakes everyday, but really I was just bored. They're a typical rustic Chilean family, her 21 year old daughter lives next door with her two year old and her husband. Silvia and Lalo (her husband) also live with Silvia's mother and sister, with the rest of the family close by. I sat at the table and watched dubbed American movies while helping knead, waiting for the dough to rise and bake, and afterwards walking to another neighbor's house where they make empanadas from scratch and sell them by the road. Carrying a warm loaf wrapped in a dishtowel that I'll have to remember to return to Silvia tomorrow, I watched the Frog (I forget his real name but everyone calls him frog because of his toad-ish countenance) fold meat into dough. He took interest in my history studies, sat me down in their living room for a friendly chat, told me how contemporary society is killing the world and how he used to be a world-class diver..."

Panitao isn't really a town so much as it is a pit stop on the main road to a bigger town a few miles further south of Puerto Montt but far enough and remote enough to require a separate name. Steve owns about 140 acres of waterfront property here, which I'm pretty sure makes up half the municipality of Panitao. His house overlooks the bay, and on the horizon are eyelands and the Andes. Damn that mountain chain gets around.

Another parcela, another project. Here's the greenhouse (twice the size of the one in Caleu) I've been asked to work on.

Bummer I don't have a "before" photo, but I took out all the weeds and turned over the soil so now it's fertile and ready for me to plant my seeds if you know what I mean (and what I mean is plant my seeds).

More plant markers, planted some basil and arugula brought all the way from the Caleu farm

Baby Alerce trees, the second oldest tree species in the world and prized for their durable wood that never rots. A lot of houses in the area or built entirely out of Alerce wood shingles. Apparently there's a scandoulous black market for precious Alerce wood since the tree population is dwindling. Even Chile's politicians might be banking on it's near-extinction.

Continuing the mobile habit, I made one of whales for my little cabin

Steve paid me a little over Chilean wages ($20 for a full day's work) to help stain his house. Plus the hour it took to scrub this shit off my hands, arms, legs, and face. The stains left from low-grade watery paint didn't bother me at first. I was going to wait until it wore off on its own, but then I realized walking around town, from afar I probably looked like a coal miner (too cool) or an ax murderer (unapproachable).

Puerto Montt, Chile

Puerto Montt is a medium-sized fishing port, a cold and windy wool sweater yellow raincoat pipe tobacco town with consistently friendly waiters and baristas and ticket counter agents. I always assumed cold climates meant cold people but Puerto shattered my silly prejudices when a leather artist at the market offered to inscribe my name on the inside of my leather bag for free because "eres la dama mas linda que ha pasado por aca hoy dia." Now in all modesty, I'm aware of the tendency for some to fawn over my Asianness (coupled with my relative youth and petite frame). I see my reflection in their eyes transforming me into some pretty piece of Far East novelty. A talking porcelain doll. I'm not going to deny I've occasionally abused the lucky charm to my advantage, capitalized off self-exotification if it means discounts or free stuff or amusing conversation. I think I'm entitled to the perks if I have to deal with off-handed racism once in a while. It's especially during my travels through Latin America where general lack of exposure to peeps who look like me or unawareness of how polyglot much of the world really is, affords them a forgiveness I would not whip out in say San Francisco. But when I'm told I'm the "prettiest lady I've seen today," even by a capitalizing craftsman, I can't help but feel genuinely flattered. Especially since I left my eye-lash curler in Santiago.Unbeknownst to me, my bag, bought at an antique fair in Santiago, is one of the countless industry-grade schoolbags given to children by the government in the 70s. I encountered quite a few nostalgic oldies who fondly saw in my satchel, (for me a mere practicality plus vintage charm), their distant childhoods. This knowledge, and the pretty calligraphy burned onto the inside flap with the fond memory attached, have amplified the bag's already inherent sentimental value.

From the balcony of my hostal

One of many sidewalk vendors selling icy fillets, garlands of smoked oysters, sea snails, fresh oysters, seaweed, and other unnamed fishiness.

I'm writing this in the restaurant of a luxury hotel and I think they're starting to catch on that I'm just here to use their wi-fi and generous central heating. I've been nursing the same glass of orange juice, the only thing I've ordered, for about 3 hours and am the only one in the restaurant...the breakfast buffet ended a couple hours ago. And I don't plan on eating anything. And they know I don't have a room. The waitress is giving me suspicious looks. I think. Lunch will start soon and business associates will start taking their breaks and I'll be that weird little Asian girl again, out of place why is she here what is her story where is her guardian oh shit tsunami alert everyone has to evacuate to the hills, TO BE CONTINUED...