Saturday, November 28, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
The late-night bus thing is pretty much standard procedure for me by now. I'll be straight: My Chilean salary simply cannot finance boatloads of cab rides. And, since the phrase "Just crash here" hasn't appealed to me for a few years, I go Transantiago, frequently by myself.
Chileans think I'm insane. Even more insane than they think I am for moving down here on my own. How could I possibly even consider taking the bus home by myself? Don't I know how many people are lurking in the shadows waiting to attack me? After all, I am foreign and female -- that most perilous of combinations. I should be afraid. Very afraid.
And I did end up being afraid last Friday -- for slightly different reasons.
When we pulled up to Major Street X, I got out of the car and headed toward the nearest bus stop, grateful that the others appeared to be letting me go without a fight.
Not so fast. One of the other passengers, a guy who had had a handful too many shots of tequila back at the party, got out too and began to follow me.
"Thanks, but it's really not necessary," I said.
I was told the guy's house was on the way to mine and that he would ride with my until his stop. "It's more for his protection than yours," someone whispered.
OK, I figured. I supposed there was no harm in him riding with me if he was heading in the same direction anyway.
The car pulled away, and I continued toward the bus stop. But alas, we couldn't go to that bus stop because my chaperone considered it unsafe. During our trek to the next bus stop -- a few blocks down a stretch of sidewalk that I consider sketchier -- I learned my white knight was from southern Chile and had been living in Santiago for four years -- enough time, apparently, to learn to be terrified of the city. As he tried to convince me to be terrified, too, I stood shivering and craning my neck to see down the street, praying the bus would come quickly and all this would be over soon.
The bus did come, but this was far from over. Soon after we had wedged ourselves onto the crowded bus, I learned that my new friend was one of the many Chileans who enjoy practicing English when drunk. And this guy enjoyed practicing it loudly. As the bus hurtled onward, each bump in the road threatening to launch me into the driver's lap, he treated me and everyone around us to an English-language panegyric lauding the bravery I had displayed by coming down to Chile all by myself.
My irritation quickly turned to anxiety when it occurred to me that the person who thought he was keeping me safe was actually putting me in danger. Despite what most people I know consider my dangerously irresponsible penchant for independence, I'm willing to admit that, the world being what it is, foreign women have to be careful. I realize that many assailants would consider me an easy and profitable target. With this in mind, I try not to call attention to myself when I'm in situations in which I'm potentially vulnerable, such as late-night bus rides. I keep calm, walk confidently, and don't yell in English about how I'm foreign and came down to Chile all by myself. Obviously, my tipsy companion did not find it necessary to take the same precautions.
For the record, I don't believe that Santiago all night buses are packed with shady characters waiting for an opportunity to attack someone. Still, if one of our dozens of fellow passengers had just so happened to be such a shady character, my amigo would have been providing him or her with quite an enticing scenario. Well, I was going to head home early and watch late-night variety shows with my mom, but now that I think about it, I might as well jump that gringa and that drunk guy.
I heaved a sigh of relief when the bus pulled off to my chaperone's stop. After I gave him the customary cheek air-peck goodbye, though, he didn't move.
"This is your stop," I said in Spanish.
It didn't matter, he explained in English, because he was going to escort me all the way home.
"Look," I said as the bus pulled out of the stop. "I appreciate the gesture, but I don't need your protection. Please get off the bus now."
He didn't, of course. And since it would have just aggravated the sitution to tell him that drawing the entire bus's attention to us was not doing me any favors where safety was concerned, I grit my teeth and endured several more blocks of loud, drunken English. I felt extremely, dangerously exposed.
When we finally got off the bus at my stop -- by ourselves, thank goodness -- I pointed out the bus stop where he would have to wait after dropping me off at my house. He scoffed, apparently insulted that I had felt the need to worry about his safety.
Luckily, our short walk to my house was uneventful. But I couldn't help wondering if I wouldn't have been safer simply taking the bus home by myself as I'd originally planned.
This wasn't the first time I'd pondered this. A few months ago, I found myself standing on a street corner at midnight in San Bernardo, which is so far south that only a slice of it appears on most maps of Santiago. A coworker had invited me to a club for a friend's birthday party, but the club had refused to let us in because one of the members of our group had a broken leg and was apparently too much of a liability for them to deal with. So it was that we ended up shivering on a street corner debating what to do next.
Anyone who has ever participated in a Great Chilean Plans Debate knows that they are rarely brief. As the minutes stretched on and I got colder, I noticed that express buses were passing regularly on their way downtown.
My coworker's eyes widened when I told her I was going to hop on a bus and head home. Me on a bus alone? No way in hell. The group was going to come up with a safer alternative.
About 20 minutes later, the safer alternative arrived. It was a pickup truck that was going to take us to one of the partygoers' apartments. Yep, all 12 of us. Yep, all at once.
As the truck accelerated onto the highway with all of us smashed into the bed (disclaimer: NEVER DO THIS), every instinct inside me was screaming that I should have just gotten on a damn bus. There was absolutely no way in hell, heaven or limbo that this was safer than my original plan. I lack scientific proof of this, but I'm positive I was more likely to get horrendously injured in that truck than I would have been to get robbed on the bus.
Nobody else seemed to understand this, though. To them, it was other people I had to be afraid of, not a multi-fatality rollover crash. And I suddenly despised Chile's crime-packed sensationalist TV news shows more than ever before.
Miraculously, we made it safely to our destination, a public housing project in Puente Alto. Already exhausted from silently willing the truck not to flip, I was ready to call it a night after about an hour of dancing. I announced my intention to catch a colectivo (multi-passenger taxi) and head home.
Absolutely not, I was told.
"You have to listen to them," my coworker told me. "They live here."
In the end, I did listen to them and crashed in the birthday girl's apartment, which was a few blocs over. Thinking back, I'm really glad I did. I had never been to the area before; how could I have presumed to know enough about it to strike out on my own at 3 a.m.?
You have to listen to them. They live here. I think about that advice a lot and wonder if it's always true. Should I, as a foreigner, always take Chileans' safety advice? On the one hand, the fact that they've lived here their entire lives means they know a lot of things I don't, like where not to take colectivos at 3 a.m. On the other hand, I don't find non-crime-related safety consciousness to be high here (seatbelts and bike helmets, anyone?). As illustrated in this entry, some of the alternatives Chileans suggest to your hazardously independent ways can be more dangerous than what you originally had planned.
But, drunk guys and pickup trucks aside, I don't think it would hurt me to swallow my pride and listen a bit more. After all, someone did try to attack me once while I was waiting for a bus in the middle of the night. I took him down, but I might not be as lucky next time. I think I need to work on learning to be more flexible -- sleeping on a trusted friend's couch isn't that bad, is it? -- while paying close attention to my instincts (no more drunk escorts, thank you very much).
What do you think?
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Finally! A medicine that promises to make every santiaguin@'s daily commute less harrowing by painlessly eliminating those pesky public transportation passengers who apparently cannot resist the compulsion to enclose certain parts of neighboring bodies in their nasty grip (or use a packed bus as an excuse to rub up against them from behind, which also counts). I can picture the animated graphics now: squeeze-poised hands being surrounded and pulverized by armies of valiant purple dots. Oh, the relief of knowing one's ass is (not literally) in such good hands.
OK, I don't have to explain to the Spanish speakers out there that NastiGrip is actually flu medicine. "Gripe" is Spanish for flu, and as for Nasti -- well, I guess I don't have any idea where they got that from.
Oh, well. Until science gets its act together, I guess we'll have to find other ways to defend ourselves against rush-hour molestation. Wouldn't it be nice if you could simply pop a pill and make that slimy fellow passenger and his/her grasping hands dissolve like bothersome nasal congestion? Hopefully, our children will know just such a world.
Has anyone else out there come across humorous product names in foreign countries? I'll throw in another one: I always feel self-conscious when I sit down at a Chilean restaurant and order a bottle of Pap.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
If Santiago were ancient Athens, I would be on my way out, because that's how I feel most of the time here. Glancing around the cafeteria at work the other day, I discovered a possible reason why.
Lunch at the cafeteria comes with a small cup of suspiciously fluorescent juice. I usually finish mine off within the first few minutes of starting to eat. As I eyed the trays of those around me last week, however, I realized that even those who were a number of bites ahead of me had nearly full glasses in front of them.
This seemed to confirm what I had long suspected: Apparently, I consume more liquid than most Chileans, or at least the ones I've come in contact with. When eating with Chileans, I am almost always the first to finish off a beverage. Back when I lived with my host family, I would frequently be on my second refill before anyone else even finished their first glass of juice. It was the same way in Ecuador.
Well, one might say, the reason is simple. As a glutton from the land of supersizing, it's only natural that you would ingest anything and everything in greater quantities and at a greater speed than people from countries with less opulent consumption habits. Not so, I would have to contest. I don't notice myself eating more than the people around me, and when it comes to speed, I'm actually a slower eater than many of the Chileans I've dined with.
Well then, one might say, it must be because of money. As a spoiled gringa from the land of plenty, you're probably unaware that powdered pineapple juice -- that beloved Chilean classic --does not grow on trees. While I'm not ready to give up on my dream of a powdered-pineapple-juice tree, I don't think this is the case, either. I drink more and drink faster even when it comes to tapwater. When I see Chileans drinking tapwater, that is.
Which is rare. Drinking just plain water does not seem to be nearly as common down here as it is in the States. In fact, people seem to prefer the hydrating powers of pop, caffeinated black tea and uber-concentrated "fruit" juices. My coworkers, all Chilean, look at me like I'm nuts when I fill up my mug with water instead of tea in the morning. My former boss once even asked, "But isn't that bad for you?"
Yes, I know. I'm really trying to quit water and replace it with something healthier, like Fanta.
I must be missing something here. I honestly don't know how this entire country hasn't long since died of dehydration. Do buildings have some secret room where Chileans guzzle water on the sly? Can anyone out there enlighten me on Chilean drinking habits?
One thing's for sure: The next time the Athenian plague strikes Santiago, no one else will bat an eyelash.