Que weaaaaaaaa

I just thought I would start to consolidate the many ‘chileanismos’ I have come across whilst being in Santiago. Such a special gang of phrases that I literally had NO IDEA of their significance until they were explained to me in depth.
I seek comfort in translating them into scouse, or very poor english to help me understand a situation as a whole, instead of the plethora of slang that is used here.

Here we go:

‘Cachaaaaaaay?’ – pronounced katch-aiiiiiii.

Means do you understand? But is really more of a….”are you onto what I’m saying yeah?”

‘Bacan’ – pronounced as read.

Used for cool, but also found in sentences such as, “that is sickkkkk mate” or “sounds fun!”

‘Weon/weona’ – pronounced wheeeyyy-on/wheeeyyy-on-ah.

At the end of pretty much every sentence, means literally arsehole, but is used like a scouser would use ‘lad’ or english would use ‘mate’. Subject to situation. Should not be used on customers- as I found in my first week by greeting a man with….”Can I help you dickhead?”

‘Wea’ – pronounced wheeey-ah.

Basically means “thing”. Took me sooooooooo long to get onto, and Chileans use it like: “ay arsehole can you pass me that thing so I can go and do my thing at the thing.” Or can be used as “que weaaaaaaaa” which means ‘what the fuck’, or even the more popular “Putaaaaa la wea” which is more ‘fuck this shit’. What hope do I have really.

‘Carrete’ – pronounced carr-et-ay

Chilean word for a anything from a pre-drinks, few beers at a bar or a massive fist pumping night in Bellavista.

‘Cuático’ – pronounced kwat-ik-oh

Means weird. So if someone was to act a bit creepy or out of character, you would throw “que cuático weonnn” out.

‘Ni cagando’ – pronounced Ni cag-aaand-oh

This one means ‘no way’, literally but comes across more like, ‘you can fuck right off’ or ‘are you messing mate’

‘Pajero’ – pronounced pack-her-o

Wanker. Or lazy. But used more as lazy than wanker.

‘Maraca’ – pronounced as you would do those lovely little shaky instruments people who were shit as music used to have to play in the class. In the same category as the triangle.

Slut. Whore. Can be adapted to many female discriminative situations, I for one like to use it when my nail varnish is chipped: “Que maracaaaaa” (how sluttty ewww). Overtakes the more widely used ‘Puta’, as here puta is more ‘fuck’ than slut.

There are so much more. many many many many more. I love it. I try to use these as often as possible and have a bit more banter with whoever I’m talking to. I just need to make sure I compartmentalise them before I get to Sheffield University Languages department or I can definitely wave bye-bye to that 2:1, can’t really see, ‘Yes arsehole, according to this slut, the thing was more popular than the other thing, with the people get smashed and having a sickkkkk time. You onto it yeah?’

When the MILF came to town

I had the privilege of being able to see my beautiful mother for 3 whole weeks during January, which I have to say was an absolute God send and could not have come at a better time.  She arrived on the eve of my half way point for my year abroad, and we decided to celebrate our Christmas Day doing what we do best: eating and drinking. I took her to the best wine bar in Chile, where you can go on a ‘flight’, and taste up to 4 wines at a time. Perfect start to the holiday.

She EVEN agreed to share my bed with me, which meant I didn’t have to sleep with the dog and we could catch up on Graham Norton together. It all just fell back into place when she got here, like we had seen each other last week and not been apart for 6 months.

Before she arrived, I booked flights down to Punta Arenas so that we could visit the breathtaking Torres del Paine and the penguins…..but of course only a day trip to the Torres because the THOUGHT of making Debz camp sends chills up my spine. I would never be forgiven or taken out for dinner again. We appeared to take the Santiago scorch down with us, expecting all 4 seasons in a day but having 28 degree heat instead. Along with some amazing photos and even better lamb, it was a fantastic 5 days. Its just crazy to think about how long and skinny Chile actually is, it took us 3 1/2 hours to get down to the south, in an aeroplane. Thats SO far away. In England a 3 1/2 hour car journey is like one end of the country to the other. Madness.

“When God had finished creating the world, he threw all of his leftovers in Chile.”
This just describes the landscape so perfectly, because Chile really does have everything: mountains, valleys, beaches, lakes, glaciers. It makes you understand why many Chileans do not leave the country every year for holiday. As well as this, they call it the ‘island within a continent’, because of its isolation from other countries due to its natural landscape. And its so true, its easy to feel so far away from everywhere, especially when you are used to Easyjet nipping all over Europe.

So, the one day I decided to take her to beach, it decided to rain. Bearing in mind it hadn’t rained for about 3 months, I was slightly pissed off. I also made the bright decision to take her on a Sunday, when the whole of Chile is off and at the coast, instead of any other day since she was here for THREE FUCKING WEEKS. Genius idea. My FOMO gets the best of me, and I don’t want to miss out on anything, so I end up making the shittest decisions possible. This time was no different. By the time we actually got to eat lunch, she was adamant on not giving into my tantrum, by repeatedly saying, “Calm down chlo, this is exactly how I want to spend my holiday” when I know she was really thinking “fat dickhead making me sit on a bus for 3 extra hours to go to Blackpool for the day”.

I also got to show her Valparaiso, the scruffy port town my Nan used to send ships to from Liverpool when they were both much busier ports. We got to flex our calves amongst the abundance of hills and I planned the weekend in time for the wine exposition, so Mum and I could prance around Paseo Yugoslavo pretending we knew the difference between a Carmenere and a Syrah.

She made me feel proud of what I have achieved so far. It was so lovely to show somebody all the corners of Santiago I had grown to love, and somewhere I can now call (one of) my homes. Everyday she would say, “oh my god, look at those mountains” and I would be like, “I KNOW… I LIVE NEXT TO THE ANDES.” But now, I will be walking from the metro station and look up, thinking, “Fucking hell, I live next to the Andes.
Although, she hates reggaeton, a decision I can never accept.

All in all, I am now fulfilled for another 5 months, with Mum bringing a spark of Liverpool with her too, keeping me satisfied until I get home. Hats off to the milf.

Identity

The word ‘identity’ continues to intrigue me.
There are many pre-engrained stereotypes that I have witnessed that carry no form of truth nor evidence, I suppose like many of the ones we have in the UK: Scousers steal things, the Welsh are sheep shaggers or even the ‘never-ending’ north-south divide.

But there is one in particular that is still so prominent, so frequent that it is impossible not to take seriously. And that is the ethnic divide between chileans. Just pick up any newspaper/magazine and you will not see one indigenous face in any advert. The amount of times I have heard the word ‘dirty’ associated with a person, usually of Mapuche origin and how I have been advised to stay away from people that do not live in Las Condes or Providencia (these neighbourhoods are typically of rich, white/european descent) because they either will rob me or are again dirty. And upon investigating this further, the person that is usually criticising the indigenous or ‘morenos’ is able to trace their bloodline back to Europe in just a few generations. So this brings to the ever imposing question: What makes a Chilean a chilean?  After studying the changes in culture and identity of a few other Latin American countries with my degree, I already know how complex this answer is going to be.

Yet many traditions that lead back to the indigenous tribes are Mapuche (the main tribe of indigenous people that live in Chile), they are not Chilean traditions. and everyone you ask makes this clear.

One of the most obvious others is the language: the speed and the slang that is present in Chile is unbelievable.. it is like throwing someone who wants to learn english into Liverpool town centre…it is going to take a bit longer than expected. Although everyone admits here that Chileans speak bad Spanish and if I wanted to learn proper Spanish I should have gone to Peru or Colombia (hindsight is a wonderful thing), they are so proud of the way they speak. For one, everything here is tiny. You can’t have an ‘agua’ but you can have an ‘aguita’ (little water). And if you’re going out with the lads for a mad one you’re going out with your ‘chiquillos’ (little boys). There is a slang word for EVERYTHING YOU CAN THINK OF.  I have literally learnt a new language which I unfortunately need to fucking forget by the time I get back to Sheffield for exams. But I absolutely LOVE throwing a bit of slang into my Spanish, it makes my feel a bit chilena.

Pinochet. I needed to start this paragraph with that word because I was not sure how else to go about it. I have read quite a few papers on this man, and all in all he was a cunt, he killed and tortured people. I find it very hard to comment on this topic still, as it is not my history or my cultural identity, and I feel that people can easily take offence here when I try to have an opinion on it. Which to me is perfectly understandable, because if someone came to visit England and starting piping up about Margaret Thatcher and telling me what she did/did not do, I would feel the need to put that person back in their place. Despite this, I have still found a way to bring this topic up and, although entered into an unwanted heated discussion a few times, managed to ask opinions on this period of time in chilean history. Many people brush it off, and move onto a different topic very swiftly, yet a couple have happily spoken about how they are still in favour of Pinochet and everything he did for this country, seemingly brushing off the huge loss of life and the torturing of hundreds of people. And it all boils down to the opinion that communism does not work, and this statement seems to have justified all of the horrific things that went on during that period in history.

Slightly heavier than my usual blog posts, but the whole point of this is to compare, contrast and discover. and then write loads of essays about it and hope I get a 2:1. In Spanish.

Lost in Translation

A few things have been brought to my attention over the last few months that made me realise how vast the Spanish speaking world actually is. I thought I would share them with you.

-Guagua (pronounced wawa) means baby here in Chile, but if you said it in Colombia, you would be referring to a bus.

– Manicero (pronounced manny-serro) here in Chile, simply means a person that sells peanuts or nuts. However in Argentina, you would be telling your companion that the man over there happens to have a tiny penis.

-the verb ‘coger’. Over in Spain, you would be picking up a telephone. But over here on the west side of el mi do hispanohablante, you would be trying to shag someone.

– The word for STRAW – bombilla. However my friend jack, who has spent a fair bit of time in Spain, decided to ask the waiter for a ‘paja’ the other night, to which he looked very disturbed…..don’t really think he expected to be giving wanks to his clients.

Another thing that continues to wind me up is FILM TITLES. For example, The Hangover.
The title here is ‘Que Pasa Ayer?’ (What happened yesterday?)
Well that’s not a hangover is it. That’s amnesia. It’s not even that hard to translate I have no idea why they’ve made it so difficult.

I am more than certain I will come across more that will make me giggle, so stay tuned for Lost in Translation II…

“The scariest thing about distance is you don`t know whether they will miss you or forget about you.”

So it has gone from blog posts weekly because I am bored to having to force myself to remember to write one because I have got that many things going on. Progress made I guess.

Had my first little wekend away for the Haloween festivities with my friend Carla, we headed up to Viña del Mar on the coast after work on the Thursday night. Stayed in an AMAZING hostel called Reñaca Beach Hostel…beds were nicer than the one I am paying an arm and a leg for back in Santiago. To be honest the majority of the weekend consisted of getting pissed in various places as it was only sunny enough to sunbathe on the Saturday. We had a good few days, hitting some massive Haloween party on the friday. Every year I tell myself I am going to make an effort and buy proper make up and follow the you tube blogs to accomplish a PROPER scary face…and every year I look like a dickhead. This one was no different. We spent the whole day of the 31st hunting down face paint with a view to drawing a face of “El Dia de los Muertes” and we finally managed to but some in a market just outside of one of the main shopping centres.  We looked fucking stupid. It didnt even go on our face properly, I just looked like I hadn`t washed my face for a few weeks. We settled for a small stich around our mouths to resemble some sort of scary doll. Disssastre.

I felt that weekend I had made a bit of a breakthrough, spending the whole weekend functioning in Spanish, although it was only natural for me to shout “What are you doing you dirty cunt, I will batter you” when men were getting a bit too touchy-feely.

So many weeks have passed, although I still have seven months ahead. Bit mad really, I am still counting down the days I will be back for the end of exams parties in Sheffield. I read something the other day that really summed up the two biggest worries you have when you go away; it read:

“The scariest thing about distance is you don`t know whether they will miss you or forget about you.”

Obviously one of the first people that springs to mind is Pippa, I was worried about leaving her and missing her loads, but on the flipside I was more worried about her moving on and loving life solo. Its strange because although I am the one that has gone, it must be as equally hard for her because I am not there when stupid stuff happens to laugh, cry or whatever. And although she definitely sounds like my lover at the moment, she is indeed just my best friend who I miss dearly….hehe.

As well as this, I have my overpowering FOMO issue, which I have to say is starting to get better(ish), even though I still find it really hard to skype the sheffield family and not get nostalgic afterwards. The best way to deal with it is to ignore a lot of things on social media, including SUNC Name and Shame which is SO hard not to get involved in.

I have also moved HOUSE, now I live with a girl called Ignacia and her dog Castaña, which is such a comfort. Room is bigger, I walk to work, although have temporarily packed the gym in which needs sorting or I will be rolling home. I guess I am getting more settled because my stomach isnt playing up…unless I go a bit mental on the fried food which I have to say CAN happen on occasion….funny though because I have realised how annoying I must have been in England: when I mention my stomach here all my friends just shout “WE KNOWWWW”…..I must be like a broken record……

My aim is to post more on here, hopefully about more profound/uni type things like the social extremes or the gypo that spat and squirted boobie milk on my money before mashing into little pieces and smiling. Evil bastard. But I will save that for the next little entry on here!

My realisation: Getting a Grip

So yesterday I broke down crying hysterically down the phone to my father saying…..fuck this I`m coming home. Stupid fucking country. I mean, who vacuum packs ham. DO you know how hard it is to open vacuum packed ham when you cannot find a sharp implement?! AND you have to see a grand total of FOUR different people to deposit cash into a bank account. FOUR. Its a wonder they get any fucking business, I don`t know why people don`t just put money under their beds. And everything takes 6 weeks to do, including me obtaining my RUT (chilean ID number) which you need in order to do … EVERYTHING. they wanted it as well as my fucking huella (fingerprint) to enter the gym the other day. THE GYM. someone can HAPPILY take my identification and pretend to be me smashing the gym every morning. AND THIS IS NOT SPANISH. Its like magnified scouse spanish. How the fuck anyone picks this up I do not know. I feel like I`m going backwards.

So good old daddy dillon, being as great as he is in those situations, says to me…. “well you didn`t exactly make it easy for yourself did you. You could have gone to Spain.”

ah.

Cheers dad. Helpful as always when I`m bawling down the phone, snot down my face on the last corner of tissue.

But then it hit me. No I didn`t make it easy for myself, I generally dont choose that path of life to go down, and I always forget this feeling of helplessness…because I always come out the other side. I have been here a month. And of course I expected to be fluent by now, because I`m a divvy. Im going backwards because of the amount of words being thrown at me that I need to remember at once. But I am going to get there, just need to be PATIENT. I have so many helpful people around me, and I am moving into a new house at the end of the month to live solely with chileans which will hopefully cut my english out completely, apart from the facetimes of course.

And so there is my getting a grip. I am really enjoying word-vomming on a page, normally I would storm into one of the girls rooms….usually Lizzie or Micaela and talk for 20 minutes and then walk out again, but this way I actually remember some of the shit that comes out of my mouth as well as the painful/amazing experiences I am going through.

Will never except vacuum packed ham though.

El padre de reggaeton

It was one of the best concerts I’ve been to.

He was everything I thought he would be, walking on stage with his bullet proof vest on to Gasolina. I mean he obviously requires a bulletproof vest, who knows what the screaming 15 year old girls could have underneath their ‘prestige’ hoodies. And he’s got an image to withhold afterall. Did you know he actually gave away a load of free tickets to poorer communities in Chile so they could also enjoy his art? Lovely man. Also loves quoting himself.(see below)

Convert all of your negative energy into your biggest MOTIVATION, to obtain SUCCESS. It`s the BEST REVENGE

Me luce and Mae had a bit of a previa (predrinks) at mine beforehand, and were working on Chile time, ie turn up an hour late. When we got there, loads of people were leaving and I went into meltdown mode, I`D MISSED HIM. all these years of saying…”yeah I`ll get there one day, I`ll see my main man big daddy yankee” – I thought I`d missed him. And obviously none of the stewards knew what day it was because they are chilean…..and of course they had to see my ticket and my passport 15 times because THAT`S the chilean way – whilst I`m standing there shaking, trying to hold back my tears because of their blatent disregard for my love of this reggaeton superstar. Turns out I only missed Yandel. I got over that.

The concert was in Movistar Arena, over on the other side of the city in a place called Parque Bernando O`Higgins. Everyone was telling me not to bother taking my phone, that I was going to get robbed/mugged/pillaged for it, but I ignored them because I NEEDED pictures of my main man. When we finally entered into the arena, not only was there every sort of smart phone on the market, but fucking GoPro`s aswell. So much for me being pillaged, but we stood next to the gopro gang anyway just in case Daddy Yankee did indeed need his bulletproof vest and a gang of armed men did appear and take everything.

We managed to get through the school disco that was at the back, and found a decent spot for dancing. We stood infront of 3 Young Jeezy look-a-likes, with an APPLE BONG. When the one nearest to us whipped this out I thought at first he was making sure he had 1 of his 5-a-day, until a pungent smell of marijuana rose from the stained, red fruit. Hysterical. And the stewards just told him to put it out, instead of dragging him out like I thought would happen.

I took about 18 videos, he played all my fave songs, and the three of us left with smiles on our faces and a daddy yankee bandana each. (see below). We continued our night in bellavista, and ended up introducing 2 tourists to a good old CHORILLANA – the ONLY way to end a drunken night in Santiago. mmmmmmmmm. I will upload a photo of a chorrillana shortly, Im starting to make a collage hehe.

Vendedora de Ropa

These weeks are going by so fast, I feel like I blink and its Friday. Cannot hack the heat, I am an english bird that needs cold. Never thought I`d say it, but I miss my wooly jumpers. Don`t get me wrong, its gorgeous on a Sunday afternoon when I can lie on the roof terrace, but not whilst I have to wear jeans and socks and trainers in work. I am MELTING. Why didn`t someone put level 5 on the fucking fan setting? I can blow harder than the fucking fan.

I`ve been on a few dates, which is hysterical because I don`t think I`ve been on a date in about 3 years. Makes me feel a bit sick actually, I rather they told me I`d tucked my skirt into my knickers than that I have `beautifuI eyes`. Bleurghhh – affection. It`s really interesting to see the differences between the dating scene here and in England, its safe to say we definitely have a more liberal take on `dating`. I mean, ROAR on a wednesday night in Sheffield for one. Picking up your slice in Balti King after sharing a peshwari naan and trying to get rid of he/she/them before your 11am on Thursday morning. I think if that happened here someone would be sent to a convent.

In comparison to England where no one `cares` about the person they are involved with because `they arent together`- not only has a fundamental sexual health flaw, but also never seems to work because someone usually gets hurt during this intense struggle to find the ultimate person that cares the least. However, I seem to currently be living in the other extreme, where it is apparently ok to hold hands the first time you go out together or openly mount each other in broad daylight in the park. Vile behaviour. This brings me on nicely to the topic of independence amongst young people: it pretty much doesnt exist. People dont believe me when I tell them I am 21, because it is unbelievable that I am here alone at such a young age. It is quite normal to still be living with parents at 25/26, a factor that is influenced by how close families are here and also the average working wage – a quarter of that of England.

Work -such an improvement. I have tasks to do, like emailing, stock control, currently working with the IT guy to get an online shop up and running and sometimes….ENGLISH people come into the shop and I have to TRANSLATE. oh hello I`m now an asset. Until a Brazilian couple came in the other day and I had to translate Portuguese – Spanish, everything obviously fell to shit and they were being sold an exhaust pipe instead of a handlebar. But all in all, I am starting to get really excited about this job and feel like I am making an impact in the company, ie helping with things as opposed to making vocab post it notes all day because I haven`t got a clue what is going on. The other day I even forgot how to say a word in English and this really panicked me – would be a bit of a disaster if instead of becoming fluent in Spanish, the Spanish just subsituted the bloody English.

And I`ve joined a GROUP. It`s called language and friends. And we meet every Wednesday night, changing languages every 20 minutes, which is really really helping me to become accustomed to the constant brain translation. And I made FRIENDS. Me and luce have managed to get two more girls on the Daddy Yankee train, I`ve even organised a post lash sleepover in mine….which when I look at from the outside is the most gimp I can be, but I have to be gimp to make friends, put myself out there. I can`t take hangover days alone, I am a needy, only child.

Oh and only ONE MORE SLEEP until Daddy Yankee….every single person I tell laughs at me. And then I get a confused face because they didnt have me down as a chavvy bird, generalisation known as `Flighter` here (chav). But  I dont CARE because I get to shake my lolas to the father of reggaeton tomorrow night after a bottle of pisco and before my epic girly sleepover.

So, to conclude, general emotions are high, feeling good about the progress I am making, even though it is slow. Also need to stop giving my number out to anyone that asks for it, I seem to be attracting the wrong attention being over friendly. Dickhead.

 “Stress can be classically defined as the perceived or actual physical, psychological or social sensation you feel when you are unable to bridge the gap between expectation and ability.” 

THIS IS THE DEFINITION OF MY LIFE RIGHT NOW.

I am completely unable to bridge ANYTHING between expectation and ability. So much so, that I am worrying people are going to start lowering their expectations to currently accommodate my (in)ability and I am going to fall into the awful cycle of pigeon Spanglish. And I am going to sit in work bored for 9 hours a day because my to-do list is getting thinner and thinner as their expectations are getting smaller and smaller.

And as a result of this, OF COURSE, my lovely stomach problems have started to show up again and I am back on the diet of a baby sparrow. And potentially going to have to stop eating dulce de leche, but at this moment in time, I feel hospitalisation is more appropriate than giving up dulce de leche.

Although I am fully aware,(as everyone I speak to keeps saying) its going to get easier, and I am going to be fine, it does not make this process any easier.  But I guess if there is no struggle, there is no progress. In the mean time, I am nibbling on fucking rice crackers for my lunch.

Poco a Poco

And here I am. SANTIAGO. Madness. I am only two weeks in and it feels like I have been here for months.

My first conversation with with Fernando, the son of the family I was staying with. He realised from my first response that he had to speak a lot slower, from which my favourite phrase “LENTO POR FAVOR” was born.
I was staying in barrio Puente Alto, south of Santiago, with Mario`s family. Mario was my neighbour when I lived in Sandown Lane, but our families are very close and we have been on loads of scottish hiking holidays together. Because we are dead cool…
Karina, Poncho, Marti and Fernando could not have made me feel anymore at home. So much so, that they are now my chilean family, and Karina is now known by my friends as `mama chilena`. But it was a strange first week. I found myself unable to keep my eyes open past 9pm, not opening my eyeballs until at least 11am, yet still not having any energy to do anything.

Family in Chile is quite a big thing, usually they are fairly large and I have been to 3 asados in 3 weeks. Karaoke is a must…and I have to say I am loving it, I know ALL the words! HOWEVER – this is an element of party that I would not be caught dead doing in England. I think I have noticed my improvments with them more than anywhere else, because I have found myself being aBle to converse a little more each weekend. Little by little.

I started apartment hunting as soon as I got a Bip! (metro prepaid card) and within the week I had found an apartment using compartodepto.cl – a fully furnished room on the 12th floor of a building on Avenida Apoquindo. Sharing with 2 boys: an Italian, Enrico and a Chilean, Andres. Although room isnt`t anything to brag about, the apartments location, views and roof terrace with pool has sold it for me. My freckles will return. The boys are lovely, really easy to get on with and Enrico loves a bottle of red as much as me, so we often find ourselves spending hours at the table talking shit and enjoying a Syrah.

Then this big thing happened – WORK. wow. felt like I had been hit by a bus. Not only was everything in spanish…but everything was about motorbikes, words i didnt even know in ENGLISH! A lot of hours, overwhelmed with the language, I realised it was going to taker a little longer than I thought to get used to the life. If anything, I have learnt to become a much more patient person, in only 2 weeks so hopefully, if I keep taking it day by day then the language will come.

This is becoming something that is SO SO SO much easier said than done. I have “off” days, usually this means no matter who is talking to me or what time of day it is, my brain refuses to translate anything and enjoys letting me stand there like a twat and stutter in pigeon Spanglish. I don`t enjoy these days.
Constant tiredness, headaches, the craving of dulce de leche…according to my flatmate Enrico, whose 1st language could now arguably be English over Italian, told me that this painful process is called PROGRESS – my brain is starting to think in Spanish. Another great reason to crack open a bottle of vino. (I find many reasons).

Luce has also been a geat help these last couple of weeks, being quite reassuring when I have a hungover meltdown. We have had a few fun nights out together and I managed to convince her to come and see DADDY YANKEE with me – oh my god the excitement. the PADRE of reggaeton. There will be photos. and a blog post.