Spring has Sprung in the Southern Hemisphere

Finally. Winter is over, and at last my Floridian self can be at home again.  At home, 5000 miles away. 

With the change in the weather have come a series of changes in my daily life as well.  I have moved into the home of my second host family (my new host dad is also my counselor) a bit early, and certainly unexpectedly.  I won't get into the details, but I can say that leaving the Mendez Ferrada house was difficulty, as I had really begun to feel like a part of the family, and they had provided me with so much. 

That being said, I am truly happy in my new home.  There are trees, a yard, a pool, and in general it just feels more like what I’m used to, until you see the mountains and vineyards going in every direction. 

I love my new home in the countryside, or el campo as it’s known in Chile, but I miss living in the middle of everything like at my old house.  Instead of being in walking distance to the mall, movie theater, and grocery store, I’m now a two-and-a-half mile walk to the bus stop.  But, I get my own bathroom.  Priorities. 

On top of all that, I’ve been pretty busy. 

When I was back from Easter Island, I was really sick; sicker than I’ve been in a long, long time.  If I were back home, I would be so stressed about missing school, but here I just caught up on Netflix.  It was nice. 

Last Monday was Día de la Raza, which I think has something to do with Columbus Day, so Jaqui and I took a trip to the beach.  We ate traditional mariscos, a soup-like mix of seafood—but mostly clams.  I even got to ride a horse! 

Friday was also a day off at school, and all the inbounds in the district went to Santiago, the capital.  There, we toured La Moneda, the presidential palace, and watched the changing of the guard. 

Afterwards, we went to Cerro Santa Lucia, a big hill in the middle of the city with a great view.  Then, we went to an artisanal market where I bought an alpaca sweater.  It’s so soft that I may never wear wool again. 

After some convincing, we managed to get the Rotarians to let us go to La Costanera, the biggest mall in South America.  Though we didn’t have much time before catching the bus, my Taco Bell and Starbucks made me so happy it didn’t even matter. 

Of course, we forgot that it was Friday rush hour in a city bigger than LA, so navigating the metro back to the bus station was stressful, to say the least.  We were running late, and had to sprint across the Alameda, the city’s busiest and widest street, to get to the bus stop on time.  Not the best mix with Starbucks and Taco Bell. 

Our bus was scheduled to leave at 6:20.  We got there at 6:22.  Thank God I’m not in Germany, we only made it because Chilean transportation is never on time. 

Fortunately, the fun didn’t stop there. This week was my school’s anniversary celebration, and the festivities lasted the whole week long. 

Our school was divided into alianzas, or alliances: roja, blanca, and azul.  We competed against the other alianzas in sports, art, music, dance, and more.  Tristan, Jules, and I (the exchange students) represented Alianza Azul in a rendition of YMCA.  Everyone was so surprised that I already knew the song’s famous choreography, and just laughed when I tried to convince them that nearly all Americans know it. 

The dance proved to be a crowd favorite.  Who doesn’t like to see blonde foreigners with accents shaking their butts to a classic song?

Though we were a crowd pleaser, there was no way that we could compete with the other dances, almost half of which would never be permitted in an American school.  There were Tarzan swings, tumbling, stunting, and even aerial silks, all without a mat.  Multiple cars were driven onstage, at one point even a hippy van.  Girls competed for the best bikini body , complete with angel wings straight out of the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, and even guys dancing in nothing but their bright red boxer briefs to prove they had the most hair or best legs. 

All this with parents, teachers, and even the principal in the audience.     

All in all, I’m having a great time.  Moving was hard, but I’m really settled in with my new family.  Every week I feel closer to my classmates, and I’m super excited for summer break in a month. 

Hasta pronto,

Maswal

(That’s just one of the many misspellings of Maxwell.   Gotta love it)

Easter Island

Rapa Nui, Isla de Pascua, and Easter Island are all names for a tiny, remote, and barren island in the South Pacific, home to less than five thousand permanent residents.  However, it receives more than fifteen times that in tourists every year.  Why? The "navel of the world" has a sort of magical mystery to it, and I had the opportunity to experience that firsthand.  

Here are the highlights from my trip. 

Arriving at the airport was definitely the first of many unforgettable experiences.  The island seems to come out of nowhere.  The runway spans the width of the entire island, flanked by volcanoes on both sides.  The Boeing 787 Dreamliner was bigger than the airport itself, which is just two rooms. 

After our arrival, we were greeted with leis , and then boarded the buses that would take us all over the island in the week to come.

Repping Nease Interact Club with the first Moai that we saw.

There are hundreds of horses all over the island, they say more than there are people.  Most of them are pretty friendly, like this one.

First time seeing the Pacific Ocean! Here I am with a bunch of other Americans. 

Easter Island only has one sandy beach.  The "tropical paradise" is really just a rock in the middle of the ocean, which leaves lots of cliffs to explore.

The Moai are literally everywhere.  There are literally hundreds strewn across the island, though unfortunately many are no longer standing.  These that you see in the ground are actually much bigger than they appear, with their bodies buried below.

Talca Squad with the big 15, the longest platform of Moai restored on the Island.

Adjusting to new sights, sounds, surroundings in Chile

In August, my plane touched down on an empty tarmac that scarily sliced through the center of the bustling city of Santiago in my new home country, Chile. After clearing customs I searched eagerly for three smiling faces, glimpsed earlier in photographs: my Chilean Mom, Dad and sister.

I should have known better to expect only three. Waving a big sign, they were surrounded by multitudes of unexpected cousins, aunts and uncles. Chilean families are huge and, happily, they all wanted to come meet the mysterious blonde boy named Max. Even my 86-year-old abuela (grandmother) made the long trip to the airport in Santiago.

My first days were a whirlwind of exciting confusion, but, fortunately, things have calmed down a bit. My small house has become a home, and I enjoy the sense of normality and routine that comes with it. The cold winter weather is now tolerable, and the language barrier gets smaller day by day.

Most days start to the sound of my alarm, just like in the U.S., but instead of opening my eyes to the blue Florida sky and mockingbirds chasing chattering squirrels, most days I awake to the sound of rain pattering on tin roofs, trying — and failing — to wash away the dirt and graffiti that have accumulated for decades. Outside my barred window, if the smog has cleared, I can see the snow-capped Andes mountains towering in the distance. New urban sounds replace the sounds of suburbia, the sputtering of older cars coughing to life, a stray dog barking and chirping pigeons that accompany the Latin rhythms of cumbia and reggaeton still echoing from last night’s fiesta.

Every morning I dress in my school uniform. The red shirt, gray pants and blue sweater help me blend in, but my blonde hair and green eyes scream “gringo.” After a breakfast of yogurt, coffee, bread and fruit, I take the city bus to school, and I fall right in alongside my classmates.

The language barrier is a constant struggle. In religion class one day, I defined Yaweh as God in “drunk” instead of “Hebrew.” At the frozen yogurt shop, I confidently ordered, but instead was given a coffee instead of yogurt. I was incredibly confused until I realized that it was, in fact, what I had ordered. Fortunately situations like this aren’t too frequent, and I largely credit that to the great language education in St. Johns County, especially at Nease High School. (Go Panthers!)

Many people here are quite surprised that an American can speak Spanish as I do. When they hear I’m from Florida, they quickly assume I’m from Spanish-speaking Miami.

It’s safe to say that from the moment I stepped off the plane, I have been fully immersed in the Chilean experience. I shouted some unpublishable expletives at the other team during a soccer game. I danced La Cueca, the Chilean national dance, in front of my whole school on the national holiday. I even felt the ground shake beneath my feet in the most seismically active country in the world.

The Sept. 16 earthquake caused little damage in my city, however, it was still quite strong, and I can surely say that the rumbling earth is not a feeling I would eagerly experience again.

Along with my classmates, friends and family, I walk daily past debris and rubble from prior earthquakes.

Although the buildings have yet to be rebuilt, the Chileans confidently carry on, and now, like them, so do I.

*Also published in The St. Augustine Record