“Intricately planned” was my first mistake.
By Allison Thomas, English and Art History major
A friend told me that Chilean barbecues always include wine, and that was all the convincing I needed. I set off for my Latin American adventure with high hopes of academic greatness, confident that I could achieve the unexpected: legitimate and original research from the undergraduate arena. I had everything going for me: a semester studying in Santiago, a Kellogg Research Grant to travel to Nicaragua, some extra cash in my savings account and the promising omen of running into Brady Quinn in the Tampa airport before getting on the plane to Miami. The effort was multifaceted, the trip intricately planned…
“Intricately planned” was my first mistake.
But to me the possibilities seemed endless… I would seek out illustrations of political angst in subversive murals and over-zealous University students. I would adopt the true traveler’s grunge, dread my hair and live out of my backpack on little more than my sketchbook, dried fruit and a North Face fleece. I would snack on street-side empanadas, learn to love reggaeton and light something on fire at a soccer game. I would be authentically academic, hippie, and Latin American all at the same time.
An initially flawless departure quickly became complicated. Suddenly the term “adventure sport” could be used to describe not only climbing a volcano but also riding in a taxi. Armed robbery emerged from late-night episodes of “Law and Order” and into the realm of very real possibility. Attention from men was simply foul. Everything was deep-fried and I feared I would evolve into one giant carbohydrate. Like a bad date, mayonnaise seemed to come at me from all sorts of strange angles while peanut butter was a scarcity. The movie “Titanic” became even sappier when dubbed in Spanish and everyone around me wore fanny packs. I was terrified.
The culture shock of Latin America was inescapable, as was the devastation of its poverty. Like the other ND students in my program I was enrolled in a class examining the poverty and development of Santiago, although I don’t think I needed the obligation of a course service requirement to do service in a city where abandoned doghouses become palaces for the homeless. Several hours a week I volunteered at Colegio San Luis in one of Santiago’s transitional neighborhoods. I helped one of the English teachers, Juanito, with three of his high school classes. The first few days were full of adjustment – to the chaos of Chilean classrooms, the insipidity of deteriorating desks, the plentitude of teenage parents and the total lack of English comprehension. As a female and a foreigner I literally was the circus sideshow. At times, listening to my 18-year-old students fumble with elementary English pronunciation seemed hopeless. But only the few that had the courage to participate, to speak up, and to mess up ever truly learned; in their mistakes they created their own accomplishments.
After six months and 18 new passport stamps I finally returned home… in a panic: what if I hadn’t taken enough notes and photos? What if I hadn’t outlined the right sketches? What if my “research” turned out to be nothing more than glorified garbage? I couldn’t very well write a Senior Paper about the art of Nicaraguan taxi drivers bribing the police with an orange soda! What if I had really messed up?
Remembering the shamelessness of my Chilean students, I now realize that I, too, have learned by messing up. I now know that I have a 19-year-old “hermano,” not a 19-year-old “hijo.” I know that airport taxes make arriving at an airport 30 minutes before your flight a very bad idea. I know that posted business hours can’t always be counted on and research can be difficult to gather when working on tiempo latino. I learned that “intricately planned” doesn’t really exist in Latin America and that “flexibility” becomes a mantra.
Traveling has become less about doing things correctly and more about a simple receptivity to learn. My “research” has been productive in none of the ways I anticipated and has consisted much more of accidents and spontaneity than preemptive excursions. My formal education is something that I will continue to nurture, but it would stand vastly incomplete without a lot of mistakes, the example of a few unassuming high-schoolers, and maybe little bit of mayonnaise.
