There's a distinct feeling that accompanies waking up before sunrise. At least for me, I seem to exhibit a type of mindless efficiency, where I am simultaneously coherent and asleep, miserable and enthused. I feel like I'm fighting nature, as though at times when the only available light is artificial, I am fighting against my ancestral DNA, fighting against ancient, more natural times that only allowed humans to function during times of sunlight, and all other activities were shrouded in darkness and impossible. It is ironic that for most of these moments, I am waking to catch an early flight, an even larger perversion of natural intention, in which humans literally sit in chairs that fly though the air at hundreds of miles an hour. In this case though, only for the smaller subversion of an early bus to Santiago, from which we would begin our ascent to Valle Nevado of the Andes Mountains.
My cellphone alarm screamed the opening thirty seconds of Rodrigo y Gabriela's "Tamcun" at 5:00 AM on Friday morning, and I quickly gathered my essentials: ski jacket, gloves, kafia, beanie, banana. I stuffed the contents of the aforementioned list into my Burton rider's pack, and to the untrained eye, it may have appeared like I actually knew what I was doing, that I had actually snowboarded before and was in some way in control of the events later that day. Unfortunately, the reality was that both were very untrue. But, at least my gear was tight.
The bus to Santiago was slow going, and most of the other folks with whom I was riding had forgone conversation in favor of sleep or their ipods. After a two-hour ride, we got a chance to stretch our legs, and switched from bus to a smaller, thinner van with chained tires that would better traverse the thin and icy mountain roads. For the next hour and a half, we slowly climbed the snow-capped Andes on guardrail-less dirt paths that caused my hands to subconsciously grip the arm rests beside my seat with anxious force, as though my forearms would somehow slow the momentum of a van toppling over the ledge. The views, although minorly obscured by clouds, were an incredible dark brown to maroon gradient of the mountainous range behind us.
Valle Nevado was a small English speaking colony in the middle of the Andes Mountains, and the truth of the matter was that the extent of English I heard around me felt foreign. The most disconcerting truth, is that many Latin Americans simply cannot afford the prices of transportation and lift tickets and equipment, and therefore the Andes' ski resorts are dominated by traveling Americans. My natural sensibilities are always affected heavily by apparent issues of social justice, and the entire trip I couldn't shake the thought that, at some level, my participation in snowboarding was somehow unfair. The amount of English spoken was, more than anything else an absence of Spanish, a true reflection of a continent plagued by poverty and inequalities.
On a lighter note, snowboarding made for an incredible afternoon. My first few runs were quite difficult, but once I figured out how to shift my weight from heels to toes without toppling over, I was making complete runs without falling. I found myself becoming bolder every turn, feeling more comfortable riding faster and faster every time. I felt incredibly accomplished by the end of the day, knowing that I spent a day trying something I was scared of and then eight hours later felt excited for my next chance to try it again.
That was Friday. On Sunday morning, I awoke to a surprising scene: my Chilean family members gathering around, hugging and kissing me, and wishing me a very, very happy birthday.
Um? "¿Cúal es la fecha?" "Did I sleep until October?" A number of similarly confusing questions were running through my mind, the point being I was incredibly disoriented.
Apparently, my program had alerted my family that I had a birthday during my stay in Chile, but somehow the dates had been transcribed incorrectly, and the end result was my Chilean family's thinking August 23rd would be a huge celebration. Out of guilt, I had to admit to my family that it wasn't actually my birthday, which at first was confusing and hard to explain, but afterwards was worth a good laugh. We joked, in spanish, about how in "Alice in Wonderland" or "Alicia en el Pais de las Maravillas" they celebrate their not-birthdays, or sus no-cumpleaños 364 days a year. We all decided that rather than canceling the feast and freezing the cake until October, we'd all celebrate our no-cumpleaños together, on August 23.
In embarassing and incorrect moments, of which I've had many in the recent weeks, we make ourselves most vulnerable but also most open, to friendship, to family. In my family's mistaking my birthday, although confusing and embarrassing, it was the first moment I felt like part of an actual family, like an actual Chilean. Like any other family, or at least mine at home, our moments of weakness become the points at which we bond, form connections, learn to love. I was touched that, although they had the wrong date, people who were complete strangers three weeks beforehand, who had no idea I even existed on this planet, took the time and energy out of their lives to gather and cook and clean and celebrate with me. When looking back upon this year of travel, this will definitely be a situation I will remember fondly.
All in all, happy no-cumpleaños everyone!
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