Santiago

A new country: Chile. We had debated a lot if we were going to continue to go to Santiago or if we should rewrite our plans. This was because there were violence and protests in Chile. Santiago is the capital city, so that’s where the violence was mainly happening. After much going back and forth, we decided to go. We went not for the scenery and sights, but because we would have lost or spent a lot of money if we went somewhere else. Also, we had made plans to meet up with my grandparents in Santiago. At dawn in the morning of October 22nd, we boarded the plane.

It all seemed peaceful when we arrived. We talked with the Airbnb host and she said that we were going to be fine in our neighborhood, which was good but not enough to completely forget that we were in a war zone. The president had called a state of emergency; we all still had doubts. I don’t think any of us slept well that night. Thoughts of violence, corruption and lack of food all nipped at us in our sleep.

The next day, we decided we were going to venture out and see what was happening. We stopped by a grocery store that was fortunately open, and went in. When my mom was about to buy the stuff, she said she needed another bag from dad, who was standing outside. I went out and retrieved the bag. My dad said that I better watch out because the guards were not letting people in anymore. I started walking to the door, prepared to get a “no.” Suddenly, a large crowd came out, and with all the commotion I slipped in, only to be noticed by one guard who pointed at me and cocked his head, but didn’t bother to stop me.

All of the streets were somehow marked with presence of the army, a constant reminder to the locals that their city and home was not the same. On some streets, large groups of men in full body armor and large rifles stood like statues that could awake in seconds and everything could turn into chaos. On other streets we saw many not well-loved vehicles that transported new prisoners cuffed that day, and other vehicles that sprayed the throat-burning tear gas that made you enter into a world of misery. The last vehicle was one that sprayed water on a very high blast at people who were causing a ruckus. These three vehicles had seen better days; they were covered in paint and dents from people that thought they were rebels saving the world, and in actuality they were destroying their city as they knew it.

There was a park right outside our AirBnb. We had changed our reservation to a further out, rich neighborhood, and the park confirmed that’s where we were. Unlike the rest of the city, this park remained normal. Roses towered over us like an umbrella and the grass was freshly cut. Later in our visit, we came back to this park in search of helado (ice cream). We found a little truck vender that sold “Thai helado.” Another name for them was “rollitos.” Like rolls. We found out why: the ice cream was rolled up into rolls! We ordered strawberry. He grabbed two strawberries, some creamy milk stuff and two large knives. He threw the strawberries onto a big, flat, freezing cold pan. He drizzled the cream over it, and in one big practiced movement he cut the strawberries into a million different pieces. He spread the strawberry goop across the pan until he was satisfied with the flatness. Then, he started scraping it off bit by bit into a roll shape; then, he carefully placed each roll in a cup. It was delicious!

We met up with my grandparents at their hotel called Castillo Rojo (red castle). It was a castle and it was red, and very fancy. One day, with my grandparents, we decided to go to Valparaíso. Valparaíso is a beach side city on the coast of Chile next to Santiago. We used a funicular to get up a hill to a famous neighborhood. The neighborhood supposedly had painted staircases and cool graffiti. We had lunch there, and then we got back in the car to go back to Santiago. We started driving along one road in Valparaíso. We stopped at a stop light, and I turned to look out of the window. Every other person was wearing a mask, I knew something was wrong.

I had learned what masks meant: the people wearing masks were expecting tear gas and violence. They wore masks so that the tear gas maybe wouldn’t hurt so bad, and the mask would be covering their face so no one could see who they were: protesters. In the peaceful marches not many people were wearing masks. As we pulled up to a large intersection, everyone in the car knew what was going on. Car horns beeping, pots banging and people chanting: these were all signs of a march happening, and we were right in the middle of it. At the corner of my eye, I saw the hated water cannon. People by it were fleeing everywhere, but most people just went on chanting. The pots banged in my ear. My dad, who was driving, said this was not good and we had to get out of here. People started to pick up rocks. Expecting the worst, I closed my eyes and lowered my head below the window. Finally, we maneuvered out of the large mass of people and sped down the road. With both ears still plugged I asked if it was over. My mom replied, “ Yes, I think so.”

The news was one of the main ways we saw the destruction. On the last night of our stay, my mom and I sat transfixed in front of the tv, the news blaring on about the fire that we could see out our window. Protesters had set a subway station and a supermarket on fire, along with lots of other important buildings. We could see the red glow of the subway station coming from down below and it looked even worse on tv. A video of flames towering above a supermarket was pasted on the tv. We watched stunned by the horribleness of it all. People dashed into the store, despite the flames, and carried off whatever items they could fit into their arms. Who were the criminals? Were they the president and government that the protesters were pointing their finger at? Or, was it the protesters themselves, who steal from the burning stores and who disobey the rules that make our world better?

One afternoon, when just out of curiosity we switched on the tv, we saw another incident on the news. The title said: “Miles de personas se reúnen ahora en Plaza Italia” (thousands of people gather now in Plaza Italia). We watched the immense gathering of people for a long time. Unlike our Valparaíso incident, not many people were wearing masks. After awhile we switched to a different news channel, a new number was printed on the tv: “ahora, más de un millón de personas se reúnen en plaza italia” (now, more than a million people gather in Plaza Italia). It went from thousands to millions. So far, I was fine with this march; nothing on the news indicated violence. Then, the curfew slammed in and the millions of people receded to the safety of their homes. The police could lock up anyone who was out after the curfew. Only the violent rebels and the drunk stayed.

The violent rebels were everywhere. They burned down buildings and destroyed streets. Was there some other reason for this destruction? Was it something about the excitement playing in a tag game ten times greater? Or, something about wanting to be put on a list of people that have saved the world? I didn’t know the reason, but I knew this wasn’t the way to solve problems.