Much travel, long buses, molluscs forgotten.

It's been a while since I wrote so I apologize in advance for the length of this post. When I last left off I was somewhere in Chiloe, working hard for a somewhat exploitative snail farmer named Ines. Since then I have come a long a way. We spent about a week more at the farm and talked our way into working a little less and getting to ride the horses. We went two or three times on those fairly untrained beasts. But the nights were gorgeous and rode them around the incredible vistas of purple setting suns and seaweed dragging oxen. Then we went back to Puerto Varas to prepare for a 5 day trek into the Cochamo valley (often dubbed the Yosemite of South America), but the pictures will do an infinitely better job relating the story than will my blog, so check them out (in the side bar). We met up with Lenka and Max, two of Caitlin's old rock climbing friends. We did a lot of watching them climb improbable rock faces.

The one part of Cochamo I will relate was what happened on the 25^th of November. Being a ten mile hike into a fairly deserted valley in southern Chile we expected that having arrived the only Americans, we would remain so for the duration of our stay. We were mistaken. On Thanksgiving day like clockwork a host of American's arrived, not only to cook a meal at the “refugio” but also as guests to participate in it. Of course we were joined by a few requisite foreigners for us to relate the tale to, but in all, the turkeys, stuffing and mashed potatoes made me feel pretty much at home. Fabulous meal, and funny coincidences, like the two 2010 graduates of Harvard who showed up, and knew my brother and best friend...

We arrived in Punta Arenas last Sunday after a a 30 hour bus through the Argentine pampas, to the Atlantic coast, about 1000 miles south and then west onto the straits of Magellan. The ride made us a little crazy, but it was mainly due to the sad circumstances of our departure. Caitlin's packpack had been stealthily stolen in the Puerto Montt bus terminal, and I was having a stomach-illness relapse, which after taking a full dosage of Cipro was fairly unnerving. Another oddity which might have contributed to general craziness was the fact that more and more people were French speaking, and fewer than ever spoke Spanish. So thoroughly distressed we decided to hang out in Punta Arenas while we filed insurance claims and stayed near hospitals (don't worry, all is now taken care of!).

So right now I'm procrastinating for what seems like the first time in about six months. You see I should be working on a project proposal for a research study. This feels good. The procrastinating especially. It brings me back to a time of certainty. To a time when I knew what my life was—deadlines were established, procrastinating ensued, and somehow, out of the abyss of Gould Library, surrounded by food scraps and the smell of old books, I would emerge with a document and be told by someone with power whether I had achieved success. The research proposal you ask? I suppose that too brings me back to college. It is a vaguely sociological study focusing on place, and national identity. I am sure that my history professors would be proud to know that I was thinking about both Pierre Nora and Benedict Anderson when I wrote those last few words. And hopefully they will find their way into whatever is written if the judges of the outside world deem the proposal worthy of success. The project in short, is to examine the place of Antarctica in Chilean national identity. The judge: Admiral Rosenqvist of the Chilean navy. Yes, this is my liberal arts education in action.

Next week we start our 22 day volunteer stint in Torres del Paine national park. We still aren't sure of what it will entail, but when I know I'll be sure to post something. I know there is some internet, so check the page out in a couple weeks. Thanks everyone for reading.  Oh right, I almost forgot—happy Hanukkah too.  Write me!