My Friend Witnessed a Vicious Mugging, Which was of Me (and Other Things)

What's up one and all who read this! Life continues as normal, which is to say, randomly.

It's been about a month since I last wrote and many things have ocurred in that time period, both good and bad. I enjoyed a great lunch at my boss's house, completely did not enjoy a vicious mugging/beating, and became gainfully employed with a software company in addition to my usual teaching of mouthy college students (whose knowledge of English swears has increased tenfold, somehow). I also have a plane ticket to Buenos Aires for a vacation in a month, which I greatly need and deserve as you'll soon understand why.

The lunch dealie came about because I've been dating the secretary at school, kind of your workplace fantasy type scenario, if the secretary happens to be attractive(which she is). Anyways, the secretary is friends with my jefa and her husband who have lunch get-togethers from time to time with several friends and colleagues. Lunch is a big deal down here, akin to a dinner party in the states, so it was nice to be invited, even if it was due to my romantic attachment to the secretary... As it turns out, I had a great time and met some really interesting people and got to share a little insight into life in the United States. Tried to set a few things straight, explained some subtle nuances about us Americans (like our love of sexily scandalous things that we condemn at the same time. Full frontal nudity, for example), and apologized for the many things out of my control that the world is pissed at us about. Everything went swimmingly and I left full of great food, hearty drink, and good conversation running through my head. A lovely afternoon which happened a scant few weeks after I got my ass viciously kicked and robbed.

To keep the suspense going, let me secondly tell you about the new job I got and how class is going at Duoc. I'm ending the end of the first semester, and am busy preparing classes and giving tests, grading them and listening to bullshit excuses about student absences which are leading them down the lane to failure. Most of the time classes are great, and I usually spend free time at school puttering about the teachers lounge and pestering my coworkers to share their food. We (the gringos) are now in possession of ping pong paddles and when it's not raining like to annoy the students by taking over one of the few tables for hours at a time. I've also gotten to changing the backgrounds on the computers from the standard lame DuocUC background to some exciting and original backgrounds, thanks to Google images. The Chilean professors don't appreciate my humor, I think, and only the gringos were laughing when they discovered I had put pictures of the Bloods and the Crips, puppies making adorable scrunched up faces, and Mexican low-riders on ninety percent of the computer screens. Oh well, they're better for it, I suppose. Anyways, in the midst of all of this strenuous work, one wouldn't think that it wouldn't be the right time to get an additional job, right? Wrong. After losing multiple valuables I found myself short of cash and wanting to replace some important stuff. An opportunity arose to do just that. The English department was informed that a Chilean software company was looking for some English teachers to teach a few English courses for their employees, as part of a benefit incentive program. The pay is all right and the course material is basic stuff, really easy, so my friend Lindsey and I signed on. I now work for a Chilean software company teaching four classes in addition to my ten a week I teach with Duoc, which has forced me to be a hell of a lot more productive. Mostly due to the fact that I can't sleep until noon like I used to, and have to get up at six thirty in the morning monday through thursday. It's worth it, because now I can laugh in the face of vicious assault/ass-whoopin'/dignity destroyer, replacing my valuables as though a million assaults couldn't affect my pocketbook. Ha ha ha!

All right, all right! I'll get down to the real nitty gritty. A vicious mugging/robbery/ass kicking, you ask? Well, it happened like this. My friend Andy and I had gone to Santiago proper in the downtown area to celebrate a birthday at a famous bar called La Piojera, which serves drinks known as ¨terremotos¨, or earthquakes. These drinks are a blend of a couple types of strong liquor with a scoop of icecream in it (probably to dull the violent shudders of the liquor with a little sweetness, I imagine). Anyways, two Terremotos and you feel like you've been through an earthquake, hence the name. The night started on an argumentative tone. The bar was packed with small groups of foreigners and large groups of Chilenos, and I once again was the blondest person in the bar. This feisty blondness of mine has gotten me into a lot of trouble with random people, and would lead me towards the painful kicks and blows I was to receive later in the evening. The overarching assumption is my blondness and I represent the callous and hipocritical United States, its ubiquitous wealth, whiteness and all the problems the world currently blames it for (instead of the melting pot of cultures, colors, financial situations and problems of its own it actually has to contend with). Also, my being a cultural ambassador requires that I feel the need to set the record straight for all us law-abiding American citizens and place blame where blame is due. Thus, I frequently find myself getting into heated arguments with strangers who approach me demanding I explain my actions, rather than that of my government. Granted, I've also been approached many times by very friendly people, looking to have a pleasant conversation with someone obviously not from this part of the world. This was not one of those times.

I had posted myself at the bar with Andy and we were enjoying a couple of cervezas, chatting with two Chileans next to us about the interesting differences and similarities that most countries share when some random middle-aged Chilean busted in on us, sloshing his beer about and angrily accusing me (not black haired Andy) of being a pawn for a dictatorship posing as a democracy. Well, you can imagine my annoyance at this particular statement, being the liberal and open-minded U.S. citizen I am, with all my love for due process, democratic rule, and separation of church and state. However, this has happened many times, and not wanting to enter a two man fray of words, I ignored him and turned back to my companions. Apparently, this was unacceptable, and merely antagonized his belligerency. He addressed me again, a little more forcefully, which gave me cause to turn and address his falsehood. After asking my new Chilean friends if they knew him and receiving a negatory shaking of their heads, I promptly told him that I apologized if he believed that the citizens of the United States were to blame or even in control of the actions of an extremely unpopular, unilateral, control-minded government and perhaps he would find his very own Chilean problems a creation of boath his and his Chilean government's doing if he took the time to educate himself a little better. This led into fifteen minutes of worthless banter on both his and my part, which accomplished nothing except raise tensions as people in the bar began watching to see when it would come to blows(of course Andy didn't do anything or jump in at any time, which was to become the common theme throughout the evening). Fortunately, at precisely the time when I was beginning to tire of the cyclical nature of our argument and wondering myself when it would come to blows, all of my gringo friends entered, laughing jovially and full of good-natured camaraderie. Cruelly, I suppose, I quickly summoned one of my American counterparts over, introduced him (or foisted him onto, depending how you look at it) to the idiot I had been so close to hitting, and made my way over to an empty table that had now been filled with the cheerful sounds of glasses clinking and birthday toasts being made all around. Phew!

La Piojera was delightful, and I must admit that we all left a bit more unsober than we entered, thanks to the potent Terremotos, whose potency was visibly underestimated by our group. My friend Colin had joined us as well, a fellow Iowan whom I had met through the internet after he read an article about my travels online, and who has been living quite successfully in Santiago for a little more than three years. He's always a good time, and he and his Chilean fiancé Carolina are great people. Many photos were taken with my beautiful camera (a birthday gift from my Grandmother, which I cherished a great deal), which was filled with photos from a previous trip to Cajon del Maipo and about two hundred other photos of random crap I had encountered around the city. Anyways, after La Piojera I tucked my camera into my warm and comfortable leather jacket(a Christmas gift from my parents, which I adored) wrapped the lovely scarf I had received not but a week before (in a thoughtful and filled with love care package from the States) around my neck and we all parted ways, my fellow gringos heading off to a dance club(minus faithful Andy, who remained by my side and often accuses me of dragging him into situations we shouldn't be in) and Colin heading off to his apartment in Nuñoa, the comuna next to Santiago Centro. Andy and I then headed to a party at my friend Patricio's house close to my house in the shared comuna of Peñalolen.

Patricio's house was filled with lots of people, more food, drink and music. The details are sketchy but we all had a rousing good time. Roughly around four-thirty Andy and I left for my house a few blocks away with Patricio's girlfriend, who kindly gave us a lift back to my house.

Close by my house is a long and skinny plaza. By day, the plaza is an inviting place, filled with small shops selling groceries and dog food or offering internet connections, haircuts, and fresh empanadas from people's homes. Neighbors converse, wash their cars in the streets (as Chileans are impeccably clean in regards to their personal belongings), children play on the two or three pieces of playground equipment that are scattered in the plaza, and stray dogs bark at passerbys or gather in groups of three or four to smell each others butts, fornicate, and shit everywhere. Late at night is a different story. The two or three street lights are located on tall telephone poles whose weak yellow light is obscured by several large trees. What little light there is is located at the end of the plaza closest to my house, which is still a shadowy place. In fact, a large majority of the plaza itself is covered by complete darkness. Benches where young lovers sat merely hours earlier ensconced in their romantic aura of midnight love are far more likely to surrounded by large groups of teenagers drinking out of 40's, smoking weed and smoking cigarettes, their illicit activities hidden by the foreboding shadows(Which is better than shooting heroin, I'll admit, which I've witnessed a few times on a street that I take that passes beneath a supermarket to get to my colectivo line).

For some ungodly reason, we decided it would be a good idea to go to the plaza and take in some night air before retiring. As Andy and I passed through the plaza, five forms mingled in the darkness near one of the lovers' benches. They slowly materialized into five substance abusing delinquent teenagers. They were passing around several 40 oz bottles of beer and spitting and swearing to themselves. The stagnant air was thick with the smell of marijuana and as we neared their position passing in the street, my beautiful blond hair became, once again, the goddam flashpoint for confrontation. "Oye, rusio! Oye, rusio! Danos cigarros, rusio!" they called, in a terribly flaite accent (no or low class Chilean Spanish used by delinquents and the uneducated) "rusio" being "rubio" which of course means blonde in proper Spanish. "Hey blondy! Blondy! Give us cigarettes, blondy!", they were shouting, which was unfortunate, because I didn't have any. Had I, I would've thrown them the pack and sped up my walk. I didn't, so we just ignored them. Much like the drunkard at La Piojera, this only incited the weed and liquor-addled flaite lolos, or teenagers, even more. They moved towards us and surrounding us, demanded cigarettes from us and peppering us with the question "de donde soy?, de donde soy?" which just confused us, the meaning of course being "where am I from? where am I from?". After some discussion the next day, Andy and I concluded that this was akin to, "Who's your daddy, bitch!?", and is certainly not something polite one says to strangers. Their goal was not to give a show of politeness however and they began demanding that we take off our clothes, a command which signaled a rapid downward spiral of events. I had two lolos at my back and one in front of me, another one close to me and one by Andy. They demanded again that we take off our clothes and one began tugging at Andy's jacket. I was looking between the three lolos, who were now clearly attempting to assault us. I saw Andy back up and push away one and I turned to the three behind me. As I turned, one of them decided that now was the time to punch me in the face, which he did, and which left quite the shiner for a week or so. Upon getting punched in the face, I spun around and was hit in the back of the head. At this point in time my consciousness was beginning to dim as rather sensitive spots on my head were receiving multiple unwanted hits. I flailed out, trying to connect with my assailants as I was kicked in the knees, which brought me to the ground. The last thing I remember before having a bottle smashed over the top of my head, which left a nasty gash, is the quintessential memory I shall forever carry of Andy. Having tugged free from his assailant he took off, and with his arms and legs pumping like a marathon sprinter, I watched him fade away into blackness as he deserted me under a barrage of shattering glass liquor bottles. All five delinquents then turned their attention on repeatedly kicking my prone body (unnecessarily, I might add, as I was now completely unconscious, so the thorough beating they were administering was more like pummeling a giant, 150lb sack of wet cement that in no way, shape, or form was capable of defending itself) and making away with my scarf, my precious leather jacket, my cherished camera, a silver medal I wore around my neck, and all of my dignity. Fortunately, my pants were too tight and sexy for them to get my wallet out of my back pocket, which would have been a gold mine for them (for this reason I shall forever wear supertight crotch and buttock flaunting pants, no matter what fashion dictates).

Andy didn't desert me for long, and, like the good friend he is, woke up my homestay mother Inés who called the carabineros and then returned to me. I was groggily getting to my hands and knees as blood poured from the cut on my head, a cut behind my ears where I had been both kicked and punched I remembered, a cut in my ear (I shall never know how that happened) and a gouge someone's boot had made in my collarbone. Along with that, I had been thoroughly pummeled about my back and ribs, as though a gorilla had been pounding on a piano in a failed attempt to produce a symphony. I placed an anuncio with the carabineros and was told that nothing would probably come of it. After a week or so I was back to normal, until I scratched all hell out of my eye dicking around with my contacts and was laid up in my bedroom avoiding any and all bright light. I was, of course, without any ClearEyes or eyedrops of any kind, which had also been in the pockets of my leather jacket, now just a memory. Oh well. After many I told you so's in Spanish from a variety of people, and some scathing actual parental emails, I can honestly say, lesson learned. I only hope those little flaite douchebags bought a lot of crack with the money they made selling my stuff.

Anyways, all's well that ends well and before I go to Buenos Aires and Ecuador in July I'll have a new camera. I already bought a new jacket in a two-for-one deal so I actually have two leather jackets, which is sweet. What sucks about the camera deal though is not only was it a gift, but I had a lot of badass pictures from a lot of cool stuff. I suppose I'll have to relive the photo moments as best I can. Many fond memories were recorded with that dear camera. Sorry Grandma. Anyways, it lasted longer than my leather jacket, which was a just few months old. So I suppose, sorry Mom, too.

Chau for now!