Loneliness and Frustrations Abroad in Chile

Author's Note: This post is an excavation of some of the things that I struggled with while living in a rural town in Chile: it does not mean that I didn't enjoy my time there, it's just that longer-term travel isn't always easy. 

Four months in, and it’s winter time. I wake up. It’s already 10:00 a.m. but I don’t care. I launch out of bed, shivering, and want to curl back under my warm blankets. I never imagined above freezing weather could feel this cold. I throw on some clothes – if I had my own apartment, I wouldn’t have to look presentable – and eat some toast with sweet caramel manjar and drink a cup of awful instant coffee.

I’m on autopilot, and I feel guilty about that because I’m in a new country. I’m supposed to be exploring. Seeing things. Taking in sights. But all I feel is tiredness. There’s this constant pressure to do something, and yet I don’t know what options I have.

There’s no café nearby – the closest one is a 45-minute bus ride to the nearby town of Curicó. There’re a few traditional restaurants, but it isn’t normal to eat out alone – plus, my host mom always cooks excellent lunches. If I go to the plaza for Internet, I’ll surely see my students smoking weed there, like always. I could take a bike ride through the countryside, but I do that often and it isn’t enough. I don’t have many friends here yet, so I don’t know who I could hang out with. I begin to understand why the previous foreigner blurred the lines with her students: who else is there to talk to here?

It’s five months in. I decide to teach my students about family members, and create a large family tree with pretty pictures of my family on it to model for them. I put a picture of myself, me smiling broadly with a black hat and green-tipped hair. Bastille days in Milwaukee: I’m wearing my favorite strappy black dress that has little triangle slits on my stomach, but you can’t see those in the picture. I’m working with high school students after all. 

My host mom comes by and examines my family tree: she likes it. She says my sister is beautiful, and she is. It’s a very flattering picture of her, with pursed lips wearing light makeup and of course her blonde, blonde hair. 

Then she tells me that my picture, the girl that’s smiling so broadly and so happily, that’s how I looked upon arrival here -- but not anymore. I feel guilty.

I want to justify this, or deny it and tell her she’s wrong: but she’s not. I arrived, so amazed at everything, so willing to talk to everyone, the one who always stayed at the dinner table until late at night to talk and talk.

It’s not that I’m unhappy now, but I’ve retreated. In the beginning, I made such an effort. Everything was new and I knew I needed to meet people and make myself accessible; otherwise my options would close off. But gradually, gradually I retreated. I need my own time. I start to pick out what I do and don’t want to be a part of. I become more impatient. 

And there are things that I don’t like about Chile. I want to try so hard to pretend that living abroad is this beautiful thing, this wondrous, soul-filling experience that leaves me feeling tingly every night. And so many times it is that: so many times I want to shout at the top of my lungs, scream so that the world can hear, because of how enlightening of an experience I’ve had. But not always. 

Six months in, and it’s September already. I’m gearing up for fiestas patrias, Chilean Independence Day. I have grand hopes for all these celebrations that I keep getting told about. I’ve finally made a group of friends that I can hang out with at night: they’re older, mid to late thirties, but fun and still willing to have a good time. 

I go to drink a few craft beers with a friend in Curicó. He gets the whole month of September off because he works for Dole, and they don’t want to give him health insurance or other benefits so they lay him off for a whole month each year. He’s 37 and deserves better. 

He’s sweet and patient and doesn’t make fun of my Spanish. But I’m frustrated; I can’t express what I want. My Spanish is good, it really is: but the phrase I want to say in English I can’t find the equivalent in Spanish, and so I opt for a lesser phrase, one that gets the meaning across but doesn’t have the same impact in my mind. It’s difficult having friends in a second language. 

Talk to me in English, he says. So you feel more comfortable. 

But that doesn’t make sense, either. He knows a little bit of English but not enough to have a conversation. Talking at someone who doesn’t understand me isn’t a way for me to feel better. 

Even with friends here and being at an intermediate level of Spanish, it’s difficult expressing myself wholly and completely. I wonder how people date each other when they don’t share a language that they’re both fluent in.

Two months left, and I’m telling my co-workers about my upcoming trip to Peru. One says, jokingly, you can’t go to Peru! They’re cannibals – they eat redheads there! The table roars in laughter. I smile, looking strained. I don’t like the Chilean sense of humor. Where’s that biting sarcasm that I so love?

I remember when I was asked by the guidance counselor to go on a field trip with students and I accepted. He then told me that I needed my host mom to fill out a permission slip for me. But I’m a teacher! I protested. It’s the rules, he told me. We need her to sign off.

And how amusing my host mom found it: Don’t do anything naughty, or I won’t let you go on your field trip! She said to me, teasingly. 

I turn in the permission slip, and then I’m told that it’s a joke. What type of joke? I want to ask. How unfunny it is! Or maybe I’m being too harsh. But I do know that I don’t care for Chilean humor.  

How do you relate to people when you don’t have a similar sense of humor? How do you explain to people that you’re not cold or mean, just honest and sarcastic? And then I think about if I was raised here, what would I find funny? Would I be laughing with them? And I start dreaming about Morocco, and my first serious conversations with myself about my American identity. How funny it is that being abroad makes you realize just how American you are. 

Only 1 month to go. I’m beginning to plan my two-month excursion with my boyfriend who’s coming down to visit me. It’s starting to get hot and the days are getting longer, less dreary. The attendance in my classes is dwindling down as students go off to work on their parents’farms. 

My co-teacher is pregnant, quite pregnant. Maybe 7 months or so. We’re planning an English Day, one where each class gets a country and they have to decorate the classroom, do some research, and do a performance to showcase the country. The winners are supposed to get a prize. 

My co-teacher has never been very involved at the school, but she also likes to save face. I was living off of a stipend and didn’t particularly want to shell out a ton of money for prizes. I suggested some chocolates. She felt stressed, for some reason. Maybe she didn't feel supported, I don't know. 

It’s the day before the event and she pulls me off to the side. 

Emma, I’m starting my maternity leave, she tells me. What? When? Tomorrow. So English Day is now optional and you’re in charge of it. 

Is that how it works? We get notification of your maternity leave the day before you take it?

Frustration wells up inside of me. The other English teacher wants nothing to do with English Day, and so he doesn’t do anything. I feel let down and angry. 

The other teachers are sympathetic, but what can they do? Some of the classes don’t do anything and some of the classes go above and beyond for English Day. I shake off my frustrations and try to enjoy the classes that have put time and effort into it. I go about my business, enjoying what I can, learning when I don't.

Living abroad is hard. Living abroad in a rural area is even harder. 

*These were just a few of my experiences. If you'd like a complete picture on Chile, check out the Chile homepage for more details.