Tahiti - Closed During the Typhoon

The Pacific Ocean holds isolated islands created over centuries by Mother Nature through volcanic eruptions. Among these is the tropical paradise called Tahiti, our second destination on our Polynesian adventure. The international airport served as our port of entry after a long flight from Hanga Roa. The flight was entertaining as we were accompanied for the second time by the Mambo Kings, our in-flight movie. Tahiti is the administrative centre of the French Outremers territory of the Windward Islands. This archipelago is known for is unique black sand beaches and small yet mountainous landscapes. The first settlers were Polynesian, arriving to the region around 300 AD and their ancient architectural style can be admired throughout the land including in their capital city, Papeete. Approximately 70% of the total population are indigenous and the remaining proportion are Chinese, Europeans or mixed, locally knows as demis. Tahiti was proclaimed French territory in 1880 and as a consequence, the only official language is French. Nevertheless, the native language Reo Tahiti was widely spoken by the majority of the locals. Tahiti is located 4,400 km (2,734.03 mi) south of Hawai'i, 7,900 km (4,908.83 mi) west of Chile and 5,700 km (3,541.82 mi) east of Australia. The island is encircled by a main road circling the high mountains dressed in a dense rainforest on one side and the breathtaking coastline on the other. The weather does not vary much throughout the year and seasons are determined by dry or rainy. The next few days we were spending on the remote island were during the wet season.

Le Truck, Tahitian public transport

As we sat the next morning for breakfast before beginning our action-packed Tahitian vacation, we were greeted by a wet, windy and gray morning. As we slept in our comfortable beds on our first night in Papeete, a tropical storm had settled over the island leading to a major shut down of paradise. Shops, plantations, air traffic, and to our dismay, ferries were all closed. We were scheduled to make our way across to Moorea, only 9 km northwest aboard a colourful boat which had been cancelled until the typhoon would pass. My father did not lose hope and had us running around the island in search of boats, planes or any other form of transportation to get across the bay. Even a simple fishing boat with an ambitious captain could have aided us in our life threatening trek. Money did not seem to hold the same type of motivation as in other places. This was admirable but very counter-productive for us and my father would not give up even after exhausting all options. I am sure if we did not have luggage to take across, he would have given more thought to swimming 9 km to reach Moorea. After several hours of every locals telling us "Be careful, there is a typhoon!", my Dad realized he had to give up. I noticed how hard that was on him, yet the rest of us had long given up, trusting the Tahitian knowledge of the ocean and weather. We were so close yet so far. I remember my Dad signaling to an island off the port telling us that is where we had to go. How frustrating can it be to see your goal with no way to achieve it. Everything happens for a reason, and in that case it certainly worked in our favour. These storms can last a few days and the only news reports we were able to obtain mentioned our Moorea hotel, a quaint place built on stilts, had been washed away into the deep blue sea.

As we were marooned on the island, we decided to make the best out of a bad situation. We had already seen quite a bit of the waterfront during our quest for transportation, where some lovely hotels and shops were closed due to the typhoon. It was not a day to board a cruise ship either and I did not envy anyone teetering somewhere in the ocean with the high winds and waves dictating every movement. Land was definitely the place to be. We found a small grocery store where we were able to buy delicious French style sandwiches, the famous Croc Monsieur¸ which probably tasted amazing due to the fact we had even found it difficult to find an open restaurant. We figured that by having a nice lunch we could kill some time, as we had plenty to spare, but even this proved a difficult feat. Another place that seemed to be one of the few open for business was a movie theatre. None of the local movies were screening (probably not a large film community there) and we had no problem getting tickets for one called Navy Seals. I suppose the age ratings were of little importance as the selection was not exactly plentiful and neither was the audience. The ambience was similar to Cape Fear where a family is watching a movie and the only company they had was Robert De Niro and his cigar. Navy Seals starred Charlie Sheen, the leader of an elite strike force fighting through all sorts of adverse weather conditions to conduct some covert operation in the Middle East. As we watched the movie, we developed an empathy for the heroes as we were stuck on the island due to conditions they were fighting, except for the guns blazing, kodiac speedboats and an enemy to eliminate. The movie had only taken away about an hour and half. Afterwards, we took a ride on the local bus, also known as Le Truck, a clean, respectful and friendly service. We had asked the lady driving the bus how close could she get us to the hotel, and as we were the last passengers to get off, she dropped us at the front door of lobby. People there were very helpful, compassionate and seemed to go out of their way to be nice to others. I suppose many knew one another and this allowed for a friendlier community, rather than the big cities of the world where everyone seems to be rushed or worried about status determining who they can mingle with. This behaviour did not compute among the locals.

On our next morning, still no sign of the bad weather clearing up. Moorea seemed more and more like a lost cause. As we had our continental breakfast, my father was devising a plan for the day. Each time my father seemed to realize Moorea was just not going to happen, there seemed to be more of an absence in his contributions to the topics of discussion accompanied with a certain frustration. He decided we would rent a car to drive around Tahiti. The rental was incredibly useful to make our way to the Botanical Gardens. We thought it would be amazing to see the local nature up close and personal. After all, the land seemed to be extremely tropical, something we did not have back in Chile. As we parked at the entrance to the gardens, we were turned away by a sign posted up announcing the park was closed as well due to the typhoon. We began to wonder if this was just an excuse for people to take an additional day off, blaming everything on the weather. We would have to make our way somewhere else. My mother was an extremely great painter and had the chance to paint marvelous landscapes during our Venezuela posting, so she continued when she had the spare time in Chile. As an artist and a Frenchwoman, there was a specific treasure for her in Tahiti. Our next stop was the Paul Gaugin gallery. As we sat in the car wondering if the gallery would be closed due to the Typhoon as well, Maman must have been imagining the artwork she was about to see. Gaugin was born in Paris, France, in the mid 1800s, and he was known as a leading post-impressionist painter. He had spent several years in French Polynesia, depicting the Tahitian people through his own style. He seemed to be enamoured with the culture and eventually died somewhere in the colonies. The place was actually open to our surprise, but my mom seemed to be disappointed that the pieces in the gallery were all copies from the originals. We were all happy to have found a place open. We also learned the local phrase "Vahini raki raki" which simply put means ugly girl. This was the title of one of Gaugin's paintings.

Maman, Brian and I with some Polynesian architecture in the background

One of the fondest memories I keep of this trip was after the museum, on our drive back to Papeete to complete the full circle, a brief stop on the side of the road. On the right side of the road, we had the drizzly gray coast line with the waves smashing in, and to the left, a cliff with a small hole in the ditch next to the road. This was my father's treasure. When the waves crash in to the coast, they are in fact colliding with a system of holes and caves in the coast. Volcanic rock looks like a piece of Swiss cheese (similar to the cartoon cheeses full of holes) and if the perforations provide appropriate conditions for matter to find a way through, there is an exertion of mist upon exiting through the other side. The force behind each wave created pressure bursts and a drum-like sound which we were able to examine up close. This was The Blow Hole (in upper case letters due to the importance for my Dad). The sprays were in continuous harmony with the ocean tide, something that seemed to excite my father every time. He wanted to document this finding on his camera. He instructed Brian and I to pose around it as living proof the Bickford’s had encountered the glorious Blow Hole. My brother and I had regretfully declined his invitation as we did not want to get sprayed and Maman was clever enough to encourage my Dad to pose instead. As a result, my father still tells the story with a huge smile, remembering the awful salty spray leading to an uncomfortable humid feeling inside his pants delivered by the exiting mist from the blowhole. He always finishes this story with a joyful giggle. Life is all about the special memories and I will never forget how much fun we had even though our plans were all improvised. The blow hole is a story to pass on to future generations.

Easter Island - The Land of Giants

My dream of visiting the land of the Moai came true at the end of 1991. The Bickfords began a Polynesian journey during the Christmas-New Years holidays. Before sharing the tale of our most excellent adventure, I will remain faithful to the structure of my publications by giving you a short background about this tiny dot on the map on the South Pacific. Easter Island - also knows as Rapa Nui or the Navel of the World - is a special Chilean territory annexed in 1888 and is the most remote inhabited island in the world. While we lived in Chile, this island was administrated by the V Region government out of Valparaiso. It appears that as of 2008, the island was negotiating to have its own government. I am not sure how that process is unfolding. Continental Chile is 3,510 km (2,180 mi) to the east and its closest inhabited neighbours live in the Pitcairn Island, only 2,075 km (1,289.35 mi) away. The remaining neighbours are a few uninhabited island such as the famous Robinson Crusoe Island and with its crustaceans and fish. The locals have endured a series of famines, epidemics, civil war, slave raids, colonialism and near deforestation. The island at the time of our visit housed a population of several thousand inhabitants predominantly of native origin. These people were traditionalist and proud of their roots.

The Bickfords at Rano Raraku and the Moai statues in the background

Upon our approach to our first Polynesian destination, we could see outside the window of the plane a mix of small hills and volcanic craters all along the almost barren island. The shortest airport runway I had ever seen was built on an incline in order for planes to land and take off without the need of a larger strip. The island itself was particularly small, covering an approximate area of 163 km² (or 63.1 square mi). The city of Toronto without taking into consideration the greater metropolitan area, accounts for an area of 630 km² (243.2 sq mi). In short, getting around the island was not a difficult task even when considering the tough natural terrain. My father had booked us on a tour from Santiago, so a representative was at the airport to greet us and take us to the hotel so we could settle in and leave our suitcases. I cannot recall much about the building or its name, but the guest rooms were very basic. The beds seemed similar to those one would find in a hospital and the walls were painted in a solid unfriendly gray. The windows were small. It was the kind of room that encouraged the guests to spend more time trekking through the local attractions and sights. This was exactly what we did. Our first day was primarily a scouting mission to see what was close to our hotel and the main village of Hanga Roa. We walked down to the airport, looked around the capital city in hopes to find a nice restaurant or a market. We did find a quaint artisan shop displaying many hand carved figurines and other souvenirs for passersby to take away a part of the island with them.

The following few days were dedicated to visiting various places throughout the small island. Our tour guide, a young local, came to pick us up early in the morning and he was equipped with either an amazing knowledge of history or a bunch of crafted fairy tales. I was not too concerned about the narration at the time as all I wanted to see were my Moai buddies that I had read about in school. It did not take long to spot the first ones once we were on our way in the tour van. I remember the excitement when that happened and announcing my finding to everyone accompanying us on our activities. These Moais are statues of human beings carved out of the abundant volcanic rock and can date back to the 1200s A.D. The main production centre the ancient tribes used was located inside a crater called Rano Raraku. The slopes of the dormant volcano are completely covered with finished monuments and others stuck in an eternal work in progress. It is difficult to imagine the tools such an isolated civilization could have used to carve the rough material as, aside from the Moai, no other constructions dated back to that same ancient era. What tools were they using for carving these magnificent giants? Why were they obsessed with creating so many of these replicas of man? What was the purpose of these giants? So many questions with answers lost in history. It is amazing to stand in front of these giants who cannot help explain their existence. Their curiously humongous heads are disproportionate to the size of their bodies and the observer can be left to wonder if this was simply an artistic touch or perhaps people came from a different gene pool from the one we are acquainted with today.

There are around 900 statues of different sizes located around the land and others were taken by foreigners to display throughout the world. When I visited the British Museum in London, England, I saw one on display and this brought back many lovely memories I hold of the Rapa Nui people. One of the tallest Moais we saw on this trip measured about 10 metres (33 ft) and weighted close to 80 tons. With such a sparcely populated island, it was difficult to imagine the ancient people moving these monuments from Rano Raraku to different places around the island. Perhaps they came from a similar gene pool as Arnold Schwarzenegger. Our guide mentioned that ancient people used palm tree trunks as rollers under each statue to move these across the island, a reason why there trees appeared to be close to non-existent throughout the island. This seemed a probable argument. Some of the monument building seemed to have been interrupted, such as the biggest structure that could have measured several times more than the biggest Moai. Some of the monuments also sported a classy pukao, which is an indigenous word for a hat. The pukao was also elaborated using volcanic rock. The giants seem to be attempting to communicate with the locals as most of these faced inland. There is only one set of Moais sitting on a large stone platform called ahu, facing outward toward the ocean. This powerful statement from the volcanic protectors was not explained through ancient legend, or at least no ancestor's version of the story survived the passing generations. The carvings and petroglyphs leave even further enigmas regarding the ancient culture or what event forced the abandonment of the projects.

Brian and I hanging out with a burried Moai

My family and I appreciated the many sights and we were convinced the time we had was sufficient to gather a full perspective on the island's hotspots. Along the rocky coastline, we settled for a quiet afternoon lunch in Anakena. This place was one of the only sandy beaches in the entire island and had two ahus with Moais protecting the access to the ocean. We sat with our tour group on North American-style picnic tables eating a bag lunch under the hot sun. Afterwards, we walked along the beach, also one of the few areas with palm trees, where Brian and I dipped out feet in the refreshing Pacific Ocean. As we enjoyed the cool water, Brian began looking through the sand searching for new items for his rock collection back home. Dad and I followed suit hoping we could find a great treasure for my brother. Maybe we could find a tiny Moai! During our scavenger hunt, Brian stepped on sharp coral cutting his toe and suddenly the ocean began to show some traces of red. Luckily, Maman was around to wash the wound with the salt water and patch it up with a cloth handkerchief. I remember walking next to Brian lending my shoulder for his support and balance. Maman said it was best he did not walk on the foot so the wound would not get dirty. She would be able to clean out his cut back at our hotel. She always traveled with an emergency kit. After Anakena, we would be off to rest at our hotel and continue onward on our Polynesian adventure. Our newly acquainted Moai friends had to remain behind, except for a small wooden one we bought at an artisan market. He currently watches over my parents' basement in Ottawa, Canada.

Terrorism Hits Home

In the early 1990s, as the military began to loosen its grip on the daily life of the Chilean population, leftist groups increase their level of activity. As is the case in several countries around the globe, Americans were often targeted for violence or intimidation. Over the past decades, US foreign policy has met with firm international opposition as the USA is perhaps the most visible power engaged in foreign conflicts. Many believe the Americans should limit their external involvement and desist from engaging in armed conflicts. When such governments take a major international role fostering international friendships become an uphill battle. Leftist movements such as the Movimiento Juvenil Lautaro and the Frente Patriotico Manuel Rodriguez were active in Chile and well known in the local diplomatic circles for their ideologies. These groups had organized strategic hits on US Embassy personnel, American military officers, Chilean politicians and other elements viewed as pro-American or Pinochet. Chilean security forces and their ranks remained unchanged from the Pinochet regime providing a loyal conservative right-wing opposition to the communist guerrilla. Their priorities still included fighting subversives and insurgency in order to demonstrate that the police and army could still enforce order at any cost.

The Chilean Carabineros

Members of the expat community were aware of the potential dangers of the ongoing left right struggle. Everyone eventually heard the horror stories through the grapevine rather than through the evening news. The country’s media was effectively managed in order to avoid spreading panic to their viewers. We were by no means living in a state of civil war but we had to be aware there were potential dangers. Many of the national newspapers, television channels and radio stations had been cleansed of left-wing personalities and were controlled by the upper class elite. These wealthy business entrepreneurs had supported the military government and had no interest in a return to the pre-coup socialist chaos. On rare occasions, we could hear a blast going off near our home followed by a power outage, a chain of events we were easily able to connect as cause and effect. Somehow, no news coverage could be found following these events as to what caused the blast or power failure. Both the MJL and the FPMR would take credit for their successful hits but their statements seemed to be burried deep in the Ministry of Interior. This was a perfect example of controlled access to the media and minor tweaking to freedom of speech ensuring minimal social collateral damage. This reminds me of one of the greatest riddles that used to circulate among my friends: “If a tree falls in middle of nowhere without a single person around to witness it, does it still make any noise?” In other words, if an event does not get media coverage did it just never happen?

Much of the unpublished news my family was able to obtain seemed to originate from the expat circles. I also heard interesting stories when I was older about some of the attacks in Santiago and remember these events in a similar fashion to the Pulp Fiction movie: many stories told in a different order making sense once all of these have been revisited. Among these stories is one my Dad shared with me about an attack on US military personnel as they exited the Embassy grounds. A leftist rebel, armed with an anti-tank rocket launcher waited across the street for the Americans’ vehicle to be in plain sight. Once the freedom fighter had the target locked, he opened fire shooting a rocket that pierced the thick windshield. Inside the vehicle sat two officers looking at the rocket which stared right back at them from the windshield and failed to detonate on impact. My father explained that some armaments require a significant distance between the target and the shooter in order for the explosives on the rocket to arm. In this instance, the weapon would not arm due to the short distance from the target, therefore, no ensuing detonation. Our American neighbours were extremely lucky the terrorist had not calculated an appropriate distance to his target and lived to share the tale of the failed assassination attempt. Others were not blessed with a similar fortune and regardless of their national origin or political allegiance, left families with a difficult wound to heal.

The event that hit closest to home happened during a softball game. The Americans in Santiago used to organize events for their nationals and Canadians were sometimes extended an invitation. This included a weekend amateur softball league comprised of various expat teams, from US Marines to Mormon missionaries, and Canada fielded a team that season. Some of the players were Canadian Embassy staff, others were business people or players’ friends. During my own competitive experience with these types of tournaments, the emphasis for Canadians seemed to be on enjoyment and camaraderie rather than becoming champions. Other teams gauge their aspirations in accordance to their common mentality, as there are always people who prefer winning as a means for having fun. Our Canadians were in action on a weekly basis yet my family and I never went to watch the games. My father did not seem to enjoy playing organized sports at the time either. In a match played on a weekend of November 1990, my family was enjoying a quiet weekend together in our Las Condes home. In the afternoon, a phone call came in for my Dad, which seemed to strike everyone as odd. Generally, my father was free on weekends and emergencies were usually attended by consular officers. He rushed off having been asked to go to a hospital yet he was not quite sure why that was. He knew a colleague, Pierre Alarie was among the people in the hospital and thought everything was quite weird. Pierre had a good level of Spanish to be able to handle any crisis.

Arial view of the American school of Santiago's grounds

My Dad explained later on that a bomb had gone off during the Canadian’s softball game, killing one Canadian player and injuring several Canadians and Americans. Apparently, a bomb had been planted in one of the aluminum bats used at the game. The bomb was intended to detonate during the following game where the US marine team had a game scheduled, but the Team Canada game had gone into extra innings. It appeared that an umpire had made a bad call or something of the sort, and had the Canadians riled up. They all left the bench to argue, except for a Canadian who sat in the bench next to the loaded bat and an American who was on deck warming up. Otherwise, perhaps more people would have died or suffered injuries. Pierre Alarie was hit by debris on the back of the head, Frank Arsenault had his foot injured by shrapnel and an American lost an eye. The Canadian who died was a friend of Pierre who was only visiting Chile trying to find business opportunities and was never meant to be in the game. No terrorist group seemed to take credit for the attack, my Dad thinks because the Canadians were not the targets and as a result, the police never thoroughly investigated the event. I knew the two injured Canadians and I remember this event changed the way I would look at them forever. I remembered both fondly and ran into Pierre while working in Mexico in the early 2000s who praised my father for all his support with the bomb in Santiago. Frank had retired and worked on contract in Guatemala, which I found out also through work and sent him an e-mail. Although I had no political allegiance when I was 9 years-old, I understood human suffering, especially when they were people close to the family.

A World Without Borders

The first two years in Santiago presented unique occasions for my parents to groom Brian and I into the youngest gentlemen. Canadians from coast to coast are generally friendly and welcoming people yet protocol and etiquette are becoming less important as a significant proportion of the population seem to label this behaviour as snobby. There is a smaller group of people who take the more extreme side, surrounding themselves with expensive goods and procuring lavish services, leading to their self-proclamation of belonging to a selected elite. These individuals generally associate quality with the associated price tag. My brother and I were raised in a manner to appreciate quality through use rather than cost and to respect our fellow human beings no matter their financial standing or place in society. We were extremely sociable and able to foster and maintain friendships with anyone who was willing and able to communicate with us. It is something that has allowed me to feel comfortable anywhere between a group of orphans with disabilities to a room filled with politicians and foreign dignitaries.

Maman, Mémé and I in front of La Moneda Palace

When receptions or cocktails were held in our private SQ, protocol dictated that the hosts were to remain at the entrance of the home or designated event location to greet guests. Protocol is actually not snobby but a universal set of procedures that ensure hosts and visitors are on equal footing in terms of respect for each other. On most of these occasions, Brian and I would sport our nicest clothes and stand next to our parents shaking hands with everyone. How many young children play this host role, welcoming people at their front door with a “how do you do?” We were to add a “pleased to meet you” after each introduction. Sometimes, embassy staff that knew us would share a friendly comment or two with Brian and I. In Santiago, Brian and I had conquered the hearts of many of the Embassy, as most who had children were either teens or older. We were still in the cute bracket. In some way we were the Embassy’s children. The usual procedure after the welcoming ritual would include a brief meet and greet or standing next to our parents listening to what the grown-ups had to say. This was an extremely useful skill to acquire as it allowed me to understand how the diplomatic game works and some of the specific jargon. As soon as the guests were called to dinner, Brian and I would excuse ourselves, retiring to the kitchen for our meal and resume our evening quietly on our own. On some special occasions, our guests would be treated to the musical delight of the young Bickford duo on the piano.

Living in a rich and homogenous environment provided excellent opportunities for Brian and I to adopt certain Chile cultural aspects. However, we were also exposed to a multicultural environment due to adult expats yearning to find a piece of home in their new posting through other people and families in the same situation. Throughout my personal experiences, I have generally found expats can be divided into two quite different groups. The first of these are those who are excited about the new adventure and learning experiences of leaving their home country. These individuals are generally fascinated by the overall change in their lifestyle and begin to adopt elements of the local lifestyle. In some cases these people do not forget where they are from but tend to feel more at home in their host country. The other side of the expat persona is the complete opposite. Change has not been kind to them as they keep searching for elements of home in the new country and cannot find them. They resent everything the host country stands for and cannot relate to the locals. They dream of the day they can return home. I have seen both cases but I favour the first. I seem to thrive with change, as it is a process of self-discovery and enjoy meeting people who are open to sharing their life experiences. Each and every person experiences life from a different perspective and one day their knowledge or your own could prove useful.

I did not establish a preference for Chileans, Canadians or any other expat. I grew up understanding the existence of geographical borders. Yet I had a blend of cultures between my Chileans and everyone else. Within my family itself, I already had a rich cultural diversity, with English, Welsh, French, Spanish, Belgian and perhaps other nationalities the further I trace back my bloodline. I have family in Canada, England, France, Italy, Mexico, Spain and the United States and, of course, the friends I met down the road that became my adopted family. Expats have one common uniting element: being away from home. My parents met through official functions politicians, diplomats and business people from many different professional backgrounds and countries. The expat circle is in some cases a close community and as such, Brian and I began making friends our age from Argentina, Belgium, Canada, Denmark, France, Germany, New Zealand, Spain, Switzerland, and perhaps other countries that I may be forgetting to mention. To those who may read this and I have not mentioned. I apologize, but rest assured you have a special place in my memory and heart. I remember Brian and I had developed a strong friendship with the Ambassador of New Zealand’s daughters who spoke excellent Spanish, but they were my first English-speaking friends at that age. We seemed to run into the Kiwi family out of pure coincidence on some of our trips outside Santiago as well. I was greatly intrigued with their unique accent that seemed somewhat similar to Mick Dundee, yet at the same time somewhat different.

Standing guard over Santiago wearing my Canada cap

As Brian and I continued our immersion in these diverse cultures, we realized how important our behaviour was when relating to other people, young and old, as we were representing our country. We wanted Canada, whether Canada was a person or an entire population, to be proud of us. Last year, I remember receiving a Facebook friend request last year from my friend and former classmate, Stephane Simon, from back in the Santiago days that referred to me as the Canadian friend. It was quite an honour to remain in someone’s memory as a representation of a whole country. As a result of such cross-cultural bonding, I developed a sense of empathy for newcomers, trying to assist them in their adjustment to a new home. I had befriended a South African kid, who I remember quite well. He was about 2 years younger than my classmates and myself, but I took him under my wing. Stephane had also joined in. We included him in our activities and hoped he felt  part of the group. My Chilean friends had also led by example exhibiting an incredible reception from the first day I set foot in the Alliance. I continue to this day extending a hand in friendship acquired in Chile hoping to help people transition to the temporary environment I call home.

A Special Visit

Be away from family can be perhaps one of the toughest aspects of living abroad for an extended period of time. Brian and I missed bonding with our grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins on a regular basis. These are special relationships that we were better able to establish once we were older and able to communicate at a much deeper level. In a given year, there are approximately 52 weeks and generally 2 weeks a year were dedicated to visiting my father and mother's families. The remaining weeks were spent in our assigned country. International travel was significantly more expensive than it currently is (some argue prices are still very high) and the availability of credit was not as widespread as it is now, therefore air travel was an expensive venture. Our visits to our family were important as nobody seemed to have the ability to come to see us. There was however one great exception: my Mémé. She was my maternal grandmother and she had been widowed since 1984. She loved to travel, especially to see her foreign grandkids, Brian and I. She did not get to enjoy us as much as she wanted due to our 3 year rotations from one country to another. It was always a highlight when she came to stay with us, generally for a few months, yet  it never seemed to be long enough. She was the kind of guest you never wanted to leave. She had spent some time with us during our Caracas posting, but I seem to remember more her Santiago trip. I must say having her in our lives was a great blessing.

We gave Mémé a grand tour of all the hotspots in the nation's capital and other points of interest we were familiar with such as Farrellones, Santa Teresa de los Andes, Valparaiso and the quiet paradise we knew as Reñaca. Most of her time with us was spent in the big smoke. We resumed our regular routines making some adjustments to ensure we maximized the enjoyment of our special guest. During our school hours, she was able to spend quality time with her daughter (my Maman) that she did not get to see regularly since she married my Dad, beginning the exciting life of a diplomat's wife. My mother's family had been very close and seeing her mom was a great way to reconnect. There is always something special when you have that connection with family, the kind that feels comforting just having that person close to you. It makes a great difference. In the evening, as soon as Brian and I would arrive home, we ran into the house racing to find Mémé and used any excuse to be next to her. We sat beside her to chat, brought our toys to play close to her or even did our homework in her company. She had been a great support and thanks to her, I learned my multiplication tables at the speed of light. All of a sudden I was able to multiply mentally without the aid of a calculator from the terrible 2s to 12 times 12. She helped me memorize poems for school and she was encouraging as she knew there was nothing impossible for her grandchildren. Something she continuously mentioned remained engraved in my memory: "Only dumb people have trouble." This became one of my many mottos until recently.

My father had bought a beautifully hand-crafted guitar with an artistic leather case in one of his many Paraguay trips and now was the perfect opportunity to give Mémé her present. My Pépé had his own classic guitar and mastered it, but since he passed away, my grandmother began to teach herself. She was a wonderful musician and I am sure if she would have had more time to spare during her youth, she would have invested more time in the hobby. As far as I was told by my mother and her sister, my Aunt Annie, she was busy taking care of her family and seemed to be able to perform almost any task. Both my Maman and Tati Annie have inherited this amazing quality and I like to think her grandchildren as well. We had a piano at home as Brian and I had taken up this hobby and Mémé liked to play a song on it I later learned was from Xavier Cugat. I believe the melody was called "Cocktail Para Dos". She had a great ear for music and my mom told me my grandmother had never taken music lessons. She had a good ear. My parents were supportive regarding her musical ambitions and hired a teacher to help her pursue her enjoyment of the Spanish guitar. She began to learn some notes (which she later taught me when I bought my own guitar as a teenager) and classic Chilean folk songs such as "El Chilote Marino" and "La Petaquita". Brian and I joined her during her lessons to watch her play and sing along to the new songs.

Las Condes, the neighbourhood used to be primarily made up of private homes. I have not returned since, but our area in Apoquindo appears to have been converted into apartment buildings (based on newer pictures). The area was safe and great for evenings strolls. There were great shopping destinations such as the Centro Comercial Caracol, Toyland and Apoquindo. In time, Mémé became very acquainted with our part of the world having accompanied us to all of them. She joined us on our Sunday mornings walks to our Church off a neat traffic circle called Ronda La Capitania. Sometimes, my brother and I would sneak out after we had communion to join some local kids at the nearby park to play soccer. We thought we were so clever, but we kept getting caught every weekend. On our walks with Mémé, we also claimed a small gelato and water-based desserts joint called Pavarotti as our favourite place, which she always remembered fondly. She also loved Parque Los Dominicos. Doing justice to its name, there was a small park in the shape of a half-moon and at the end of this park, a small handicraft village. Some stores stocked antiques but our point of interest was a store where collectors could purchase stamps and coins. This place had served in the past as a mission for priests and monks of the order of St. Dominic. Everywhere we went with her created new special memories that we would always cherish, even after our days in Chile.

Brian and I became accustomed to having our grandmother around. She was part of every day life: waking up, arriving home from school, going to the movies, dining out, everything. Life had taken a new turn after a few months of our family bubble when, before we knew it, we were all five of us in our Citroen returning to the Arturo Merino Benitez International Airport. She was heading home. This was never an easy moment every time it happened. As a child, it felt like an eternity until the next time I would see her. Weeks were like years. We would miss her animated laugh, her great company and her guitar. The regular routine was making its way back and our communication with our Mémé would once more remain limited to snail mail. We waited in the departures terminal - those days there was a lounge where people could sit to watch their loved-ones planes take off - to make sure her plane left without inconvenience and in the event there was any we were there. I remembered hoping her flight would be cancelled or delayed so we could get another few minutes with her. We saw her plane taxi and take off, with a tear in our eye and a certain emptiness as we stayed behind. Everyone returned to their respective duties as if her visit had only been a long wonderful dream. We had to face reality and continue living on as the Fab Four.

The Alto Paraná and the Iguaçu Falls

Most of Paraguay is sparsely populated and most of the settlements are inhabited by Guaraní natives. I had an incredible opportunity to visit a few of these villages with my parents and my brother. One of the indigenous villages I recall fondly was receiving Canadian development funds for a duck ranch project. Upon our arrival in our diplomatic jeep accompanied by the Consul, Bernardo Weibe, everyone in the town came out to greet us. They had been expecting our visit for some time and were excited to show the Canadians their progress. They were attentive to my brother and I ensuring both of us felt welcome among them. The locals gave us a tour of the village, the enclosures where the ducks were kept and explained the breeding process. The possible income return would be designated to improving the quality of life for the entire community. They praised Canada's involvement yet had no idea where these generous gringos came from. This was a moment of great pride for me as a Canadian. After the tour, the women of the village had prepared a meal for us, knowing we had a long trip ahead. They prepared some of their local dishes: the famous sopa paraguaya and some gray sausages with a peculiar consistency. As we sat on our chairs in an open area at the centre of the village surrounded by every Guarani man, woman and child, all watching us hoping we would approve of their cooking. Whether we liked the food or not, we knew we had to eat, smile and swallow. We did not want to offend our generous hosts who probably had to dig in to their own rations to feed their guests, so we managed our best to consume their food. Once we finished our meal, we thanked our new friends for their hospitality and proceed eastward, continuing our adventure.

The Itaipu Dam challenging the mighty Paraná River

As we bounced around country roads with barely any passing traffic, the countryside took on a familiar jungle-like vegetation. I remember the song Welcome To The Jungle by Guns N' Roses was playing on our car stereo. Bernado's son had given Brian and I the newest GNR tape, Appetite for Destruction, still a timeless classic. We were heading to pay homage to the majestic Paraná River, dividing Paraguay and Brazil. This river is South America's second longest after the mighty Amazonas, extending some 4800 km. As we continued down the road, small farms and communities revealed themselves as we approached Hernandarias in the Alto Paraná region on the Paraguayan side. As we drove through this town, Bernardo explained that this place served as a labour force during the construction phase of the landmark we were about to visit only a few minutes away. Otherwise, the community consisted of farmers, artisans and other local merchants that conducted most of their business in Ciudad del Este, Paraguay. Most of the agricultural goods produced in the area included corn, mint, wheat, cotton and yerba mate. The latter is a tradition all in its own, particularly enjoyed by Argentines, Brazilians (primarily in the South), Chileans, Paraguayans and Uruguayans. The mate ritual is quite simple. First step: preparation. Never use boiling water or boil the leaves. Water must be hot. Proceed to pour the hot water on the leaves and let it simmer for a bit. This allows for the water and leaves to mix. After this, you may add sugar or honey if you do not like the bitter taste on its own. Sweet syrups should be avoided because they do not mix well. Now you are ready for the second part: the presentation. Tea is served preferably in a gourd called mate (sometimes the gourd is made out of hard leather, although there are more posh versions in silver) and sucked through a metal straw, usually referred to as a bombilla. Part three: consumption. The idea of this tea is to drink it among friends in a social setting. Conservation is not subject specific, but enjoying the company along with the tea is an important part of the ritual. A key for positive conversation: never talk about politics, religion or money. These conversations always lead to arguments. Often times, Argentines drink mate while playing an entertaining game called truco. I first fell in love with the mate culture through my Argentine friends during my undergraduate studies in Ottawa.

Beyond the town of Hernandarias lay the Itaipu dam on the Paraná River. This massive mega structure was a joint undertaking between Paraguayans and Brazilians. The need for this dam arose in the 1970s as Brazil's population had grown exponentially and so did the energy consumption. Rio de Janeiro and Sao Paulo, two of the three biggest South American cities, were already densely populated, but such progress and improvement in the quality of life enticed further immigration to these metropolises. The Brazilian government opted out of increasing the importation of further energy products, preferring to create  sustainable and dependable sources of energy. The Paraná River, particularly in the Itaipu region, was deemed an ideal location for creating an immense hydroelectric dam tapping the natural energy of the river flow. Just to provide you with a general idea of the importance of this facility, as of 2008, this dam alone supplied 90% of Paraguay and close to 19% of Brazil's energy markets. The construction of the dam – the world’s largest hydroelectric power plant until 2009, when the Three Gorges Dam in China took the prestigious number 1 rank - involved a great deal of bilateral negotiation. As Paraguay and Brazil revised acceptable flooding procedures and limits of the Paraná valley, Buenos Aires showed up to the bargaining table in alarm. The Argentines were concerned that a rise of the Parana river would increase the water levels of the River Plate, in turn flooding Buenos Aires, South America's second largest urban centre. All concerns regarding water levels, compensation for displaced people (many would see their homes disappear and were forced to relocate elsewhere) and construction targets were addressed, attempting to ensure a proper compromise. Upon our 1991 visit, the dam was already operational and the completed concrete monster was a monument to the hard work of thousands of Paraguayans and Brazilians alike. I was particularly inspired by two nations coming together to undertake a mutually beneficial project overlooking a long history of wars and rivalry.

Our plans proceeding the Itaipu dam included a brief pit stop across to Brazil. I remember feeling joy as I was returning to the country that was my first home, and listening to my first language once more. We were going to stay overnight in the village of Foz do Iguaçu, about 20 km South of Itaipu. Our accommodations were modest but in contrast to most of the area, it was a 5 star hotel. This did not seem to bother me in the least as I was blinded by excitement about being "home". It did not occur to me that my actual Brazilian home, Brasilia, was actually about 1,700 km away from where I was standing. Home is where the heart is as it is said. That night, Bernardo's plans were for our group to head out for a Brazilian dinner - Brazilian dishes were something I could not picture in my mental gourmet glossary, except for garotos and pão de queijo. I was hanging around the lobby with my Dad at our rendez-vous point and I approached the hotel receptionist to catch up on the latest current events in my country. He was extremely friendly and we began chatting about Formula One races. All I could think of on the subject was the brave Ayrton Senna, one of Brazil's most famous sons. He had won three Formula One Championships during his career until meeting a tragic end to his young life in an fatal accident during the 1994 San Marino Championship. I never had been a fan of watching cars whizzing by in a closed circuit, but as my fellow compatriot was so enthused, I felt I had to share his passion. I did not have enough time to build an everlasting bond with the receptionist as our conversation had been interrupted by our soirée. I cannot remember what we ate at the restaurant that night, which is odd, but I remember there was live entertainment. These were the happy people I remember hearing so much about. While some got up to dance samba to the beat of the animated band, others sat to enjoy their food and watch the show. You should never feel embarrassed that you do not have the right moves for dancing. In Brazil, all that matters is that you move and smile. Dance is for fun, not to impress anyone.

Young me posing in front of the Iguaçu Falls

In the morning, nearby the village of Foz do Iguaçu, the Parana River is broken by a major natural phenomenon and tourist attraction where the town gets its name: Iguaçu Falls. Here the waterfalls and river divide Brazil's Paraná region and Misiones, Argentina. The actual land formation separated the river into a network of over 200 waterfalls of different shapes and sizes. The largest is named the Devil's Throat. Easy to remember that name. The Guaraní natives were people of stories and legends and had these for many elements of life, including the waterfalls. The story is a little fuzzy in my mind, you can probably find it online as most things are these days, but the creation came about through an enraged God's desire for revenge on a mortal's betrayal. Regardless, watching this natural wonder and nature's grandeur was story enough for me. There is a certain similar sensation that you can feel inside while observing Niagara Falls and the hypnotism of the ebb and flow of the millions of liters of water. My Niagara Falls experience felt this way when I first visited in the early 1990s, but Iguaçu felt more genuine due to the lack of huge casinos, towering hotels and amusement parks. Sometimes, the greatest part of nature is having the least foreign elements around as they only create a distraction from true breath-taking beauty. As we concluded our visit to the national park and left Brazil behind again, I felt a certain heartache for leaving my country. The day of our departure from Paraguay to Santiago was getting closer by the minute and I felt very weird - for lack of a better word. I was leaving Brazil which was "home" once in my life, to go back "home" to Chile, yet "home" was supposed to be Canada. Either way, I loved the trip and was anxious to tell all my friends back in school.

Paraguay - Asunción, The Heart of the Chaco

On the Eastern edge of the Gran Chaco plains embalmed in a hot semi-arid climate, lies Asunción, Paraguay. Paraguay borders Argentina, Bolivia and Brazil and they are the small country's major trading partners. It is a tiny landlocked country with an approximate population of 6.3 million inhabitants, predominantly of mestizo origin - people of mixed European and Native ancestry. There are also several indigenous settlements throughout the country and a small Mennonite community with some allegiance to Canada. My father traveled regularly on official visits there as our embassy's jurisdiction in Chile extended to include Paraguay. Canada's official representation in the capital city was through a consulate dealing primarily with assisting Canadian nationals acting as a post office box for development, immigration and trade enquiries which were handled by Santiago . Santiago undertook political duties. I first visited Asunción in 1991, during Brian and my winter break from school. I was excited about visiting this country and uncovering their traditions, accents, and languages. It is the only officially bilingual country in South America, with the recognized languages being Spanish and Guaraní, the proud Chaco warriors mother tongue. The Paraguayan National Football teams usually communicates on the pitch in Guarani as the language does not resemble that of any of its regional rivals.

Flag of Paraguay, adopted in 1988 from similar adaptations

During our time in Asuncion, we stayed at the Hotel Guarani, a great central location  with a spectacular view of the Paraguay River from the window of our room. The elegant decor and pricey amenities remain a bargain as the cost of living there is relatively cheap compared to many other places in the world. I recall initially being in shock as I searched through the mini-bar item list and every item on it was valued in the thousands in the domestic currency, also named the Guaraní. Of course, being a 10 year-old boy and with both my parents providing for a responsible lifestyle, I did not understand the concept alue of exchange rates. I was familiar with the Chilean peso, the Paraguayan Guarani, the US dollar, but rates were a tough concept to grasp. As I continued to investigate prices, I decided against enjoying the services provided by our tiny fridge. I did not want to bring recession to the family finances. Upon taking to the streets around our hotel, I  noticed the local money was secondary in merchant exchange as most vendors and shopkeepers gladly accepted US cash. If there was some component of English in the local culture, it was the American dollar. I suppose that during our visit to the Chaco nation, inflation could have being alarmingly high and devaluating the currency that a more stable one was welcome. I had never seen a foreign currency so widely in use anywhere else in the past.

Shopping in Paraguay was another bargain. People would come from neighbouring countries to purchase leather jackets, artisan handicrafts.The copyright laws were flexible. The country had a reputation for quality imitations and stolen items for sale. The shops surrounding the hotel had their own exceptional flair. Most of the businesses appeared to be managed by Koreans immigrants - a significant Korean diaspora was established between 1975 and 1990 - who could barely communicate with us in Spanish. I wondered if their Guarani was any better. They carried all sorts of interesting merchandise and gadgets. My parents bought two small radios for Brian and I to enjoy our cassettes as we had begun to acquire a taste for Guns N' Roses, MC Hammer, Roxette and Vanilla Ice. Poke fun all you like but we all had our guilty pleasures. My Maman and Dad were not counting on the poor manufacturing standards at the time of these emerging industrial Asian powers, but the radios did not last long after we had returned home. Other nearby stores sold popular video games for consoles such as Atari and Nintendo and Brian and I found Ninja Gaiden. Every kid dreamed of owning this game. My father had spotted an obscure Sumo Wrestling game and purchased it as a great addition to our gaming collection. The fun part of these games was plugging them into our console and the dialogue and text was in Japanese. The Sumo game itself was impossible to understand, seemed never ending but provided many laughs.

Street vendors, a common factor in most major urban centres throughout Latin America, were abundant in Asuncion. The Paraguayans were incredible salespeople. You could see a guy standing on a street corner selling leather jackets and as soon as it began to rain, he would instantly replace his stock with umbrellas and rain coats. What an amazing talent. On one of our recon walks around the city, a man approached us in an attempt to sell us wristwatches. He was offering Cartier, Longines, Rolex and other high scale brands at blow out prices. At first glance, it was easy to notice the watches were esthetically pleasing imitations. It was difficult to determine if the craftsmanship regarding the internal mechanisms was of superior quality. This aspect is a key bargaining tool with the salesperson. The law of the town was negotiation. Sticker prices were non-existent. If you end up paying $25 USD for a watch on the street, you would (become a so-called)be branded a "sucker". My generous father bought us each a fabulous cheap watch which we wore immediately. I was so happy with mine and could not keep from  checking the time every step I took. I cannot remember what brand imitation it was, but it was digital and even had a marking stating it was waterproof. However, once we were in our hotel to clean-up for dinner, I remember washing my hands in the bathroom before heading out wearing my brand new accessory, and it turned out not to be waterproof. I was so disappointed.

Maman, Brian and I in front of the Palacio de los Lopez

Most of the population resided in humble abodes but were proud hard-working people. We observed this while making our way to visit many of the principal city attractions. The Palacio de los Lopez is the official seat of national government and the workplace of the president. This beautiful white colonial building was surrounded by peaceful well-maintained gardens and bushes crafted into small spheres. I imagine my father must have entered this palace when accompanying the Canadian ambassador to present his credentials to the President Andrés Rodríguez. Visitors to this city could also walk down Calle Palma, where Spanish colonial buildings still stand for history buffs to absorb. I thought the architecture was quite spectacular and welcomed local and foreign pedestrians alike. The former Asuncion Central Train Station was another location not to miss. It had become almost a railway museum where most trains were outdated wood-burning relics from the late 1800s. They ran passengers and freight South to the Argentine border. They were extremely expensive to maintain yet amusing to watch. Most commercial and industrial transportation was taken over by boats and trucks. Lastly, we spent some time reacquainting with the animal kingdom in the zoo. My most notable memory was a large bird who seemed to hold the world record for leaving its manure in the same huge pile.