Anne Waite

Lake Stevens High School

Lake Stevens, WA

Sights

a pink-snow sunset on the Andes

a mochi swirling urine in the sunlight

sea birds skimming the waves, riding the updrafts without boards

the barnacle beak of the pico roco grasping the air for food that will not arrive

Sounds

steel-drum cadence of the gas truck winding its way through the maze of Valparaiso

our peals of laughter on a city bus that came as close to approximating a roller coaster as possible

Raul and David, guitar and churrango, our voices in harmony

the echoing, stamping, clapping and calls of the Cueca

the voice of the tour guide from Hell

"dos cuadras mas"

Textures/feelings

angora wool sweaters

heavy smog descending over the city

potos cuadrados after hours in the van

40 page thick charla of a well-meaning Chilean historian

velvety black sky dotted with millions of stars in unfamiliar constellations

sensation of the waves through the window of Isla Negra, while yet on dry land

Tastes

Pisco Sour Nescafe Mariscos and more mariscos

Magnums Murta tortes Charcoal grills of the parrillada

My lucuma birthday cake

Salty tears of loss, of mirth, of wonder

Nancy Howard

Escuela Latona

Seattle, WA

Tela Chilena

Alargadas las hilasde la urdimbre

pero escasas

Acortadas las hilas de la trama

pero abundantes

Esbelta cinta tejida de arena, bosques,

valles y montanas,

Al escurrirla el mar y la cordillera,

El agua se exprime al sur en lluvias, lagos,

rios y pantanos

Dejando solo desierto al norte.

Jeanne Finley

Thomas Academy

Kent, WA

If I were to make a movie of my impressions of Chile I would set the characters in different regions of the country, capturing the unique and individual beauty of each distinct place. The camera would pan the lunar landscape of the Atacama, the concrete jungle of Santiago, and the emerald pastures and verdant, lush forests of the South. The sound track would evoke the clipped Castellano of Chileans, the percussion of raindrops on a tin roof, and the endless ebb and flow of urban traffic. The movie would tell the stories of people who make their livings from the sea, from paychecks, and from just getting by. It would reflect the distinctions of each pueblo, city and region and of the people who live there. But like the cellophane ribbon uniting the millions of still images, the passions, customs and hopes that Chileans do share would tie the stories together. These are my impressions of Chile, but this is not my movie. With absolute joy I sat in an old movie theatre in Santiago watching "Las historias de futbol," a film by Andres Wood. Now as I prepare to leave this country, I wish I could carry a copy of this film home with me to show everyone and to tell them, "This is Chile."