Today I learned how to put together a panorama

 This is Llifen, the town where I am currently living in Southern Chile.  Clicking on the image will enlarge it.

 

 

This is a view from the summit of my hike last weekend.  The Villiage of Llifen can be seen on the lake shore at the left of the photo.

 This photograph is from last year.  It was taken in the desert mountains behind Alto Hospicio, the city that can been seen between the two hills in the mid-ground of the photo.  This is in the North of Chile.

 2012. Hornopiren, Southern Chile.

2012.  Sunsent at the shore of the Pacific in Estaquilla, Southern Chile.

View of Llifen from the Small Hill

It is such an odd and wonderful thing; that in the vast expanse of time not only does life exist, but we of humanity have the intellect to contemplate our place and meaning within it. There is so much beauty in the world.  How lucky are we who have the opportunity to appreciate it and the heart to recognize it!

Another View of Llifen

Yesterday I experienced what was probably the most grueling and intense outdoor experience of my life.  It was a feat of endurance such that had it been my first time mountain climbing, I would have certainly been overcome.  I would have sat down on the trail and refused to go any farther.  The only thing is that there was nowhere to sit down.  It was a 5 hour ascent, with the angle almost never dropping below 45 degrees.  Though mostly dense forest, the summit of the mountain was an almost vertical crag of brittle rock, about 50m high. 

Here are some pictures, in no particular order:

The following to pictures are the same, but the second one is zoomed in on the center of the first picture.  The second picture shows the village of Llifen in more detail.

Finger of Death

First, check out this recording: It's of a piece I composed for the New Brunswick Chamber Orchestra.  I recieved the recording the other day.

The school at Llifén has but one small problem: the view out the classroom windows.  For the majority of today, and this week, my job is to observe my head teacher and assist where needed.  As soon as I sit down , I look outside and my mind fast drifts to the forests of the distant steep mountains I see out the window.  The view is incredible.  The school sits on a small hill, and in the immediate foreground there is a fenced in courtyard with stone pathways.  The ivy on the fence obscures the houses immediatley beyond, but farther on, one can see the corrugated metal roofs of homes on the side of the hill, and the tops of trees that mark the summits of hills.

Looking farther still, about 2km ahead lies a deforested hill with light green grass and sparse patches of dark green trees and shrubs.  Sometimes it looks like there are cattle on that hill and I wonder what the cattle do when they are on the other side of the hill.  How large is their pasture?  I cannot see the part that lies beyond the hilltop.    On all sides of this small rolling hill are steep and tall hills...to me they look as small mountains...with vertical rock faces scarred from years of erosion by hardy scrubs and running water.  These small mountains roll on and on as far as the eye can see, high enough to stop low clouds.

Most tremendous of all is the mountain on the immediate right view of the window, which towers over the town such that it is impossible to see in its entirety from any window in the school.  Though some trees in the foreground block large areas of the mountain, there are still so many precipices populated with singly visible trees, vast rock faces, and thick sections of forest, that it constantly draws  my eye.  I wonder if I could climb up it.  I'm sure I will try before the last exhale of summer passes in the coming weeks.  The view from the top--of the town, other mountains, the lake, is sure to be breath taking.

Yesterday Matio, the youngest son in the house, walked with me to the shores of the lake.  It was a long walk but on the way we passed abundant blackberry bushes and apple trees.  My left hand was filled with mushy blackberries whose sweet juice stained my hands and slipped between my fingers to land on my left pant leg.  I was wearing white pants but I didn't care.  The berries were too sweet.

The road we walked down curved and the pavement stopped.  A sign notified pasajeros that the beach was not safe for swimming.  The dirt road meandered down the side of the hill to the beach and on both sides of us there was a tall iron fence that clearly demarcated the land of one of the town's affluent seasonal denizens.

The dirt road terminated at the rocky shores of the lake.  Sun was setting on the horizon and a slight breeze pressed water against the shore.  Mountains are all around, and to the left a cliff meets the lake.  We walk to the right.  about 50ft into the water there are delapidated wood pilings that may have been a dock some years ago, but the water is shallow and they are too high to be a dock.  Perhaps there was a house here that fell into the lake.  The shore is also littered with small wooden boats, green, white, and yellow, chained to rocks.  With the sun setting, it is beautiful.  The beach is also a sentimental place for Matio.  His cousin is the reason for the sign at the dirt path.  On the day of his cousin's 15th birthday, he swam too far into the lake.  He never came back.  My spanish is bad, but it doesn't matter.  All I can say is sorry.

Welcome to Llifen

Welcome to Llifén.  I arrived here, where I will be living for the next six months, yesterday.  The bus from Santiago rode through the rain all night and when I looked out the window there was nothing to be seen but black night and rainwater streaking across the window.  As day broke I could see tops of trees on the road side, sharply delineated black masses against a twilight background.

Twilight gave way to overcast skies.  Soon I was in Futorno, the city nearest to rural Llifén and the end of the bus route.  The bus came to a stop, and outside I saw three smiling faces.  Carolina, my head English teacher, Veronica, my host mother, and Sandra, the Director of the school.  I was delirious from the sleepless bus ride and my Spanish terrible, but saludos were made and soon we were in the car passing down winding hilly roads with vast fields and mountains on the left, and water on the right that disappeared into a distant fog.  Sandra and Veronica sat in front, Carolina and I in the back.

Carolina spoke English very well.  She was young--about my age--and with black hair, tan skin, and a pronounced jawline.  It's also her first year teaching in Llifen, she told me.  In fact, she moved here only a week ago from Valdivia.  She told me that her friend, the former English Teacher, had requested a volunteer from the English Opens Doors Program, but had moved on to another job.  So this will be her first time working with a volunteer.  She told me that the school is new and the classes are small.  I will also have my own classroom, she says.  She assured me that the students are well behaved.  We both feel optimistic about the coming months.  We will be learning much together.

We pull into a driveway with a sign that says "Hostal," about a block away from the school.  I can't believe this is where I'll be living.  I feel very lucky.  It is a beautiful home with manicured landscaping, a generous patio, and a detached restaurant building.  I remove my bags from the trunk of the car and thank Sandra for coming to pick me up.  She leaves and Veronica, Carolina and I remain.

The three of us walk into the house through the side door, entering the kitchen. Veronica speaks no English but I manage to be polite, fumbling around in Spanish while we sit down and have a typical Chilean breakfast of Nescafe, bread rolls, sliced cheese, etc.  We hit it off well.  Veronica and Carolina talk--quickly--and I try to keep up.  One of Veronica's daughters enters the room.  She speak English well.  Good to have a translator in the house if need be.

After breakfast I head upstairs and go to sleep.

Today, among other things, I walked around the lake.  Here are some more pictures taken around Llifén: