La Vida Idealist

The street performers board the bus. Smiling broadly, they greet the passengers, thank them for their time, and begin the routine.

People grumble and look on warily, digging in their pockets for monedas, and at the end they resignedly fork over a big coin or a small one, depending on the originality of the act.

As in most cities, street performers in Santiago are par for the course. At best they are seen as raggamuffins, at worst as criminals. Most are young, not only making a living, but also living on the streets. For this they are outcast and stereotyped as drug addicts.

Based on the number of local projects in Santiago to rehabilitate street youth (Corporación Nuestra Casa and Corporación la Esperanza are two that are currently looking for volunteers) it’s clear that this stereotype is partially based in truth. But what overwhelms it is the originality and relevance of the messages these jovenes send. If street youth are an integral part of city life, their stories are an honest and unapologetic reflection of the city’s reality.

After months commuting on the trans-Santiago bus system, four performances have found a place in my heart:

When I was newly-arrived to Chile and still reeling a bit from my continental adjustment, I got on the bus with a map and a mission to get lost and find my way home again (my favorite getting-my-bearings activity). Soon after a man and his guitar boarded the bus and started singing Mercedes Sosa’s “Todo Cambia.” I had never heard the song before, but he sang it with such haunting nostalgia that I felt like he was talking directly to me about my ever-changing life.

One particularly chilly Tuesday I was about to hop off the bus at my home stop when a pair of guys stepped on board, instruments in hands. In an effort to avoid my unheated apartment and the pile of laundry lurking there, I stayed to listen. They introduced themselves as members of the group Andinamo (a name, they told me after, which plays on their Andean-influenced sound and their mission to raise the ánimo (spirits) of their audience). There’s nothing like the vibes of La Pachamama coming through a rendition of “Dust in the Wind.”

The night before the Chile-España World Cup game, the energy in the city was buzzing. Feeding off of this (and more than a few bottles of vino, I think), two boys donned cheesy checkered suits, bowler hats, and fake moustaches and acted the part of empassioned sports announcers. They growled, spat, shouted, grunted, and cheered (GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!) their way through the last 15 minutes of what they projected (tragically, erroneously) to be an agonizingly close victory for Chile. They managed to crack smiles on each and every one of the zombie commuter faces.

The last was a band of young rappers whose lyrics and rhythm were their own, and who relied only on mouth tricks and foot taps on the floor to keep their beat. They, of all the informal artists I have seen, looked most the part of the troubled street gang. But their five-minute lyrical dialogue did a convincing job of proving that these lost boys were much more than matted hair and tattered jeans. When they could have been panhandling or pick-pocketing, there they were, singing to make their buck.

Their chorus: “Apoyamos al arte/Y no al delincuencia.” We support art/Not crime.

Kati Mayfield is a Kiva Fellow who is working in Santiago, Chile at Fundacíon Esperanza.

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