Glimpse - Your Stories from Abroad

When I told my Chilean friends that I wanted to meet a Gypsy, they looked at me in shock. They told me that Gypsies steal, rarely bathe, sleep on the floor, and cannot be trusted. Even my matter-of-fact American friend confessed to me that she would not go near a Gypsy because of a hair-raising experience she had four years ago in Spain. A Gypsy read her palm and foretold that my friend would become very sick, that her long-term boyfriend would cheat on her, and that her mother would die. One year later, my friend was certain the Gypsy had cursed her; all three dire predictions had come true.

But I didn’t believe in curses, fortune-telling, or spells. To me, it seemed more probable that people simply feared difference.

Certainly, Gypsies stand out. Reading people's fortunes for a living and dressing in long gowns, their meager existences exemplify the worst of Chilean poverty. Despite their presence in Chile for multiple generations, they continue to be considered foreign in their own country.

When I researched Gypsy culture and history, I was shocked by the paucity of written information on the subject. My research revealed only skeletal information: Gypsies had managed to survive for centuries and remained united by race and culture despite scattering themselves into separate clans around the globe. I wanted to know more.

I met Susana Olivares and her mother on Avenida Peru in the town of Viña Del Mar. About my age, 19, Susana wore a long skirt and had large, turquoise eyes encircled in thick, black eyeliner. With a strong Argentinean accent, her mother, who had dyed-blond hair, said she would let us talk. But it was a strict business arrangement: We had to make a deal. I pressed a crisp bill into her daughter's hand, and in return, Susana offered me a small dried herb she promised would bring me luck.

Susana's mother allowed me to take Susana to the McDonald's across the street. Susana stopped at the entryway and asked if I could order for her while she waited outside. It was clear that Gypsies were not welcome under the golden arches.

We sat at an outside table, and while those around us cast us inquisitive looks, Susana talked about her upcoming wedding. It was an arranged marriage. I had heard that Gypsies lived liberally under very few rules, but Susana taught me otherwise. There were rules, very clear ones in fact, especially for women. If women are not virgins upon marriage, they are expelled from the community. Female Gypsies are also not allowed to marry foreigners, and they must read palms for a living.

Though she had lived all over South America, Susana described her nationality as Chilean. I had read that Gypsies originated in the North of India, but Susana argued that Gypsies have Arabian roots. Her own family was from Romania and fled to Chile to escape the Nazis during the World War II.

Over French fries, we discovered that we wanted comparable things in life: a husband who loved us, children, and the chance to travel and learn. We also agreed that McDonald’s fries were much better than Burger King’s.

Still curious to know more, I decided to visit a Gypsy camp that had cropped up near my friend’s house in the suburbs. The camp looked like something from a medieval traveling circus show: about 10 or so tents in a dusty field. The knee-high weeds suggested that the area had been cleared out for additional construction but never finished. The surrounding houses were fenced off from the field with aluminum siding that cast a shadow over the camp.

I had asked two women at a nearby local market for directions, and they suggested that I speak to a woman known as Espejo (“mirror” in Spanish). She was a friendly acquaintance of theirs who lived in the camp.

Espejo, otherwise known as Natalie, allowed me to enter her house after I offered her a cigarette. I found her sitting on the floor in a long, green gown, amidst scuttling ants and swarming flies. At 72 years old, Natalie moved slowly and spoke softly, mumbling her words onto the floor. Her gray-streaked chestnut hair was parted into two braids, and large, silver earrings dangled casually from her long earlobes.

Natalie seemed unaccustomed to having guests. She regarded me warily, unsure as to why I wanted to share her company. Trying to jumpstart a conversation, I asked her how she typically spent her days. As she unbraided and re-braided her hair, she told me that she liked to look in mirrors. I commented that I didn’t see any mirrors in her tent, and she responded, “Things break easily here.”

Natalie, like previous Gypsies I had met, tried to convince me that she was good but that the rest were not. When there was a commotion in one of the adjacent tents, she told me that a family of four who liked rubber cement lived there. I didn't know if they sniffed for entertainment's sake or to ease the pain of hunger. In the poorer neighborhoods of Chile, parents are known to give their children rubber cement to stop them from asking for food.

By Gypsy standards, I learned that Natalie was a radical woman. Although she married once at 15 years old, she fled for the true love of another. She also chose not to have children. Now, Natalie rarely left her tent. Outside, poverty, hunger, and drunkenness raged.

I was later invited to Susana's wedding, but I never went. After my experience at the camp, I felt disheartened; I didn't want to learn anymore. Then one day, I ran into Susana's mother, who held her arms open and offered me a discreet hug. Still, she stood at an angle from me, looking me up and down with her suspicious mother-goose eye.

Susana had since moved away from Viña del Mar. When I asked her mother how her daughter was doing, she assured me that Susana was well. A Gypsy's word, once one has earned their loyalty, is known to be as sacred to Gypsies as their own children, and I realized how lucky I was to have gained Susana's mother's trust. This time, she did not ask to give me luck, neither for money nor advice. She left me with nothing more than a kiss on the cheek.