“There was no time to cry because the bug came,” recalls Anita Sánchez, who arrived in Villa Francia in 1984.
I was locked up in my house and I felt bad about myself, because Mariano (Puga) would have been on the street. I keep missing it.
He didn’t stay still. He was bossy. We told him that luckily he was a priest and not a farm boss, because he would have been a good exploiter. We laughed with him. “What are you doing here if you come from a pituca family?”, we bothered him. He would begin to speak in French or English. He teased us.
When Father Jorge Murillo arrived, everything went wrong from the beginning. Mariano was on a trip and when he came back we told him we didn’t want anything with Murillo. He changed all the adornments of the liturgy for us, made us put away the clay ciborium and the aguayos, and took out his fine things. It was respectless. Father Mariano tried to excuse him, but to no avail.
Many people came to say goodbye to Mariano in his last days. We made them pass in order of arrival and Murillo tried to enter as “Pedro through his house.” We stopped it cold. We told him that he had to wait just like the others.
There was press, they asked things…, pure nonsense. How did they not realize that one was suffering? I didn’t want to talk. Maybe I was wrong because I didn’t tell how important he was to us.
When Mariano died -March 14, 2020-, a great sorrow came to me. It was midnight and I left the house. There were the kids on the sidewalk. All half punk, with earrings through the ears, nose and tongue. They saw me. One of them hugged me and I cried with him.
the daily departure
Two weeks into the pandemic, there were already common pots here. We got to have four working in Villa Francia. Next to the chapel is the Luisa Toledo dining room. The children were in charge from Monday to Friday, the community took on Saturdays, and another group, on Sundays.
We gave chicken with rice, salad and fruit. Once we served like 500 people. Since the 10% came out, the number of people who signed up did not continue to grow.
In Elephant –cultural center– they also made bread on weekends. One day they stole 10 sacks of flour. He was a “distressed” (addicted to base paste).
There is the common pot still working, that is, it works every other day. Things are harder to come by.
Félix, who is a lawyer, received a donation. We located 30 families that I knew needed, but were never going to ask for anything. Most run by women. Many were “coleras” (informal vendors) at the fair or cleaned up and were left without a hitch.
In total, we gathered about 150 people. We gave them bread, gas and paraffin. First we bought from the baker and we began to distribute bread every day in the library… It is full of Mariano’s books. We distributed two units per person. People were happy. The community also contributed another 10 kilos a day.
For some ladies, coming to get bread was the daily outing. Don José did not know where each house was. He is 64 years old, he has always lived here and did not know Villa Francia. He ended up riding everywhere on his bike.
It was very nice what happened around the bread. The neighbors began to get to know each other and, since they took turns to distribute, those who were fighting had to get along. By telling you that we end up producing our own bread. And the project that was going to last four months ended a year and a half later, just last December.
Now we continue to produce once a week for the community. The sack of flour has gone up a lot. Before we were with 11 lucas, now we get $17 thousand. But one way or another, we manage for butter and flour.
Don Manuel and Mrs. Luisa
The kids protest and I find them right. I have always been a street person. My grandson also participated with the students when the outbreak occurred –October 18, 2019–. One day I discovered that he was in that and I asked him why he did it. He told me that for the same reason as me. He has always seen me at my meetings.
I like the street. Being with the people. With Don Manuel (Vergara), who is over 80 years old, we went to some protests. Actually, he was going to take care of him. The old man would sit on the sidewalk, between the tear gas canisters, and the kids would get desperate. They saw that something was wrong with him! They yelled at me to get him out of there.
He and Mrs. Luisa, may she rest in peace – she died in July 2021 – are very loved here in Villa Francia. For each protest, the cops settle on the corner where their house is. The smell of tear gas canisters becomes unbearable.
The goats fixed the roof of their house over a weekend. The jet of the guanaco had left him miserable. Manuel and Luisa’s children did the same thing every time it rained: they repaired the neighbors’ roofs.
We still remember our three missing detainees from the community. We also have executed in the Villa Francia. During Holy Week, Father Mariano organized the procession and we went through each of the places where they had fallen. Now we do it ourselves.
They have always persecuted us. I know they have us booked. I don’t care because we’re not doing anything wrong.
“The kids don’t want anything with the institutional”
At the beginning of the outbreak, I left for Plaza Dignidad. I knew some who were giving first aid. I was going by Metro and the goats on foot. I went until they began to organize in the village.
The young goats are carried away from their ideas. They don’t listen to you. If they don’t like something, they don’t do it. The old media, the ones that are about 50 years old, riot with them. They find that they have no political training. The kids don’t want anything with the institutional. We all feel mistrust and that takes time away from us to move forward.
It works for us because we are a small group. We’ve been together for years. It hasn’t gone so well for us either. We have not grown or managed to go further. We are like seven. We know each other so well that we play by heart and it’s hard for us to let anyone in.
With the protests, we had more problems to continue with our office in Elephant. Already with the bicharraco, he stopped everything. This is self managed. To tell you that I have stepped on the municipality two or three times, no more. We have achieved everything with donations: we have a dentist’s chair, stretchers, chairs and tables.
One day, I went to look for things with Juan Pedro to put them in a warehouse that we got. Everything was thrown away, ruined. I was very sorry that they did not respect our organization. They knew what it had cost us and they did the same. Now there are other groups operating there.
“I felt the heavy smell”
We were in the middle of the pandemic and one day smoke began to come out of a clandestine landfill that we have back there. They leave junk and debris and nobody does anything.
When I came to live here, around 1984, the Lo Errázuriz landfill was working. People went looking for food in the dump. Here came the trays with food from Lan Chile, all impeccable! That later became a park. But still the problems continued. A lot of garbage was left covered and gas comes out suddenly.
This time I felt the heavy smell. We spent days with all the windows closed. There was a house that was very complicated with small goats inside. I’m not even telling you about the headache we had and the clothes that were up in smoke. The authorities blamed each other. The only ones who did anything were the firemen.
I come from the countryside, from Rinconada de Maipú. Maybe that’s why I like people so much. My dad always told me that when someone came to visit, I should serve him a tea or a glass of water immediately, not to ask him anything, just serve him. “If you ask, they will tell you no”, he told me.
We arrived at Villa Francia with Juan Pedro, newlyweds. He works in channel maintenance. We had a ranch that was barely standing. This is how we progressed. Then we moved a little further from the landfill and were able to build our house out of brick. Now, the way life is, it’s impossible for my son to have his own house. He has to pay rent and it’s not enough for him. He works doing delivery in your car.
“I got bored of the controls”
I have a son and a grandson. I couldn’t have more because of uterine cancer. Then I had a relapse. I got bored of the controls, I can’t stand listening to the conversations of the doctors with the students. I feel like a guinea pig. I’m not going anymore.
The last time Mariano left the hospital, he asked me to accompany him on a trip. I didn’t want to because he was starving with him. We never knew where we were going to stay or what we were going to eat. I’m good poor, but go hungry, that’s for sure not! He made the removal of all the invitations, but this time I accompanied him because he was not well.
We went to Elqui to visit some communities. We were received by the nun, the same one who caught COVID at Mariano’s funeral. It was very impressive because those Christians were better prepared than us. Mariano just looked at me.
I’ve been glued to the phone. Juan Pedro lost his cell phone and I receive his messages. Nothing can be done without the phone. Yesterday I couldn’t make a transfer. A neighbor made it for us.
Juan Pedro leaves around 7:30 or 8 in the morning. I start tidying up, throw clothes in the washing machine and “take advantage of my free time”. The phone absorbs me, they call me a lot on the phone. I tell no one no. I’d be restless if I didn’t answer.
“The lack of bread is the worst thing that can happen to us”
The lack of bread is the worst thing that can happen to us. I can’t live without bread, and it’s expensive, expensive. Many here have a cup of tea with sugar and a piece of bread for breakfast, without anything. If they’re cold or hungry, they make another cup of hot tea to trick their stomachs.
Sometimes I get frustrated. One sees the need, but I have to spread the merchandise. We distribute the tea by bags, we measure the sugar and, finally, we give the oil in half-liter bottles that people bring. The neighbors are equally appreciative.
In December my cruciate ligaments were severed. I could barely walk. I let myself stay for a few months. I had no money for the kinesiologist. Nor encouragement. My little sister died of cancer and my brother had a heart attack. I’m only now back on the streets.
I am different. I’m not drunk. I think what I’m going to buy. Before, when I went to my sister’s house, I passed through Maipú, I looked at the stores, I turned around and, suddenly, I bought something. Now we have to live with what we have. We are poorer.
Clothes arrived in the community. Very good clothes from the Zara brand. A riot broke out! Some accused themselves of wanting to hoard. Coleras have a really bad time at fairs. When they ask me about clothes, I give them altiro. It is the way they have to earn a few pesos. How am I going to store clothes if people are in need?
“You have to be careful”
I am so sorry. A classmate of my grandson committed suicide. He was 16 years old. It makes me sad that the kids don’t have opportunities, that the situation is so bad. My grandson told me that after school he was going to go to work. And I go and ask him if he didn’t plan to study at the university. He looked at Me with a face! “We don’t have money, mommy, I have to work to get into Inacap.” That’s what she told me. I’m afraid he’ll start working and not study.
I have never been robbed or seen an assault. Angelica was robbed on July 5 with Yelcho, they threatened her with a knife a long time ago. Things have gotten more complicated in the last year. After six in the evening, you have to be careful.
The other day we got a scare! It was five in the afternoon and we had just opened the community. Suddenly, we hear screams. A couple was inside the women’s bathroom. They had gotten in during the night. He was a foreigner and she was Chilean. We had a hard time getting them out of the bathroom, she didn’t want us to see her. I got complicated. The children from the story workshop were about to arrive. We had to go into one of the offices for them to leave.
When I see the volaos, I have a good choriza. If they ask me for money, I tell them: “I’m just like you, I don’t work and you give me something to eat.” The goats answer me: “Yeah, mommy, excuse me, mommy.” I’ve known them since they were kids.
