<i>This is the second report from local Rob Jackson, who is spending the next few months volunteering as an English teacher in South America. He can be reached at rob.jacksonian@gmail.com. In his first report,"Step one: Induce gringo mania," he introduced the Chilean Ministry of Education program, and had a little fun dancing, too.</i>

Windows shudder, curtains shimmy, and clean-picked bones stage a frantic waltz on their porcelain beds. The hosts of our royal welcome feast giggle and a fine blend of merlot and lamb juice squirts out of their cheeks. Beinvenido a Patagonia!

Due to the ominous threat of earthquakes at the end of the world, I spend a fair amount of time pondering escape routes in my new life, such as which window to leap out of to insure a clean dismount and escape overhead debris. However, my first morning in Coyhaique, a budding hub city of 50,000 set among towering mountains and bountiful fresh water, presents a verbal challenge.

Within minutes of emerging from bed and still wobbly from experiencing my first tremors (or is it the bottomless wine glass I feel?), I find myself cowering under the spotlight of video cameras and flash photography. I must speak articulate Spanish for the first time in more than two years so I lift my chin and straighten my back. At one point in my short interview I utter the dreaded no entiendo to a chorus of laughter because I have no idea what question is being asked.

Nonetheless, like my host-mother Ruby urging 6-year-old Danilo to eat his last bite of garbanzos, I resort to my modest catalogue of Spanish vocabulary and, with one mighty heave, goad my will to be to spew forth audibly from my soul. I divulge to the masses that besides my expectations to learn the local tongue and teach English I also look forward to living like a true Chilean in Coyhaique.

My dream to enjoy the native folk music and dance toe-to-toe with nimble-booted and beret-clad Patagonians has come true. No girls in Robert the wine sponge's bed, Ruby teases before one song and dance get-together. I like to think that I am slowly ascending to her friendly yet stinging caliber of Chilean humor.

I am lucky to have host-brother Alex, a 22-year-old Chuck Taylor-wearing chef whom Ruby has declared my twin. Alex whips up a paella to tickle the taste buds and has steered me straight into a network of music-savvy friends.

And I am spellbound by wide-eyed Danilo, our turtle at the dinner table but an animated kamikaze kid full of chatter and playtime ideas, one of which led to our construction of a man-sized bird's nest in the front yard.

My first pulmai (shellfish boil) starts in my bathroom. In a back-braking hunched stance and with belts losing hold of our waistlines, two new friends and I scrub the ocean scum off of hundreds of shellfish that have been dumped nonchalantly into my tub. Then we gather under the cover of low-hanging deciduous trees on the hillside property of our angular, oblong and altogether funky red and blue house. A trout-laden river rages below and snow-capped peaks glare down at us from a distance. Yellow leaves drop in our wake as we boil the seafood in an enormous pot full of white wine and vegetables. The earthy odor of fall makes me reminisce briefly about North American football tailgates.

Surrounded on all sides by a local populace bundled up for the cold and shooting verbal jabs around the fire, I become a sitting duck for the partygoers. Conscious of my precarious position, I still fail to grasp their punch lines. I sense a curious sort of inferno rising around me, so I lift my gaze abashedly from the flames of the fire pit. The gringo still doesn't understand! Oh, what a cause for belly-aching laughter.

Fortunately, the frustration of living in a Chilean jungle of verbiage is countered by the agreeable aroma of ocean that dominates my bathroom for days afterward. Maybe I am just a sucker for glowing smiles, but for every learned Beatles lyric or successful pronunciation of the word Friday, I am reminded that the accomplishments of my students outdo the ridiculous nature of a work routine that entails dodging professionally-dressed youngsters who dart, flip and spin like trout through the halls of their school.

Thus, even if I'm dejected after another loss to prancing 12-year-old wizards with a soccer bal,l I can always strategically reposition myself in the middle of the patio and wait for the shrieking kindergartners to turn up on recess. From this spot I partake in a mood-boosting shower of waves, grins and high fives.

It turns out that serving as a human backboard can be a delight when it is for my 400 students to practice their new favorite word at every chance - Hellooo!