Guest Blogger: Samuel Friedman, Carleton College

I’m filling in for Matt on this post because Matt loves democracy and things like voting. He would have liked to experience this if he hadn’t had reservations to Robinson Crusoe Island.

Sundays are usually quiet in the residential community of Ñuñoa, with most stores closed and people generally relaxing or doing household chores. But there was a full-blown taco (traffic jam) outside my door when I went to accompany my host parents to the municipal elections. A host brother volunteered to shuttle us in the car, but we quickly realized that the 15 minute walk would be significantly slower driving.

Voting is obligatory in Chile –one of the most significant differences between their system and ours. That is, voting is obligatory for people to make the lifetime decision to register. Registered voters who don’t vote receive a traffic-ticket-like citation, and risk paying a fine of a bout US$30-200 if they don’t have a legitimate excuse. The deterrent has influenced plenty of young people I know from registering, at least thus far.

So although this was the type of local election that in the US might get thirty percent participation, here in Santiago it looked like everyone had been motivated one way or another to come out. Luckily it was a beautiful spring day, and most families didn’t seem to mind the civic duty. Walking to and from the polling place we ran into a couple of neighbors that my family hadn’t seen in a while.

Polling places are segregated by sex, another significant difference between the Chilean system and ours; this regulation goes back to the 1930’s when women first received suffrage. Large signs white signs at the intersections assigned voters to polling place. To divide things even more, polling places are assigned by where voters registered, and not by address: among the four members in my household, no one had the same polling place.

My host parents had polling places close to each other, a pair of high schools alongside the Plaza Ñuñoa. They weren’t sure if a foreigner would be allowed inside. I wasn’t sure why I wouldn’t be, but nonetheless walked quickly by the pair of uniformed –but not armed- soldiers who stood outside the high school. They didn’t seem to be controlling who entered the high school

My father’s polling place was fairly large: about a half dozen classrooms, each with a pair of voting stations. The completely male made me think of a urinals and Boy Scout meeting and Magic the Gathering tournaments. But otherwise it didn’t feel very different. The same long tables, and same private polling booths with blue curtains. The poll workers didn’t look any more tired even though their service –unlike ours- is compulsorily and not paid. Poll workers are assigned randomly from among registered voters every year.

It took about ten minutes for my host father to finish everything. Afterwards there was no “I voted” sticker, but the fingerprint he made in the voting register left him with a blue thumb.