POST by RAF: If you judge people, you have no time to love them

Rafael's Friends 

This story is not really like a story because this story is about my friends. There names are Randy, Oscar, Horge, Manuel, Luisita and Lixy the sister of Manuelito.

Randy is very nice to everyone and if you hit him he does not  hit you back. One time a kid named Moses kicked Randy and Randy did nothing.

Oscar's voice is so cute and he says nice things. Oscar sometimes says he want to play with me.

Oscar's voice is so cute!

Horge likes me and he tickles me in my class of Taekwondo.

Jorge, the Tickle Monster

Manuel is so cute and he tickles like Horge. And I also call him Manuelito because he is small.

Manuel is SO cute

Luisita is so funny and I tickle her.I think Luisita is funny because my dad said she's funny.

Duan, Billy, Christopher, Jorge, Luisita and Aaron

Lixy is my funniest friend because one time she was haveing a walk with manuelito and when they stopped manuelito said I want to have a walk some weir else and lixy said but we went here we went there and all around. I like her because she's funny. 

Lixie, my funniest friend and Manuelito

POST by SEZ: Dancing Machine...

On Friday night I had a dance competition at my house. I came Six place and no one  won . We had five partners left named Grace and Yader, Mrs. Vinsion and Felicity, Jed and Liz. And everyone gave a clap because we were the last players.

The winner was going to get a prize of chocolate . A big bag of Snickers . That will be yummy and great becuse it has chocolate.

We are going to have a cat walk next weekend . You need to be wearing a cat suit . So that's why you need two ears one tail and six cat beards and three claws on your toes because it's a competition and it's so fun. It's going to be crazy.

POST by RENZ: A Horse and Carriage is like Love and Marriage

Fran, Jamil, Yader and Oliver, saddling up "Mexico" for a drive

Here in Nicaragua, people have horses and they have carts. They use them for a lot of things. For example, they bring fire wood to cook food, go from one place to another transporting objects, and things like that.

As you may know, we have five horses. My dad wanted a cart to collect the school kids everyday because some kids do not come anymore because their parents say that it is too long of a walk. So a father of one of the school kids built my dad a cart.

The first day of having the cart we decided to test it out with one of the horses. We took Cookie, the biggest horse, a male, and before we bought him, the old owner would use him to drive a cart.

They put all the stuff on the horse and we set out the gate. Yader, Jamil, Francesca, Sezni, and I all got on. Yader and Jamil told us to sit on the edges because it was the first time in a long while that that horse had driven one of the carts so he might not behave so well and so if something bad should happen and he went crazy, we would be able to jump off, which would mean that we wouldn't get hurt so much.

We went down the dirt road until we got to Yader's house. At the end of Yader's house, there is a downhill and then an uphill. Cookie doesn't like going down hills or up hills even if you are riding on him so we stopped at Yader's house to calm him down and make him go down the hill. When we were ready to go down the hill, Grace, Francesca, and I all jumped off because we could feel that he was not wanting to go down the hill.

We ran down the hill and waited at the bottom. Once they started going downhill, they were going down not fast, but not slow, so like medium. When they got to the bottom of the hill the horse started running, so we quickly moved out of the way because the horse looked angry.

Once the horse reached the top of the hill, it stopped. Yader and Jamil were yelling and whipping so that Cookie would move but he would only go in circles.

Yader eventually got tired of yelling and whipping. He decided that we should go back home so he turned the horse around and told us to get on. We got on and went down the hill again. We went all the way down to the gate of our house and stopped. My dad opened the gate but Cookie did not move. He just put his head all the way down to his feet and rubbed against the ropes and chains to try and get them off.

Yader and Jamil once again started whipping and yelling and the horse moved in circles. Grace, Francesca, and I jumped off and I went to were my dad was standing. My dad explained to me that the horse was bleeding on its leg. He had a small cut on his leg and it was bleeding but it wasn't a huge scratch.

Then my dad looked closer and told everyone that was standing there that he was bleeding on his neck and it was from the collar around his neck. Driving our new horse and car is fun but makes for a long day out!   

POST by FRAN: Part 2 of the Cell Phone Mystery!

Buttercup came over on a Sunday afternoon and told Mum his story. I was with a team at that time, but Buttercup told Mum that he saw Pumpkin with the cell phone. Buttercup said that Pumpkin was asking for a charger to charge a white cell phone.

It took my Mum a while to process Buttercup's story in her head, but when she had it all figured out she went and told my Dad that Pumpkin was seen with the phone. Dad didn't want it to be Pumpkin, but he had no choice but to tell him that he couldn't come to work for a week.

Later on that dark Sunday night we went to Possum's house to talk to him and his mum about what had happened. When we got there, Possum's mum told us that a boy came to her and sold he back the cell phone for 300 cordobas (like $13). She also said that it was missing the memory chip and the sim card, BUT the phone was back in Possum's hands.

So we knew that SOMEONE took the phone from our kitchen and we knew that SOMEONE sold it to SOMEONE ELSE, because that SOMEONE ELSE had sold it back to Possum. And that SOMEONE ELSE said that Pumpkin had sold it to him and so he bought it back to Possum.

After our interesting chat with Possum's mum, we went to go speak to Pumpkin who lived down the street. Possum, Possum's mum, Buttercup, Yader, my Dad, and I went to go talk with Pumpkin. We were there for an hour or more and Pumpkin insisted that he didn't take anything.

Pumpkin's mum was beginning to get mad, so she went outside and started shouting at Possum's mum saying "MY SON SHOULD OF LET YOUR SON DROWN IN THE POOL, BUT HE DIDN'T, MY SON DIVED IN AND SAVED YOUR SON!!!!!!!!!!!" (Previously Possum had been swimming in our pool, but was pushed over to the deep end and began to drown, but Pumpkin jumped in and saved him) Pumpkin began to cry and to accuse Possum of lying.

At that we decided to leave. Pumpkin's mum was a fighter and we knew that Pumpkin wouldn't admit to doing it with his mum in front of him!

We dropped off Possum and his mum and went home at 9:36 P.M. When Yader, Dad and I got home we ate our dinner and got ready for bed. Half an hour after we got home, Pumpkin came to our house by himself. Dad sat outside with him for a long time, and finally they came in. Dad had a disappointed look on his face, he came to the living room and sat Pumpkin down.

Mum asked "Did he admit to doing it?" Dad shook his head, still with the disappointed look on his face. Pumpkin started crying again and asking us things like "Why do mean people want to do mean stuff to nice people?" After ten minutes I went to bed, because I grew bored.

Almost a week passed and we were still unsure about who took the phone.

Sunday came again and Mum became impatient. Mum and I went to pick up Possum and went to find the SOMEONE ELSE who had sold the phone back to its rightful owner. We found the SOMEONE ELSE really fast, he was wearing a baseball cap, a green T-shirt and a pair of jeans.

We took him home and asked him if Pumpkin sold him the phone, we even showed him a picture... He started to nod his head, but then he began to shake his head to say 'no'. And with that Mum was certain that it was Pumpkin, but she wanted him to say "yes, Pumpkin did sell the phone to me." He didn't tell us anything.

We took him back to his home and said that we might need to get the police involved, but if he told us who it was we wouldn't even speak to the police. Still there was nothing so, we went to drop off Possum and went to SOMEONE ELSE's house again and talked to his family, his mum was really disappointed with him and we left so that they could talk. Mum told SOMEONE ELSE that we would give him until Tuesday to tell us who sold him the phone or we would get the police involved.

We all went to sleep early that night wondering what interesting things tomorrow would bring. The night was long and I thought it would never end. I read a book until I fell asleep, it was very hard to sleep.

In the morning I received a text message, it was SOMEONE ELSE's mum, she said that her son told her that is WAS Pumpkin and that she was a little surprised at what had happened, but thankful that it was sorted out now.

We need to learn from these experiences that not being truthful is very dangerous and painful to the people around us. 

POST by JED: The Filthy, Smelly, Homeless Drunk Kid

Church was amazing tonight. Our car arrived, packed-to-the-goog with 7 kids, darling Jocasta (our out of this world new volunteer), water containers and a sense of purpose, into the parking lot. (Which now regularly contains 2 cars, ours and the pastor's...) 

Our entrance into the Church resembled more of a freak show's on parade line-up of characters, than a bunch of would-be World changers.

I led the procession, and was immediately followed up by Fran. Our beautiful first born daughter was sporting a sun ravaged look, complete with the ol' hair akin to haystack. This "look" was caused by today's Pentecostal Church service at our house, which lasted from 6am until 4pm, and consisted of hours of praise and worship, teaching, baptisms and social time.

Franny was dressed a little too Western/casually for this rural Nica Church, but that's when Aussies can ALWAYS chime in with "oh, that's how we do it in Australia". Where as we should really say, "I'm an Aussie, so therefore I can..."

Renzy, our magnificent number two, promenaded into the building and was quite the contrast to Fran. Her hair was not dry, in fact, it was still soaking wet. (from showering) Lorenzy was covered from head-to-toe with flowing fabric and all the modern classy accessories.

Renzy is a no-nonsense type, and doesn't overtly show her happiness like the rest of us Briens. She is quietly content, whilst persistently opportune to watching the rest of us make complete idiots of ourselves. Unfortunately, for her, this often results in a lack of partaking and hence, the poor darling, at times loses out on the hilarity of life. That's my way of saying "she wasn't smiling, but she was happy..."

I surveyed the scene and noted that Rafael was putting his shoes on, from atop the car's bonnet.

Sezni was, for the first time in his life, the most appropriately dressed, BUT adorned with a belt built for the Guinness Book of World Record's fattest man.

Brian was comparable to Sez, however had no belt on at all, and like many Nica's was suitably festooned with plumbers' attire. (or lack/crack thereof)

Oliver was without shoes. (I'd asked him no less than 6 million times to find his shoes and had even looked with him for several minutes)

Billy was filthy - He had been in the pool when I'd requested his presence in the car. He'd simply collected any clothes he could find from the back door, to the front and hence was wearing his own underpants, Brian's shorts, Lorenzy's hat and Rafael's shoes.

The pastor was thunderous. He was calling on God for miracles this evening. We were believing for the same. There was whooping and wailing, hollering and hooting. "Cual es Su Nombre?" (What's his name?) he'd scream out. "GLORIA" was our response. I got so into it tonight I once screamed out "GLORIA" in completely the wrong moment. (The pastor was smiling, but announcing that his aunty had just died...) All heads swivelled, like game-clowns in unison at the circus, and stared at me - the Nutbag in row number 2.

In any case it was a delightful service. The pastor was enthusiastic and the people of God, members of HIS Church, engaged with Jesus, blessing His Heavenly heart.

About halfway through the service, however, my mind began to wander. I started to contemplate my blog-for-the-week, and decided I would write about the blessings of being a martyr for Christ. And whilst I know people from around the World have suffered tremendously for the cause, I myself have had a difficult year because of attacks from other Christians.  

In short, some painful words have been said. "He's raising money so that he doesn't have to work... You're an atheist pretending to be a Christian "using religion as a means to achieve your own worldly end... You claim you have the spirit of God living inside of you, I don't think God has given me enough wisdom to see it." Hurtful words, we all hear them. In my mind, I felt there was enough fodder to write a book, let alone a blog, and was ready to put pen-to-paper. (Next week? ha ha)

A clap of thunder, rather than thunderous clapping, brought me back to my little rural Nica Church. We had been without street water for a week and our well became dry two days ago. It was about to rain - I became enthused!

We left the Church in quite the opposite way we'd entered. We shook everybody's hands in a matter of moments, stacked the chairs, and then formed a bottle-neck crush at the entrance of our Church.

Now we are wanting to start a youth group band, and there is a 7th Day Adventist boy, Freddy, who is a favourite of our family, and who plays the "base". He's a bit of a trick, our Freddy. His father is 7th Day and his mother is Jehovah's Witness. The rest of his family are Baptist or Catholic. He has a lot of questions in his mind...

In any case, his father is very strict and he is probably not allowed to attend our youth nights, but he does. We love him! So I had decided to ask him if he would join our youth band. He said that I'd have to chat with his Dad. I had every intention of doing this, and drove through the spitting rain to Freddy's house.

"Dad" welcomed me with open arms and I sat and listened with keen boredom to the stories he had to tell me. I "oohed" and "aahed" in all the right places, but truth be told, I didn't understand a word he said.

Finally, when I thought he had finished a story (which very quickly became clear that he had not), I asked 7th Day Daddy if Freddy could join our youth band. But, before I got an answer I went and retrieved Francesca, my tremendous translator.

"Well", Franny translated. "In our Church we don't really play that kind of music. We don't really play music. We don't really like music. Music isn't usually very good. But if you would like Freddy in your band, then that's fine with me." I threw my arms around the Poppy and gave him a big squeeze. He wasn't expecting this bit. He's a Nica country man, they barely shake hands. It's more about whistling, spitting and smiling. He did smile at me, but out of embarrassment.

This time the lightening joined the thunder and CRACK! "We'd better race" I yelled to Fran who was already ahead of me.  Our shoes were filled with water and our clothes completely drenched. We made it back to the car in one piece, but with an assortment of odors perfuming the already sticky, sweet car.

The rain came down and the floods went up. We drove along a "street", which is actually more of a river bed. The water was already above the tyres and it had only been a few minutes. I became literally terrified but didn't let on as that would have made the kids scared. (I was only screaming "HOLD ON KIDS, I THINK WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Handled it well, wouldn't you say?)

We made it to the Sinson family's house just in time. By this time it was bucketing down!

Now the Sinson family are beautiful Baptist missionaries here in Nicaragua and our family absolutely adores them. I talked with Vaughan, the man of the house, about a multitude of issues. Vaughan is a great guy, who is a solid (no offence Vaughan) sounding board for me.

We're kind of an odd pair, but our relationship works really well (I moan and groan and he listens, supportively) and we've sort of formed, in some strange way, a sort of informal partnership.

Anyway, on this occasion I poured out my list of grievances towards these, my Christian brothers and sisters and, as per usual, Vaughan shared his opinion insightfully and gave me some great advice. Thank GOD for the SINSONS!!!

At 9:30pm, since Jocasta was dosing on the couch, we decided it was high time to hit the road. We gathered the troops and squeezed our small crowd into the car. We honked the horn, saluted our amigos, and headed out the gate.

We were singing and laughing and amusing ourselves along the steep drive away from the Sinson house, when we came upon our good friend, young Enrique. We stopped to wave and then saw that he was well-and-truly drunk. We know Enrique, because he visits our Centre every Friday night.

I turned off the engine.

I got out of the car.

I approached Enrique. He tried to look at me but his eyes kind of crossed. He half-smiled and then looked down. He was ashamed. He tried to chuckle but let out tears instead. Whilst he cried, he continuously tried to smile and because of the humiliation of this situation, he emptied his bottles of alcohol onto the ground.

I grabbed his limp arm and pulled it up. I pulled his chin up so that his tear-stained face looked at mine. "My Mum doesn't want me anymore" he said, still trying to smile but failing on every count. Tears streamed down his handsome, strong Nica-face.

I pulled his wilting body up so that he was almost standing on his wobbly feet. He was practically paralytic. Liz called out "Girls, hop in the back. Jed, put him in the car." I dragged Enrique around the back of the car to the front, opened the passenger door and placed Enrique on the seat. I looked into his eyes. He looked into mine.

Enrique's face conveyed deep sorrow, a young man void of love from his defecting family. I spoke softly to Enrique "It's okay, we're going to take care of you."

We drove home, the stench of alcohol and filth was almost unbearable for me. Whilst we were driving I began to think. Here I sit, concerned with the hurt that I have received, and the exoneration I so desperately desire, when I hold the keys to forgiveness, comfort and healing in my hands. I mean, earlier in the day I'd actually published this thought on the internet:

A life lesson from Jeddy... Sometimes, it doesn't matter how much you try, what you say, the intentions of your heart, how much you love... It will never work and you just HAVE to surrender it all back to God.

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ...

We were under great pressure, far beyond our ability to endure, so that we despaired of life itself. Indeed, we felt we had received the sentence of death. But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead. He has delivered us from such a deadly peril, and he will deliver us again. On him we have set our hope that he will continue to deliver us, as you help us by your prayers. Then many will give thanks on our behalf for the gracious favor granted us in answer to the prayers of many."

2 Corinthians 1

I mean, really... What is with that? I had become so consumed with my own restitution and validation I had forgotten to have faith in the God in whom I hope!

Truly, to be sure, I am able to receive comfort from a God who is full of compassion and mercy and I'm also able to offer that precious gift to those around me!

It's not for me... Once I have it, multiplication must occur through me to those whom God puts in my path. In this specific situation it was a road. God literally placed a young man on the road we were driving along.

When we arrived home I helped Enrique out of the car. He grabbed me and started to cry. He cried and cried and cried. He hugged me tight. I held in my arms a young man who is precious to God, but not worth anything to his own family. Just another kid spewed out onto the streets.

I pulled Enrique's arm over my shoulder and dragged him to our front door. I sat with Enrique for several moments and held him in my arms. He continued to cry until he fell asleep. (or passed out. I think it was the latter...) I dragged Enrique inside. The kids were fussing before bed time, brushing teeth and washing up. They looked at me with that "Dad, you're at it again", kind of knowing look.

I took Enrique to the couch and Liz helped him to get comfy. We took off some of his dirty clothes and bathed his body. The boy had tattoos, cuts, bruises, abrasions and bites all over his figure. He had what looked like a knife gash upon his head. Enrique started to shiver and shake.

We got a damp cloth for his head. He came to. We offered him water and food. He ate and drank like he'd never eaten before. He ate everything. The boy had been nearly starving. He tried to regain some dignity by telling us jokes. We laughed because he was laughing, but we didn't understand a ding-dang thing he was saying.

We held him in our arms as he laughed and as he cried. Enrique, a broken young fella. And so here it is... Right before us... Humanity conked out. Not functioning. Ruined. And all we have to offer is the hope of salvation, Christ who lives in us.

People may want to debate theology - it's a distraction, keep walking. Read the Bible and learn through your involvement in Church.

People may say your efforts are in vain. They're not. Christ died on the cross for crying out loud. He died. Dead. Can you imagine being a disciple at that moment? "Oh great, that's the rescue plan? You DIE on a cross??? What kind of whack-job loon are you?" If Christ dying on the cross was a plan (and might I add it was the BEST plan ever devised in the history of the UNIVERSE), then you obeying the Word of God to love your neighbour is not an action performed in vain. It is all a part of God's infallible plan to see HIS Kingdom come and HIS will be done...

God has given you a heart. Use it to serve Jesus and affect humanity. Lord, not my will, but yours be done... Lot´s of ¨dones¨ there, which we means we gotta do...

POST by RENZ: RaZING Eyebrows

Eyebrow-less-Oliver

Oliver is my foster brother sort of. He and his brother Brian stay with us during the week and then go home(if you can call it that) for the weekends. Oliver is five years old but looks like he is three. His brother Brian is eight and he looks like he is... well... eight, sort of.

If you get on Oliver's good side, he is nice to you but if you treat him bad, then he will never obey you. Instead he will bite you, or kick you, he'll possibly punch you - pretty much anything goes if he's mad.

With or without eyebrows, Oliver-the-Kid is cool as a cucumber...

The neighbourhood people treat Oliver bad because they think that his family are at a lower class than theirs, but I think that they are pretty much at the same rate.

It was just a week before we had finished Easter break and it was a Monday. We did what we always did.  We woke up, got prepared for the day, went outside to do our morning meeting that we always do with all the staff.

Once that was over, we went and set up the chairs for the kids and waited for them to come. One by one, the kids piled onto the porch and waited for us to give them instructions.

That day, Oliver's eyes looked weird and I couldn't figure out what it was. At first I thought that he had just woken up because what I saw was that his eyes looked like Chinese eyes. I couldn't tell what was different about him but I thought that it would wear off later on in the day. Well, It didn't wear off.

It looked like all the other staff had figured out what was wrong with his eyes because they were laughing at him and calling him "Chucky", but I still couldn't find out why. I was really curious about what was wrong.

The lads, once Renz had drawn on eyebrows with her make-up pen

During Tae Kwondo class, at the end of school, when I was kicking with Scarleth (the two year old teacher. She is always laughing and joyful). She started laughing at Oliver because in Tae Kwondo class he always does weird things on the floor.

She told everyone to look at Oliver because he looked hilarious. He was trying to do the worm but failed epically. At that moment when everyone was looking at him, Ivania (the director of our little school) said in Spanish " It looks even funnier because he doesn't have EYEBROWS!" and that's when it hit me. He didn't have eyebrows. How could I not  see that he didn't have eyebrows! I felt so dumb that I did not see his eyebrow less face.

So at that moment I drew eyebrows on all of my little brothers who had been very creative with the razor which had been left in the shower.

Brian, Sezni, Billy & Oliver...

POST by FRAN: Part 1 of the Cell Phone Mystery!

(A brief note from Jeddo: Names have been changed in order to protect the identity of our workers)

Semana Santa is the Holy week or Easter here in Nicaragua. School is out the whole week. We usually open our home to the community to come and swim and play soccer and basket ball. My dad usually opens the house on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Instead we only opened the house up on Saturday, all day, to count for the other days which we didn't open the house to the community.

Unfortunately I was sick with a fever and also had a runny nose and  a head ache. Mum was sick too...

We found out that she had bronchitis and still is sick now. We stayed in almost all day and tried to sleep and watch movies. It started to get hard to sleep and watch movies though because of all the noise!

The pool began to get full by 9:30 A.M! Even I, an avid swimmer, wouldn't be able to swim in the pool that early - Not even on holidays! I wanted to get into the pool so bad because everyone was having so much fun, but I couldn't.

A lot of my church friends came as well and all my friends here using their cell phones (That's Latin culture for you...). When our visitors get into the pool they want to put their stuff somewhere. So my Mum said that they could put their stuff inside our house where NO ONE could TOUCH IT (well that's what she thought).

Four cell phones came into our kitchen and were put on the counter, where they were all in sight. After 20 minutes or so had passed, three boys came to retrieve their cell phones and one boy, Possum, was still swimming in the pool. Possum didn't get out of the pool until everything was over, at 5:00 P.M.

When it was time for everyone to leave, Possum went to retrieve his simple, white, Nokia cell phone from our kitchen, but unfortunately it wasn't where he put it! He looked all over the place and even a boy named Pumpkin offered to help him look.

They couldn't find the cell phone anywhere and Mum started to get worried "what if someone took it out of the kitchen when I wasn't watching?!?!", she said to me over and over again. There were only two people allowed to come in and out of the house, Pumpkin who is 20 years old and Yader who is 22 years old, and both of them work for Capital Edge Community Centre (our house).

Mum twice asked both Pumpkin and Yader "Do either of you have, or know where Possum's cell phone is?" and both times she got the same answer "I don't know". That night Possum left discouraged and without a cell phone, and we all went to sleep worried about where the phone might have gone.

The next day Mum was convinced that the cell phone was stolen. She was thinking about it all day and at dinner time Possum, his mum and his sister came to our house asking for Pumpkin. However, Pumpkin wasn't at our house. Possum's mum was convinced that Pumpkin had taken Possum's phone and she was on quite the mission, and hunting him down. She was mad because she owns a little corner store and she lacked the money to buy him another phone.

Dad told her that they would go to his house on Monday and question him. Once Possum had left Mum said to Dad "we need to figure this out, because I don't like it when people take things from my house that aren't mine!" Dad replied to her "Don't worry, we are going to ask Pumpkin some questions on Monday and if he doesn't tell the truth then he will not be coming to work for a week." We all went to sleep, everyone but Mum.

At 2:23 in the morning she came into my room and fell asleep on my bed next to me (I know Because she told me) The following morning a text message came to my phone and it was from Pumpkin's cousin, Abid. The message said 'I know who stole the phone' and later that day Abid came to talk to my Mum and he said "I know who took the phone, he came to me and asked me for a charger. The person who stole the phone is..."

TO BE CONTINUED... 

POST by JED: Con-fron-ta-tion, Confrontation Now Begins, Keep the Rhythm...

The glass had grubby little finger prints all over it. The air was cool as I stretched out my arm and placed the 15 Paddle Pops, which I had retrieved from the commercially grandiose 70s style freezer, down on the counter. I nervously placed a crisp, orange $20 bill down as well.

I was buying Paddle Pops to increase my popularity on our "block" and I truly believed that this deal was going to send me through the recognition roof! I was going to be the coolest, most handsome, awesomest kid, and the girls would all want to sit next to me around my family's sandbox.

Now for those of you who don't know, Paddle Pops are a delicious ice cream, and at 4 years old they're worth dying for. They come in an array of flavours, from chocolate, to banana, rainbow and vanilla. When I was 4 years old, they cost just 15 cents and were worth every bit of it.  

My eyes darted impatiently around the small corner store. I was almost there, ALMOST there... But then it happened, my bald, trim, man-of-the-cloth, dog collared father arrived. My pulse quickened and I started to think. However, for me, it's always these moments that my brain refuses to cooperate, even at such a wee age. And so I stood there, mouth open and palms getting stickier all-the-while. (...and not from the sweet nector of runaway ice cream either)

The counter was in the middle of the shop and once my holy father had chosen his path to access me, well I quickly raced in the opposite direction, leaving him stranded and with a mountain of Paddle Pops to pay for. (...and change to receive)

Well that's what I thought I had done. But alas, due to the confusing collage of mirrors, I was actually running towards my father and not away from him. As I looked back over my shoulder, giggling with glee, although I could see him behind me, he was suddenly in front of me!

I let out a gigantic boy-squeal and then collapsed on the floor. (I was a drama - you know, back in those days...) I wriggled and writhed, but there was just no passage to freedom - I was sprung, caught, ruined.

My friends all looked dismissingly at me, but I became a motionless creature, much like one of those self-consumed celebrity stars who sit with Oprah and look all sad, sullen and sultry at the camera, like they're the only ones in the World who weren't ever breast-fed. ("Nursed", for you North Americans...)

My father explained in simplistic terms, in words that would ring in my ears for at least a  fortnight, just how wrong I had been to climb the 10 foot tall book case and take money from the ethnic, tribal, wooden-jar-thingy on top.

I had longed to go on a frivolous spending spree with my friends, I just didn't realise that it would be at the expense of poor missionaries in third world countries. (The money I was stealing was my parent's tithe money...)  

My father was not impressed, though I know he found it difficult not to laugh on the way home. Why? Well because when we finally arrived home I gave him a pout or two whilst he swung his hand furiously trying to belt my behind, laughing all the while (he and me).

My mother arrived on the scene and was far more calculated in her approach to discipline. She aimed, swung and connected - I was unable to pout as there was no time, the pain was too intense, and my mouth was open way too wide in order to let out the almost primal screams that came from my inner most depths... 


I tell you, when it comes to confrontation, my mother takes the cake and smacks it in the face of her opponent. No speculating. No debriefing. She was the inventor of Guantanamo styled questioning...

It was 8am and the real passengers, the ones who go to Sydney for the day on business, had already been through. The only problems I'd encountered were the usual infrequent international holiday travellers who'd:

A.) Forgotten their passports because they were "only travelling to New Zealand" (I myself have trouble remembering if the Land-of-the-White-Long-Cloud isn't just a territory of Tasmania...);

B.) Had very cleverly booked their flights on the internet in reverse order so that they were arriving at their point of departure, instead of the other way around;

C.) Were "late" because of "traffic" (...as they stood there in front of me with rogue curlers still in hair, clothes on inside out, lipstick marks from lip-to-nose (making them look like a tranny version of Ronald McDonald) and skirts hitched in the underwear region.

I sipped my strong black coffee and did the usual checks for seating issues, travel agent errors and unaccompanied minors that needed paperwork to be completed. On this morning I was alone in the ticketing office, which was why I didn't like ticketing in the first place - People were either screaming at you or you'd just sit there all by yourself looking like a "monga".

Actually, in all honesty, I preferred people screaming at me. There were times I could have kissed these angry breed of travellers, just because I was so excited to be relating with someone. Shame they wanted to punch me... Those kind of relationships were always doomed to failure.

In any case, along strolled Mr. YUP. (Young Unmarried Professional) You could tell he was a YUP because he wore a suit, grinned too much and had a skateboard under his arm. He casually approached the ticketing counter and I did my usual "Good morning, how are you today?" greeting - which was a load of codswallop, because I knew what was coming next.

"They won't let me take my skateboard on the plane!" The dude looked close to tears, but it was definitely another case of bed-head, teeth being brushed whilst driving, kind of passenger. "Won't they?" Stalling... Trying to think of something, anything... but Nothing! "Right, well perhaps you should try to just zip through security and see if they notice..." And off he marched. "Great, he fell for it! But he will be back as quick-as-a-jiffy so what can I do? Nothing, I've got absolutely nothing..." I thought to myself.

"Okay, so these are your options." He was back again."You can either pop it over there in the bin (trash) and jump on the plane, or you can catch the next flight. I'll be more than happy to change your flight, free-of-charge, and you can check the skateboard in as checked baggage." I cheerfully suggested. His response was less than pleasant "You m!@#$%^&*" (he said, clearly unimpressed with the outcome of my problem solving...)     

He stormed away. You could tell he'd already boarded the plane, the plane for doo-lalley. The guy had turned into one of those passengers that just slips over the edge into the abyss of lunacy. I've been there a few times myself.

I'd arrived in San Francisco, and I was pooped. It's a 14 hour flight from Sydney to San Fran, and an hour on top of that from Canberra to Sydney. Add 2 hours in each airport and you have yourself a full day. BUT, you arrive in the US at the beginning of THEIR day and have to fly a further 5-6 hours with another airport in the middle. (usually Chicago) 


Add in the fact that you change over from Qantas Airways to United Airlines, American Airlines, Jetblue, or Delta, and you have yourself a recipe for disaster... (Bags missing, cranky 60yo flight attendents, a network affected by weather issues such as freezing rain, hurricanes, and hence loooong delays, etc.)

It was 2001. We had been in New York for September 11, which was a horrendous ordeal for the US and ultimately the "West". However, the day before we flew from New York back to Australia, an American Airlines flight, bound for the Dominican Republic had gone down in Queens (NYC area). We were nervous to fly with our 2 little darlings. Home sickness made the boarding easier and we were back in Australia as quick as could be. (but we did suspend our journey for a day at Disneyland and some time in the OC - highly overrated in my opinion...)

However, I had needed to return to the US to finish my exams and complete several assignments. I was back at Sydney's Kingsford Smith within a week and unfortunately didn't bother to show them my American immigration papers. I left that little surprise for my arrival in San Fran. 


The mustached-up Mexican behind the immigration desk didn't talk to me. I know they have a painful job, those immigration officers, and after my experiences over the previous months, small-talk wasn't a high priority for me either.

He began to frown. "This isn't good", I thought to myself. "You need to go with the gentleman who is standing behind you", he said. "Eeer, what?" I was confused. I'd never had concierge collect me and my bags from the immigration hall before. I spun around. A rather overweight Asian man stood before me. I hadn't even been offered the chance to describe the colour and size of my bags before he'd asked me to follow him as he spun on his heel. I... Was VERY unimpressed.

"Why are you in the US?" he asked, trying to make it seem like he was making "small talk" on our way back to airport prison. "I'm here to complete my university studies", I responded, becoming a little agitated by this inconvenience, especially as I now sensed my flight bound for New York would be leaving without me and I'd be sleeping on the airport floor with other alien folk (see how the Yanks can do that? Add an awful word like "alien" to a nice word like "folk" to say "lovely people who we don't really respect").

So where was I? Oh yes, "I'm here, to finish my studies as I'm a student at the University of New York". The response "riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight..." I must admit, at this point it really didn't help that in my visa photograph I looked like Usama Bin Laden.

Well, long-story-short, I waited ALL day, and then night, and then day again. I was finally released and trotted off to United Airlines for my trans-continental flight. Unfortunately, I had taken extra baggage for my sister in-law, Katie, who was living in Brooklyn. I had been given the extra baggage by her mother, and whilst I was within my baggage limits for an international journey, I wasn't for a domestic.

My bags had been tagged all the way from Sydney through to my final destination. However, due to my continental US flight leaving without me, I had to re-check them and this is where my brain derailed and I went a little bit nUTzo. "

Hello" I said, cordially. "SOoooo you mean to tell me that I can't check my bags in because, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah!?!?!?" "Correct" was the response. "Well, I want to speak with your manager." They're very well trained at reasoning with nutbags in the US. Oftentimes their customer service is the BEST in the World. But not when a tip isn't involved, and in SFO, and just a few months after September 11, at an airport, I had buckleys and none...   

So I spoke to the manager. Nothing! I spoke to the manager's manager. Nothing!!! I spoke to the manager's manager's manager. Still... Nothing... So finally, I walked around the corner and unpacked the smaller of my two suitcases. I had pillows, blankets, clothing, etc. I put it all on.

That's when you know a traveler has lost it. They do something odd to sort out a perfectly resolvable situation. I walked back around the corner with my pillow up my t-shirt, with sheets wrapped around me and with 35 shirts, jumpers (sweaters), and jackets on my top half and 10 pairs of underwear, shorts, and jeans covering my bottom half. I looked like the Goodyear blimp! My arms couldn't even be brought down to my sides!!!

And so I went back to the check-in, with one bag full, inside the other bag, and checked my bag(s) in. I don't think they'd ever seen anything like it in their lives. There was an array of responses, from the usual jaw-dropping and gasps, to comments like "he did not!" and "what an idiot", and giggles, and "humphs", etc. That was one of the most frazzling moments of my life.

And so, as quickly as he'd stormed away, he returned and said "I have to be at a meeting in Melbourne in two hours. You just got yourself a skateboard". Now he was fairly chuffed with his act of generosity, but anyone who knows me knows that this offer of kindness is akin to my wife wanting to squeeze a blackhead from my back. "Oh. How kind.  Thank you. I'm. Completely speechless..."

The very next day, at the same bat-time, in the same batty-place, I was serving a bunch of nutbaggy customers and I noticed my loon enter the rear of the queue. Immediately I alerted police and continued to serve the passengers in my queue. "Yes, your bags will definitely get there" I said to the customer, as I secretly thought to myself "not a chance".

"Hello, how can I help you today?" I said, through my teeth, whilst gesturing to the police to move on in. "I want my skateboard back!" he said. "Oh, I discarded that yesterday" was my brisk and firm response. His girlfriend, who must have been using the lavatory or something whilst her knight in shining bling had been in the queue, joined him and proceeded to badger me also.

"Look, I don't have your skateboard! It has been disposed of! You were advised of 2 options when you were unable to board your flight because of the equipment you were carrying. You chose to throw your skateboard away! Now, if you have no further business I'm going to have to ask you to leave the airport immediately." He looked at me like "????? Leave? Immediately??? " The police then patronisingly took him by the elbow and led him out of the terminal. Oh yes, I've had plenty of practice with confrontation.

Another time, when I was the manager of a travel agency, I had a lady working for me who was fraught with issues.

One day, I was working beside her, and a woman barged through the doors, handed my staff member some bills, and proceeded to rant and rave about what a disaster my employee was and how she should be ashamed of herself. The woman then listed all of her faults, in front of myself, her colleagues, and our customers, and then swanned out the door, without so much as one brochure for Kota Kinabalu.

This woman was a disaster. I don't know why, she just was. It was clear to me that she had received many terrible blows in her life, but her choices continually surprised me, and it was clear that she would never "work out" in our organisation. I tried to tactfully suggest appropriate decisions and behaviours. She'd always brush off my gentle persuasions with excuses and reasons why my suggestions wouldn't work.

It got to the point where I had to give very clear guidelines and make elements of her work mandatory. She didn't mind this and worked well alongside me, within a framework, but continued to make serious errors and her personal life took a nose dive. The personal life part would have been fine if it didn't interfere with her professional life, but it did.

(And whilst saying that, I really think the whole "personal"/"professional" thing is a bit of a farce and completely disconnected to how we are wired as human beings. It's a tool of capitalism to squeeze the most out of us and bottle the weaknesses of our humanity, until there is such a time where we are no longer needed. And that day comes to us all... Oh pooh, aye?!)

But, for the purposes of our agency, slowly but surely the woman fell apart. I had to start the process of documenting serious performance failures and commence the procedure of terminating employment. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeek, not me! Just give me the free cruises and business class flights to Hong Kong...

We had many lengthy meetings. She cried through all of them. Anyone who knows me, knows that I have to throw my arms around anyone who cries. I couldn't. I didn't. I drove her home countless times to her drunk/abusive boyfriend. I sat next to her on Saturday mornings when she was wearing her dark glasses, complaining of headaches, and wreaking of alcohol. I listened to stories of how the World had treated her badly. I sat and supported, but at the end of the day I had to say "goodbye".

Confrontation is no easy task. We all experience it in our lifetime. I have learnt to confront. I have had plenty of practice. I also know what it's like to be confronted. Some people are great at being confronted and confronting others, whilst others aren't.

I've been re-reading a LOT of my notes from university days about p-time cultures. They don't generally like confrontation. It's funny, cause in Australia we often think of Latinos as big-mouthed, highly emotional, argumentative types. I can honestly say that they're not. In fact, they are the opposite of those things.

However, things don't always "gel" the way we'd like, or feel is appropriate. And so, even cross-culturally, the times arise when we have to draw lines in the sand and say "which side are you on?"

This is no easy task. Please pray for the team at Capital on the Edge. There have already been significant rough patches and only the Lord knows the hearts of men. And so, we push on, ever-confident that he will guide and protect us as we forge into a future found in he who is full of compassion, mercy and love.

Fiesta Fabulosa (March 2012)

Our children come from the poor barrio of Cedro Galan and the surrounding area. They are given the opportunity to learn English, and we clothe & feed them. This video is testament to the second month of these children's education in English. They're TOPS!!! TaeKwondo is teaching the kids discipline and respect and the kids have also completed their first month of dance classes. In our second month we've concentrated on counting to 15, primary colours, English phrases, songs, games, and more... I tell ya, they've got more English under their belts than most fancy-pants schools in Nicaragua...