The lads had been training hard - front flipping, back flippin, tossing their bodies high and low, feet out wide, and arms celebrating the elasticity attributed to youthfulness.
Tuesday night is "pool night" for us Capital Edge folk.
Consequently everyone dropped their sporting wear; tracky-dacks, shorts,
singlets, tank tops, leg warmers, etc., and pulled on jeans and t's, whilst
simultaneously splashing a little too much aftershave and smearing handfuls of
slimy gel onto already glistening hair. We were a gigantic, gorgeous, gregarious, Latino
army as we strode our way into the car.
The night smelt like victory. We were cocky, confident, sure of
ourselves. It was a pool winning kind of evening and everyone yearned for success.
From Billy to Lizzie, the entire congregated community was prepared and ready to rip a
trophy from some unsuspecting local.
We drove along the bumpy, muddy road, which is especially wet at
the moment, on account of the weeks of rain we've just had. Erosion has pulled
"top soil" from where our tyres tread, and transplanted the dirt onto
paddocks and roads further down the hill.
People waved as we splooshed along. We honked our horn wildly and
returned their mostly friendly gestures. I say "mostly" because at
times it is difficult not to wet unsuspecting victims as you fully fang-it past
them - and let's be true... Pool sharks CANNOT be seen to be "cruising".
We mean pool sharks are more of a menace to society than a beacon
of safety (on pool night). On this occasion we were dressed to take-out the
opposition, we couldn't appear to be "soft" on account of thoroughfare
courtesy.
We descended onto the road, which becomes a river during times of
heavy rainfall, and sped up dodging people, moto-taxis, oxen and cart, horses,
rogue dogs, etc. Eventually we approached the rocky, ruddy road-part that lifts
us into the beautiful hell, which is the Barrio of Locos.
People walked along, eyes glued to the ground, with only the effervescent
sounds of gun fire and violent domestic arguments greeting us upon our arrival. The people of Barrio Loco are scary. We've witnessed theft,
battery, drug trade and abuse, intoxication and the like. The people of Barrio
Loco are wild, wicked and wayward. We love them.
And so as we drove from good and entered evil, relaxing in the
knowing that the "city of scary" we were approaching only seemed to be
dangerous, for sure we knew that we were safe because we travelled as part of a great battalion of good, protected by the ONE who knows all and loves completely.
Indeed, if safety is found in numbers, then we were as safe as
royalty. (Though not akin to the Russian kind) In the car, besides the swag of angels, were six valiant bio-Briens,
four street-smart guapo Trickers and five likeable, loutish, local lads. We conscientiously
left our foster children at home to be cared for by the armed security on our
porton and Jocasta, our delectable Aussie volunteer.
Our Brutish mob-like entrance into the pool hall did not go
unnoticed. We represented a formidable force. For example, Sez, our
ten-year-old son, had his cap on backwards...
Five young men lay strewn around the entrance, sporting the
effects of substance abuse. Interesting for our kids, I think it must have been
a first time for them - stepping over semiconscious bodies, making sure not to
place feet in expelled human fluids.
The kids encountered quite a maze - next obstacle? Ducking under smelly armpits, with handsome brown faces frowning
purposefully so as to not exude anything but machismo, but being betrayed instantly
by changing countenances - morphing into toothless, painfully contrived grins,
obviously never having been rehearsed. They embarrassed themselves thoroughly, it was beautiful, just
beautiful!
Upon our arrival into the hall our contingent immediately disbanded.
No tables were free and our group needed to somehow muscle-in on the action.
Elizabeth took the far corner as there were young lads who
wouldn't take her the "wrong way".
Jamil lit up a durri and swung his short, muscley arm around the
neck of a mate, being led to another corner.
The children took fifty cordobas (about $2) and regressed from the
building, bravely trotting down the lane to purchase bottles of fizzy drink so as to sip
the night away whilst absolutely obliterating their billiards opponents.
The Tricksters cornered the jukebox and immediately started depositing their "pocket
money", demanding hardened tunes like "Party Rock" and "Calle 8."
'Twas such a change from our usual Hillsongs or Bachatta sounds.
The local lads instantaneously began conversing with those
directly in front of them. Their raucous laughter and mischievous grins highlighted
the nature of their conversations - reminiscing the youthful ill-behaviour of days
gone by.
I paced around the pool hall, high-fiving my friends, chatting
briefly with everyone in the establishment and making the acquaintance of these
young, foreign, genteel lads.
The pool hall is a filthy place. The floor is concrete and the
entire building is either construction timber or corrugated iron. There are
holes and gaps throughout every square foot of the structure, it's wonderful -
something they'd try to recreate in Disneyland and fail at dismally.
The only item the pool hall has for sale is beer, the Nicaraguan brand,
which I'm sure is repulsive. However, they sell bottle after bottle of the
golden nectar.
On the backside of the building there is no wall and that's where
you'll find the toilet. But you can't skip to the loo! Oh no! You have to
walk... Down the stairs, descending about a metre, onto the muddy terrain
below.
Once you're on the mud (or in the mud, depending on the night), it's a sharp turn to the left and along to
the end of the bar, where corrugated iron stops the urinater from being able to
see the shoes of the pool hall patrons above.
However, for privacy's sake the pool hall patrons can see
EVERYTHING below, because they're standing a metre above the muddy ground and
way, WAY above the "protective" corrugated iron. It makes NO sense,
but Nicaraguans are very clever with their hygiene habits, so I just accept,
embrace and about-face.
I had spoken with EVERY person in the pool hall and slowly perused
the inhabitants of the copper cave I was standing in. Above all else, the hall was
buzzing excitedly. Our group, más o menos, were hovering by what I now refer to
as the urinal table (pool table closest to the urinal) and were laughing and completely enjoying themselves.
I proceeded toward the group and happened upon my son, Sezni,
being lectured by his doting mother, Elizabeth (mi esposa). It turns out that
Sezni had become curious about the "pokie machines" and was having a
wee bit of a hanker for a play.
Liz was explaining how gambling displeases the Lord and would
inevitably lead to a life filled with misery, heartache and pain. "Sezni.
Do you want to throw your money away?" Sezni stared blankly and shook his
head. His eyes were not connecting with those of his mother's, rather his gaze
was transfixed upon the big shiny machines, brandishing brightly coloured,
child-sized buttons, knobs, coin slots and flashing lights, coupled with the
melodiously tantalising sounds of circus music.
"Sez, I'm not going to let you throw your money away! I love
you too much to let you rubbish your savings. I mean seriously, look at these
men. Do they look happy?" Sez, fascinated, and continuing to bore holes in the cash-filled
machines with his adoring eyes, again shook his head, however unconvincingly.
"They'll never win, they'll only ever..." It would have
really helped if, right at that moment, the fella playing the slot machines had
have suffered a heart attack and keeled over dead. However, it was not his time and not to be. Instead
money drowned out Liz's last word "lose" and began pouring from the
machine, thunderously cascading over the edge and spilling onto the floor.
"Yeah, thanks Mum!" Sez responded as he walked away, clearly not comprehending a word
of Mummy's mini-sermon. "I think I understand now." Liz looked on flabbergasted.
"Of all the darned luck", she murmured as she wandered off.
It was at about this exact moment Lorenzy came running towards me.
"Dad, Dad, the foul is born, the foul is born!" I must have
understood because my body started running - the most unnatural feeling, my
legs are moving in one direction and I'm staring backwards, like an action
figure with a twistable torso, "What?"
I jumped in the car and chucked a U-ey with such force the
car expelled a tad-bit of a tyre squeal. We arrived home in record time.
Leaving the ugly, beautiful World of Barrio Loco and arriving at Capital Edge
Community Centre in a state of confusion.
"Francesca, you were with us at the pool hall - how come
you're here?" I inquired. This is the problem with having a teenage
daughter who thinks she's your slightly younger sister. "I came home on
the motorbike to get something." Interesting, I don't remember being asked
about that!
Francesca is nearly fifteen years old and in Nicaragua that means
she's becoming a woman. Francesca is fluent in Spanish, unlike most missionary
children we know here in Nicaragua. Francesca lives amongst the people - they
are her best friends, she's almost completely Nica.
"Right", I think to myself. "Mental note, take
Franny down a peg or 2 mas tarde..." It's a difficult one for us. When
Francesca was ten years old, back in Australia, Liz told Franny in front of me
to go and post a letter, over the road, in the great big red post box.
I was horrified, but didn't let on. "Oh, Liz, I'm jeeerst
going to get the thingy from my whatsy, in the whosy..." Liz saw straight
through it, "She's ten, Jed. We can trust her to cross the road on her
own." I wanted to act all "Oh yes, for sure," about it but just
couldn't, so I continued to lie. "Pft! you think I'm concerned about
Francesca crossing the road?" Of course I was saying this whilst bending the blinds with one hand, and peering out with dedicated, fatherly, hawk-like eyes.
And so I ran out to get my thingy from the whosy and instead
became side-tracked, hiding behind "X" wheely bin and leaping behind
"Y" tree. Fran didn't know I followed her movements in covert
operations, that was not necessary, I was merely instinctively doing what I felt was parentally correct.
However, back in Nicaragua I now felt like a failure. How could I
let my beautiful, innocent, nearly 15-year-old , bilingual, confident,
intelligent, handsome daughter, ride through a third world country, on a
motorcycle, in the middle of the night, from a dangerous neighbourhood to our
home, without anyone there to protect her? Simple answer? I didn't and the kid was
consequently to be grounded!!! (Yes, she is growing up fast, for me, way,
waaaaaaay too fast and no, I'm not cool with it!)
I looked past my fury for a moment and saw the preciousness of
life front and centre. For there, before my very own eyes, stood
"Chocolate", our brand new baby horse. (We're working on a name) Chocolate
was fumbling on his legs - at this moment he was just an hour or two old.
Francesca had heard little Chocolate squealing upon her arrival on the moto.
The chestnut pony-stallion, Mexico, had grabbed Chocolate between his angry
teeth and was trying to squeeze the life from him. Francesca had raced to the
rescue, beating Mexico on the rump with a tennis racket. "What a clever
girl is our Francesca", I thought to myself... "She's still
grounded", I continued thinking.
Chocolate has entered the World at a crazy time in our lives and
really represents to us the beauty that is so evident in this economically poor
country. Everywhere we look we see youthfulness, strength, beauty and patient endurance.
The World looks at this country, Nicaragua, and through inaction
sends a message to these Nica residents that they are worthless. However, the Nicaraguans we encounter on a daily basis are handsome, strong and completely adorable.
We in the "West" have so much to give and will sooner or
later be stripped of our wealth we so selfishly store. There are hungry
children suffering right now. You can make a difference! Jesus commanded "give
your money to the poor". (Mark 10:21)
Today I'm giving you an opportunity to impact the life of some
poor children in a place half a World away - Nicaragua may be across a very
large ocean, but Nicaragua belongs to your World.
The amount we're hoping to raise is $2,000, which will cover the cost of the rice and beans and their delivery to each household. None of the money received will be spent on administrative costs or any costs associated with running Capital Edge Community School, or support of the Brien family, or any of their ministries.
To donate to this cause please do one of the following:
1. E-mail us and we will send you our Australian or American bank account details: CapitalontheEdge@gmail.com
2: Contact our Church to arrange a payment plan: CapitalEdge.org.au
3. Send us a message via Facebook: Capital on the Edge
Many thanks for your generosity - we're counting on it in order to HUGELY bless these beautiful people...
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