POST by JED: California Dreamin (Part 1)

Every day, for the past MONTH, my to-do-list had contained more items than a China Town grocery store. Spin around, China man, spin around… The bottom of my to-do-list, by the same hour, had inevitably become completely composted. I was unable to decipher between what was to do, what was begun, what was completed and what didn’t matter anymore.

Need specifics? A bit on the cheeky side for asking, but I’ll indulge you. The water problem had gotten out of hand when we left for the US in July of 2012. We’d left Nicaragua shelling out $15 per month for our water consumption, and returned to bills in excess of $200 per month for the very same usage. We still don’t know why the hike in rates, and we haven’t been able to have it explained to us either. We blame the inefficiencies here, but I’m sure if we were in Australia we’d be confronted with similar daily obstacles. I’m sure of it!

We needed to collect passports, visas, organise plane tickets, practice “Created” - our street theatre production (a fancy way of saying “it’s marginally better than a Church play, but we’re nowhere near broadway”), sort the fortnightly pays for our ten local, onsite staff, pack our bags, communicate with our Californian Churches on the phone and via e-mail. The list went on (and consequently SO DO I!).

So the night before we flew out it was no wonder that our truck died. We were meant to drive the ol’ beast to the airport, but the naughty Nissan gave up on our vision. I kicked her in the brass, tut-tut-tin as I walked away. Who could we call at a time like this? We could have organised a Nicaraguan taxi driver to come and get us, but we needed 100% assurance that we’d have a vehicle, come 3:30am.

In the past we’d have called the Vinson’s, but sadly they’re now living in the USA. So instead we called our new best friends, the Kratochvils. “Hello” the lady of the house echoed happily down the telephone line. “AT WHAT TIME?” came the second, slightly less happy echo.

We worked through the night, not even stopping for a cup of tea or shortbread sweet. No time for dilly dallying, we had a plane to catch! I sat by the computer and printer, on one of our stream-line designed, plastic, Oriental Market chairs, calling Qantas every half an hour, in the hope they’d eventually get around to ticketing Francesca and Lorenzy’s plane ticket from New York to Managua.

Lizzie scurried from room-to-room, packing bags ‘n boxes, tidying bits ‘n pieces and organising this ‘n that. The Brien children randomly slept in and on whatever they could find. Every now and then they’d enter by walking on their hands through our open bedroom door, or by straddling our waist height window, clutching their chest, indiscriminately singing Broadway styled show tunes. What can I say, we’re an eccentric family.

The Nica-boys barely slept too. They were over-the-moon excited. Bboy came back with a vengeance and didn’t leave us through the night. We had all sorts of music playing, and the boys busted moves whilst snacking on day old Gallo Pinto and bits of left over loaf.

Yordy Dancing the Night AWAY!

I was almost ready when our valiant Mr. Kratochvil strolled through the bedroom door. I found myself stuck in one of those moments when you both want to slap and kiss somebody. I was excited to see him, because it meant that we were actually going to make it. BUT, I still had to pack, shave & shower, eat something, brush my teeth, have a devotion, do some online banking, e-mail more contacts, write our staff an instruction manual, find a cure for cancer, etc.

We marched outside with suitcases in-hand. Everyone grinned as they looked at the two vehicles which would ferry us on to our Nicaraguan departure point. At that precise moment an explosive brainwave rocketed about my mind – fill one car with bags, so that there would only be sufficient space for the driver. Fill the other car with people, so that Jason would have lots of help in finding the airport he’s been to only a thousand times before.

We crammed everything we could fit into that pocket sized Mitsubishi Lancer. I could barely move the gear stick and had no chance of seeing out ANY window. I reversed cautiously out of the driveway, knowing I’d gone too far in any direction when I heard “bump” or “crash.” I sat and I sat and I sat as I waited. I’m not entirely sure how many people can fit into the Kratochvil’s tall but fairly compact minivan. I think the number would be 6 or 7 legal inhabitants, but hey – we were still in Nicaragua, and 16 wouldn’t be too absurd.

Perhaps it became obvious that this human sandwiching operation wouldn’t work when nobody was able to pull the door shut. Lizzie had to jump out of the van, run around the vehicle in her Latina shoes (not made for comfort), and pound against the door until the screaming subsided. She then trotted back to her side of the car, neatly curled hair bouncing all-the-while, and slammed her door shut.

We were off. “Boy, look at that petrol gauge. Better stop & fill ‘er up” I thought to myself. However, that thought never re-entered my head until we arrived near Nicaragua’s Pentagon equivalent (tin shed, near historic 80s war hotel, previously the Intercontinental – a safe haven for journo’s, some of Nicaragua’s elite, leading religious figures, and political personalities).

“Rats” I lamented. “Of all the times to forget to buy petrol.” I let the car roll on, like it was designed to do. I kept turning the key and pumping the petrol peddle but alas, she was not going to give me anything more. I turned the car onto Carretera Norte and pulled over. I dejectedly exited my own little silver bomb (we would later be on a silver bird), and made my way over to Jason. He knew what had happened, but politely asked anyway “Did you run out of gas?”

I called the boys, requesting their assistance outside of the van. Moments later I realised they were completely paralysed, unable to move on account of all the bodies intertwined within the belly of the mechanical beast. I opened the van door and bodies spilled out onto the ground, like loads of little lollies falling out of a candy dispenser.

The boys got behind the car and at my instruction HEAVED & HOED with all their might. I do have to say at this point, and only because our chaps can’t read English too well, that it felt rather luxurious, almost heavenly, being pushed along silently (well, besides the boys’ strained grunting) through the streets of Managua. Icing on the cake might have been a drop of champers, or some gourmet antipasto, on this Nicaraguan version of a dawn, Venetian Gondola ride.

“Mush” I screamed, as the boys rounded the bend and the petrol station came into view. The laughter and cheers drowned out my verbal abuse. The fellas had seen the salacious establishment and began to celebrate – we would indeed be flying to the Northern Continent. I got out of the car and assisted the lads in pushing our vehicle the final stretch. We pumped GAS and before we knew it, but after an argument between Liz and I over who would pay, we were on our way!

Stevie’s parents had called us at 1am to say that they were at the airport waiting for us. They were OVER-THE-MOON about Stevie receiving this opportunity of travelling to the US and were now very tired, but still equally excited about Stevie’s new adventure. They chatted continuously and didn’t dare enter the terminal building - suspicious of all the security staff, and worried about being arrested for God only knows what. They stood outside the glass window and continued to talk amongst themselves.

Some of Stevie's Family

    

At 5am, there was already a queue with American Airlines (AA). We love flying with AA because of our ability to accrue miles with Qantas Airways (the SPIRIT of Australia), but over the years we’ve witnessed the slow decay of this American icon.

Still, although they’re currently sitting in bankruptcy protection, it seems they’re on their way up. Service seems to be improving. There’s a strategy for the future. They’re merging with US Airways – a northeast and west focused airline, which compliments AA’s network, whose hubs are in the south, Midwest and east. (I know… snore!)

The AA staff began to check us in at the self service check-in kiosks. It’s just one of those Latino things that makes you laugh. In Nicaragua, at any fast-food chain with self-service drinks, you cannot actually serve yourself. They have a dedicated self-servicer who takes the cup from you, refills your drink, charges you a fee and hands the drink back to you.

It’s a similar scenario at the airport. They take your travel documents, type the information on the screen that’s sitting right there in front of you – almost like you could do it yourself! Then, for us Aussies, once they realise they cannot check you in, they send you to the check-in person.

Our lovely check-in lady was gorgeous. Confident, clever, thorough. It’s something that I admire about Latin America. In the US you’ll inevitably be received by some cranky sixty-something-has-been, who thinks of herself as above her job (and definitely above you), especially in the wee hours of the morning. Not in Latin America, their physical presentation is outstanding, they dot their “i’s” and cross their “t’s.” They’re very polite and work really hard.

However, we were a group of 15. No check-in agent likes to be presented with this size of a group, especially not at 5am. In addition to that, the Nicaraguan people are proud, and I have worked at an airport and know how things “fly” on the other side of the counter. In Nicaragua you have to have a gentle combination of lunge and retreat.

I knew I’d pressed a little too hard when she asked for my ESTA US visa papers, something that, in general, is never asked of Australians. I had wanted NO dramas, and had even entered the ESTA website only a few hours before, adjusting all of our details so that this information would appear on the airport’s departure records.

But she was flexing her check-in muscles and so I ripped my paperwork from my pantalones and handed them to her in triumph. She was, of course, highly disappointed that I was so efficient and organised. I have to be, I’M A MISSIONARY WITH THE CALL OF GOD ON MY LIFE!

In addition to being so momentarily wonderfully marvelous, I whispered “and I’d like ALL of our boarding cards to be reprinted with our frequent flyer details on them please.” I smiled at her, a rather Batman’s Joker smile, and she snapped back “they’re in the system!”

I took a moment, but then pressed “Yes, thank you for entering the details into the system, but I am going to be a little cheeky and insist that you reprint all of our boarding cards.” Nicaraguans LOATHE confrontation. “Of course sir…”

The immigration line was non-existent. We gave hugs to Stivey’s family who smiled at us with a mixture of love and gratitude. We chatted for several seconds with our newfound Nicaraguan missionary family from Texas, the Winns, who departed from us to have a spot of breakfast in Managua Airport’s tastefully decorated eatery.

And then it was time. I was so organised my heart filled with pride. I began to hand out, one-by-one, passport and boarding pass. The boys and my children gratefully received their documents and walked through the immigration doors like Princes about to be Coronated.

Of course everything was going well until I realised that the boys needed their national identity cards (cedulas) in order to depart the country. Liz stormed over to me and ripped the documents out of my hands, sending pieces of paper flying in every direction.

I suddenly felt like one of the bankers from Mary Poppins, when there is a rush on the bank for money, as I grappled with important documents which were sailing about the airport’s main lobby. A great big ominous Daniel Ortega sculpture glared down at me. I grabbed whatever I could and ran into the safety of the immigration office.

“I’m with them” I breathlessly murmured. It took a moment to regain my composure, on account of my children’s faces, who looked like they were about to insist that they’d never seen me before.

We entered the security section and the whipping off of clothes began. Not permitted: belts, buckles, shoes and dignity – “lay it all on the belt please.” Of course Sezni had to walk on his hands through the beeping machine, because that’s just how our handsome son, who has Asperger’s Syndrome, gets through his insane life.

The Nicavangelists on there WAY to California (via Miami)

It felt like only a few minutes until the boarding of the aircraft began – a Boeing 737. We climbed aboard and it was at this moment that our boys became awe-struck. First the aero-bridge. They stomped, tippy-toed, salsa’d, cartwheeled and flipped their way on to the shiny silver bird. 

Francesca, Beycker, Yordy, Jonny & Rene, in the Line to Board the AA Aircraft

 

Then the flight attendant, a youngish blonde lady, welcomed us all onboard with a broad grin from ear-to-ear. I wanted to tell the boys that they were experiencing more service from an American Airline’s flight attendant than I’d witnessed in years, but refrained from raining on their parade, because they could care less, and because they could care less.

I sat next to Rene, who had Lorenzy on his other side. Across from me sat Yordy. Anna (our GAP YEAR Leader) was diagonally behind me, and the rest of our crew were in the rows ahead. At this point my mind began to race. I was tired. We’d remortgaged our house, spending some $20k on the organisation and execution of this trip. We believe in the Lord. We believe in our boys. We believe in our kids. We believe in the Church. We believe in the Great Commission. We believe in the importance of winning lost souls. We believe in ourselves…

The plane took off with a roar and the boys began to giggle, laugh, whoop and holler! They were out-of-their-skin excited and we were on our way to our Dream – God had taken a bunch of misfits and lowlifes, put us all together, and blessed us with the courage to step out in faith. Are you ready? Cause HERE WE GO!!! 

Lizzie, Snug As a Bug in a RUG!