POST by RENZY: Calling Crazy Claroooooh!

Claro is a company that takes care of connections. For example you can have internet connections and phone lines T.V. connections, things like that. Since we just bought the house, we don’t have internet or a phone line that is our own. It sucks! We haven’t had internet for three weeks. We do have a phone line but it is not our own and also the owners of it are going to cancel it.

Now, because of all that we have to keep on calling Claro so that they actually come and install it. I am the one that always has to call up and talk to them because my dad doesn’t speak that much Spanish. He sits next to me and tells me what I have to say to them. On Tuesday I called them a bunch of times because they would always hang up who knows why.

I know I am eleven and I am calling up to see what is happening with our connections but it’s not like I love doing it. I actually don’t like doing it at all. I have to do it because I am the one that knows how to do it because I do it all the times that we have to call Claro. Also my parents do not know Spanish that well. All those reasons are why I have to call up.

On Tuesday it was horrible. I would call them up and get some information out of them. Then they would always hang up and because of that my dad would always get even angrier than he already was. He would always tell me to call back up, ask for their name and their boss’s name.

I didn’t want to do it but my dad forced me to do. I would get so mad and frustrated that I would almost cried but I didn’t.

So there was this one guy that works at Claro and he had to talk to me through the phone. He asked me “What name is it all under?” but in Spanish of course, and I didn’t know so I asked my dad which was sitting on my bed and I was in a chair next to the bed. I asked my dad and he said “Brien”, so I told him but then I asked him “but what’s the full name that its under?” and my dad said “It’s under Elizabeth Brien” so I told the guy.

Then he responds in a different voice, “Sorry we do not accept joke calls, please do not do it again.” I was just about to tell him the whole story about my dad not knowing Spanish but it was too late. I was hearing what I had heard a million times, the beeping of the telephone which meant that he had hung up on me.

I felt so angry and so offended. I could not believe it. 

He hung up on me because he thought that it was a prank call. I told my dad which was already furious and he walked out of the room and told me to call again.

Now my family and I are laughing about it but when it happened it was not so funny. However I can still not believe what he did to me but I have to admit that it was sort of funny. It was funny because when I didn’t really understand what my dad wanted me to tell them he would snatch the phone right out of my hand and he would speak to the people in a very angry voice but very broken Spanish.

It was so funny but then he had a turn at laughing at me because of what the man had said to me. I can’t blame the man because I am only eleven and I didn’t know what the name was under so it did sound a little suspicious. 

4th Child Receives a Supporter (Thanks to a couple supporting a couple)

POLITICAL: Nicaragua Central Bank Head Quits Amid Alba Spat With Ortega

Chavez, who says he wants to eliminate the “dictatorship” of the U.S. dollar, has promoted the expanded use of the sucre, a virtual currency created by the Alba bloc in 2009, for regional trade. The regional development bank, which is backed by Nicaragua, Cuba, Bolivia and Venezuela, is focused on supporting sustainable projects, reducing poverty, and promoting integration and sovereignty of member nations with a “just, dynamic, harmonic and equitable economic exchange,” according to the bank’s website.

CLICK here to read article

Assemblies of God marking 100 years in Nicaragua

A two-day caravan of 170 vehicles set out on 28 January from the Pacific port city of Corinto, where the Rev. Benuz Shoneckey set foot on Nicaraguan soil in 1912. The caravan retraced the route Choneckey and his wife, Yegui, used in establishing a mission in the Central American nation, ending up 145 km to the north in the capital of Managua. 


CLICK here to read more

POST by FRAN: Taking Off to TaeKwondo

Our family goes to a Tae-Kwando class in a place in the center of Managua, which is the capital of the department; Managua, which is the capital of Nicaragua the country. The place we go to class is called IND (Instituto Nicaraguense de Desportes or the Nicaraguan Institute of sports). It is located behind a Toyota car store and behind an office building construction site. There is a small road leading from the IND to the highway.

Nine people came to Tae-Kwando class on this specific occasion; myself (Francesca), Lorenzy-ella (my sister), Sezni and Rafi (my brothers), Brian (a little, eight year old boy who lives with us), Juan Pablo and David (the youth group leaders’ sons), and another David (who lives down the street).

All nine of us were piled into our white, four wheel drive (which isn’t so white anymore!). We were on the highway on our way to the IND. All the windows we down, the Hillsong disc, which was playing, was turned up all the way (yes, my father is a little deaf), the doors were unlocked and we were all exhausted!

My chin was is the palm of my hand and my elbow was resting on the side of the door, and I was staring out the window towards the big world that God has placed me in. I’m sitting next to David (who lives down the street) and im sitting in front of the other David. David, in the back, was sitting next to Sezni and next to Sezni was Juan Pablo. David (who lives down the street) was sitting next to Brian, and Brian was fidgeting with the door. And Rafi was sitting in the front.

At that second the car swung around the corner at full speed onto the small street to the IND! Brian’s door went flying open as he was still holding himself up by his little fingertips! His feet were dangling out of the car, almost scraping the fast moving floor!

We were screaming at dad in all kinds of languages to “STOP THE CAR!!!!!” Dad skidded to a stop as he saw David, Juan Pablo and I pulling Brian back into the car. We all drowned him with one question: “Estas bien? (are you ok?)” And every time he replied “si (yes)!” The Only thing that literally fell out of the car and hit the floor was Brian’s Ben 10 shoe!

We all figured that when Brian was playing with the door that he accidentally opened the door when we were making the sharp turn onto the small street. Brian was a little shocked after he almost fell out of the car. We aren’t really, really sure how the door opened but he’s ok now.

9th Child Receives a Supporter (Thanks to the Oliver lovers of Canberra, Australia)

9

POST by JED: Expecting God to Move...

The air is fresh at this time of year. Actually, where we live, the air is always fresh. I cannot tell you how hot I felt in our last house. I had a perpetual heat rash and it really was bothersome. I’d itch and scratch, bleed and scab. The problems tended to gravitate around my wrists. My wrists were hot because I wore long sleeved shirts for work. 

I was the 5^th grade school teacher, the only male primary school teacher in the institution, and so it all fell on me to be a good example in morality (which, didn´t you know, dress code falls under). And so… I suffered. I suffered in silence. I suffered alone. I suffered for the sake of decorum. I am consequentially the hero of elementary!

And so we sat there. No one said anything. My eyes twitched. They tend to do that from time-to-time. I’ll be looking around the group, and my eyes will suddenly lock with the young lady who is betrothed to the Nicaraguan Olympic Wrestler of 2012. Instead of glancing away I have a mental moment and continue to stare. My stare is only interrupted by the inevitable twitch, and unfortunately for me, this is when the fiancée also looks on in my direction. Eeeek, precious moments like these fill my life.

I clear my throat, “who wants coffee?” Not me, but I´ll do anything to get out of this ridiculous moment. I jump up, count hands, realising but not caring that the hands raised are waving “none for me”, “not today”, “it´s getting late”, etc. “Excellent, so everyone´s having coffee”. I leave the room.

Upon re-entry, I realise that Liz has the group mesmerised by her leadership aura. Liz really is the assertive/administrative type (though has a genetic disorder, post-pregnancy-syndrome, which has left her with only half her previous brain capacity) and when she wants something done, watch out!

Liz has had this “youth group” in her sights now, for many-a-day. Generally, the services are boring to us. We speak little Spanish, and understand less in Church (Really, you´d have to experience it to believe it. The Church we attend is Pentecostal, which we love… But, they´re so on fire that when they get started they speak so rapidly, and throw in so many Super-spiro words which wouldn´t normally be used in every-day-speak, we´re simply at a loss as to how events transpire…).

Liz´s concern, which is understandable, is that the youth tend to leave the service early, or start texting, or stare vacantly out the window… In any case, they depart, whether with their bodies or not, to a place far, far away…

Meanwhile, the adults are still being deeply moved by the pastor´s encounter with Proverbs, or a screaming prayer session in the mike to our apparently deaf Heavenly Father, or praisin off the roof to the rockin 50s tunes inherited from white northern missionaries, many, many years prior (many, MANY).

Liz - calm, serene, determined. She is not going to let this bone go. “We´re after some meaningful praise and worship, a short prayer for the offering, no ´specials´ (Christian karaoke for the older folk), a game, a relevant ´talk´ from an in-touch speaker, a spot of group prayer, without the announcements about whether-or-not we should get a loan for the $50 amp, or whether we should buy one outright”.

Sure, we do things differently, but no – when the youth service is not catered to the youth, and when the youth are leaving the Church, Houston – we have a problem.

And so… I sit down. I have 10 steaming cups of delicious java, which nobody apparently desires (poor them), and I get to enjoy every last sip by myself. Liz has closed the deal, once again, proving there is power in dialogue (step aside Clinton).

Hello Saturday night! We walk into Church. We´re excited, the music is pumping, the people are singing, it´s still cool and the Church is full. Saturday night, with the new format, is the only night where Church is full to overflowing (last Saturday night 10 people had to stand outside the Church).

The locals can´t afford to go to the movies, they cannot afford worldly luxuries such as alcohol and cigarettes, there is no bowling alley. The people of our barrio are either on the street chatting, or in Church singing. The entire congregation seemingly leave their pew to shake our hands.

We are treated like royalty at this Church, though we are very much a part of the body, at the grass roots level (it´s truly weird to us. Social status is unimportant. At our home Church in Canberra, Australia, we´re pretty much on the bottom rung of the socio-economic ladder, whilst here in Managua, simply because of our skin colour, we´re right at the top! Ridiculous…).

We arrive at our seats. We´re clapping, we´re singing, Raffy still has his fingers in his ears. The music is overbearingly loud. And then it happens… This night there is a special guest speaker. His wife arrives at the front of the Church and begins to sing. We all sit down (for dissimilar reasons). Nope, didn´t quite hit that note… Hmmmm, beautiful (heart)... We´re not thrilled-to-bits. Why are we having “specials” again. Whilst the intentions of the people are to glorify God, from our Western perspective, there just isn´t an element of excellence, which we fill is a part of worshipfulness.

I clap (alone). Next, father of the Church. Now this chap is adorable… We call him “Poppy”. He reminds us of our “Poppy” in Australia. However, he sings the same “special” at EVERY meeting! We can replay it in our minds on cue, and even know which bars he´ll sing off key. Please don´t get me wrong, heart of gold, HEART OF GOLD!!! …but not nearly a drop of musical talent. We clap wildly, Sezni almost making a mockery (He´s sincere, but gets excited by people in our Church finishing their “specials”).

And then the offering. More ho-hum-drum from the front and as we look around, it is clear to us that most of the “youth” have already checked-out. Sad. And as the pianist enters the 64^th verse, of this melodic, Latino hymn, Rafael dares sit on his seat. I think to tell him off, but then realise I´m just experiencing momentary envy. I crouch down to whisper something in his ear, but I fall on my buttocks by accident. I hug Raffy, which is excellent cover, cause who would dare judge a father for hugging his son whilst in Church.

Liz sees through my desperate attempt for a respite and gives me “the eye”. “We´re in Church” I imagine her to say… “How dare you be COMFORTABLE!” I slowly climb to my feet again. It´s agony.

We then have more specials, a few more pearler songs and a delightful 20 minute intro to the guest speaker by our pastora. And I´m spent…

They look to Liz for the game. She gives them the palm (like a stop sign). They look away. They know that tonight there will be no game. The guest speaker arrives at his post. Looooooooooooong sermon short, Jesus loves you.

I´m ready to up and leave when they ask Liz if we should go to “small groups”. Liz gives them another palm, which…

The pastora then offers an alter call. We look around and the crush is tangible. People are leaving their seats and moving forward. Even our daughter, Lorenzy moves forward. 10 people give their hearts to the Lord, and many more seek prayer for different matters.

The honest truth is that the Church meetings we go to can tend to drag (in our Western minds… Honestly, it is not crazy to go to a 5 hour service in a Nicaraguan Church of God, Church), but the Spirit of God is there and the people expect that he will move (and he does).

We have now started “youth group” in our home. We have the same expectation that God will move, and he is.

I am so blessed to have a terrific bunch of kids, who will get on their horses in the middle of the night, to go and share Jesus with the youth of our barrio. Who will openly pray with any person they encounter. Who will get up and preach to 100 youth. Who will pray for the sick in hospital, for the children in school and for their brothers and sisters in Christ who have nothing.

Our children are being raised to expect that God will move. And He will… We just have to put our hope in him and expect that he will move mountains in our lives, because that is his promise to us…

^“Hear my cry for help, my King and my God, for to you I pray.  In the morning, LORD, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you  and wait expectantly” Psalm 5:2-3

POST by RAFFY: My Colourful Mother

Raffy, in the new classy Orange room

One day with my dad, Fran, lorenzy, and sezni, I went to the shops. We had a lot of stuff to buy like watermelons, yoghurt and rockmelon. We went to the shops because we almost lost all of our food.

Raffy & Billy

While we were at the shops my mom was busy at my house painting the walls. When we got home moms panting was a surprise for us because we did not know mom was painting. I asked can I paint to. I said “can I paint too with a trash bag over me.” My mom said “sorry, but no!” The paint on the wall was orange.

Raffy, in the Atrium (God love... Who, in their right mind... Has an atrium???)

While mom was panting a guy named Yader was helping my mom. There was 3 walls painted orange. We also pulled stuff off the wall like mirrors and balls. So painting can be easy.

POST by SEZ: My Horse "Mexico"

Sezni & Mexico

A few weeks ago my dad bought a horse. Billy named him Mexico. Mexico is brown and has gold hair. He is a little fat.

I like riding Mexico he is the best horse. He trots and runs when I whip him, he is my best pal. He is  a great horse, just like Cadburys, my sister Francesca’s horse.

I think Mexico has a girlfriend horse. Her name is Cadburys.  They run and trot together. They like each other a lot.

One night, Daddy, Fran, Renz, and I went on a midnight ride, it was fun. We had a race. Dad was catching up to me. Dad wasn’t giving up so I went faster and then dad had enough. I won first place and my dad won second place.

When Mexico was near Cookie, Mexico got jealous. He bit cookie on the neck. Mexico just hates Cookie. Cookie is a horse that Daddy rode.

We gave out invitations to people while we rode. The invitations were for a party for fun at our house.

Grupo de Jovenes

POST by RENZY: New School, New Horses, New Life

Last Tuesday we started our school for the community. We also got four horses. The school is from nine A.M until twelve. We have kids from ages two until ages eight but originally my parents said from ages two until ages four but what can you say it’s Nicaragua.

My sister and I were taking care of all the kids that were crying. Luckily there weren’t a lot of kids that were crying but there were kids that started to cry and didn’t stop until their parents came to pick them up. I thought that some of them were going to start choking because they cried so much, but they are all still alive.

One of the worst things though is that I was stuck with one of the kids that cried the whole time. Yes, I was stuck with one of the choking kids. He is so cute besides the fact that he would always cry.

His father is the one that we bought the horses from. Pretty much all the men in their family work with horses. That means that he loves horses because that is his transportation and he is always with them.

 

School had finished and all the kids had gone home. Our friends from church Juan Pablo (we call him Yito, because “ito” means small, and Juan Pablo´s Dad´s name is also Juan Pablo. It´s kind of like in the USA when they refer to a son as “junior” because he has the same name as his father), David, Marcelo, and Yader were over to hang out and ride horses.

Juan Pablo was on “Cadburys”, a fat lazy horse and she was the first horse we bought and we sourced her from a different person than the rest of the horses. When she was sold to us we gave her a bit more freedom than she was used to – now, because of that freedom, she has grown very fat and lazy.

I was standing at the gate of the paddock with Billy just watching them ride the horses. When Yito got to where I was standing with Billy, he gestured to me like he was asking me if I wanted to have a ride. I wanted to, so I walked over whilst he got off. Once I was standing right next to her I could tell that she didn’t want to be ridden anymore. But I ignored her and put my foot in the stirrup.

Suddenly, Cadburys moved and kicked me right under my knee but behind it. I was sort of shocked but I sort of knew that she would do something like that. They asked me if I was ok and I said “Yes, but the horse kicked me.” They looked at me as if I was lying but then went back to what they were doing.

I went inside to where my sister was cooking and where Yader was drilling something into the wall. I grabbed an ice pack, put it on my leg and sat on the couch. To be honest it didn’t hurt that much because I was quite close to her.

Later on when my mum got home I told her what happened and she asked me “Are you ok?” I had to tell the truth so I said “Yea, I’m fine. You know I’m sort of glad that she kicked me because now I have something to write about.” She shook her head and chuckled a little and we went inside.  

POST by JED: Warning, this post is trashy...

I tell you it’s trash! How do I know? Because I can SMELL it…

Week 2 in our house and we’re confronted with garbage. In the past we had used the house owner’s car to take our rubbish down to a “neighbour´s” house, somewhere along Carretera Veija a Leon, in the middle of the night. “Oooooh you-who!!! Here, have 10 grandiose garbage bags full of carrot peels, used toilet paper, old bits-and-bobs, etc.” I can imagine them marching out their front door the next day with newspaper in one hand, coffee in the other, only to have the smiles wiped off their faces when confronted with Brien Stench… Putrid!

And so now we have just one car, and no tray or trailer to take the rubbish away. We did try, years ago, taking our rubbish to the tip when we had a café in an old Australian town, “Gundaroo”… Those were the days. We worked like dogs, and for little more than the dole would have paid us.

On one occasion we made the mistake of transporting rubbish in our car, and the extent of our mistake was not realised straight away.

It´d been a long day, serving customers, making sure that Franny hadn´t crawled onto the roof, like she did at my mother´s café in Bateman´s Bay. By the end of most days (10am til 10pm) we were crawling ourselves, dragging our limbs from the store to our car, with just enough energy to turn on the beast (an OLD Ford Falcon).

We drove to the tip and made our deposit - bags full of used plastic (which had contained raw meat), milk cartons, egg shells, ground coffee beans, etc. We then drove home and tippy-toed into bed. Oooooh, the delight. Pure ecstasy. Wickedly tantalising crisp linen and fluffed pillows. The beloved cries of our infant Francesca… Ignore it. Roll over... Sleep! It won´t go away!! Get that child and feed, change, burp it NOW!!! (and that was Lizzie giving the orders!)

The next day we awoke and had a leisurely breakfast. We chatted about our service issues and laughed at some of the mistakes we´d made (It was as if we´d worked the café 10 years prior, we were so patronising to ourselves!). We spent an hour having fun and laughing, and a minute getting ready. We popped Fran in the back of the car, and should´ve noticed her gagging, but were in too much of a hurry…

We jumped in the car ourselves and nearly died. The stench of the rubbish that had been in the boot the night prior, was overpowering. We learnt at that very moment never EVER to take rubbish in our car again. However, we were able to relive the moment for the next year and a half (until we sold the car), as the stench never left – no matter how much/hard we cleaned…

And so, without a tray or trailer to carry our rubbish away, what are we to do. Well, we´ll employ somebody to take the rubbish. That was our thought. We asked a young chap, unemployed and with access to a vehicle, to take our misery away. We told him our price, $2.50 for a once-per-week trip. He agreed.

Now this may sound like a measly figure, but we´re living on support from others, and people here will work for $5 a day. We´re on the way from his house to "town", and so it really was just his time and inconvenience to stop, fill the truck and then stop, empty the truck.

The first time he came was fine. He, his wife (15 years old and with a cute little tot on hip) and child stayed and had a swim in our pool. They laughed and played, ate our food and relaxed in our hammocks.

The second time he came, he asked for double the money. Now we´re REALLY stretched and feeling the financial pain of having a mortgage and a ministry that has truly blossomed. Our electricity bill, for instance, is $200 per month. (and that´s even with powercuts half the time) I told him that we couldn´t afford his price, but if he came every second week he could have double the money and only a little more work.

He came again, but 2 weeks later. This time, not happy. “It stinks!” He said in Spanish. “Um, yeah, it´s rubbish and has been sitting in the hot Managua sun for 2 weeks” (Managua is the second hottest capital city in the World, after New Delhi, India). We had a bit of a to-and-fro, but he left still resigned to coming once per fortnight.

Then we hired Yadar. Now Yadar is an exceptional fella. He is fully into God and our Church. He LOVES the Lord, his family and all the good things that this life has to offer. Yadar is willing to work 12 hours per day, 5 days per week, for $100 per month. He is a gift from God and is more like a nephew than an employee. 

Yadar was previously unemployed and is trying to study sociology at university (on Saturdays). He would one day like to work with a program like ours, and he doesn´t know it yet, but he is half of our program, and we will never let him go!

Yadar comes at 6am and rakes the leaves, cleans the pool and mops the “school room” (our verandah). He then slings the gun over his shoulder and welcomes 2 to 8 year olds into our house. He sits with 2 toddlers that cry for most of the day. He serves drinks and meals, washes grubby little faces and shovels horse and dog manure from the lawn. He´s a real servent hearted bloke.

At midday he watches as the children leave and has down-time for an hour or 2. He then gets on with odd jobs, which at the moment, is painting our house (the community centre). We sit and chat in Spanish and he makes fun of me (everything from my Spanish, to the double chin, to my Spanish again… He´s a rotter, but I love him). He then tends to the horses and plays with the kids, all the while answering the gate when visitors come to call (we are now a community centre don´t you know!).

Yadar is meant to finish at 6pm, when the night time guard comes, but always stays on because we have Church and missions related activities, which he just cannot get enough of.

Well, Yadar proclaims that he possesses the solution to our rubbish related issues – he´ll cart it away for us! Now, most of you don´t know this, but rubbish usually ends up in landfill. Where exactly is landfill, I hear you asking, it´s all-over-the-place in Nicaragua!

In fact, one time, I was driving along in our car, with the rubbish on the tray behind, and I stopped for some locals to see if they wanted a lift. Locals in our neck-of-the-woods always accept a free ride. Before I could offer them a seat in my cab they had bounded ONTO the pile of rubbish that was following us. The cries and laughter (Nicas will always have a joke about even the most dire situations – they´re kind of like Pacific Islanders in that respect).

It was funny. I drove a little faster to juggle the repulsivity around just a little more than was necessary – the screams of delight, it was hilarious (the screams of delight were coming from me of course, I´m not sure if they were quite as impressed).     

And so they thumped on the top of the roof. “Stop” they screamed, “stop, stop, stop, stop!” (in Spanish) I did as they commanded. Within 30 seconds the rubbish was gone. Thrown from the car and onto the side of the road. “Yucko” I thought to myself. With a little guilt I drove away.

There´s NO WAY I can do that on a regular basis. The local Nicas are not well off, and they throw very little away. Most things are composted. For us, we seem to throw a great big bag away, EVERY day. (please remember that there are 9 who sleep at our house, and anywhere up to 50-100 through our house during the day) The thing I felt most guilty about was all the plastic. Doesn´t it take like a thousand years for that stuff to decompose?

Well, Yadar had the solution and I was happy to turn a blind eye. However, I didn´t turn that blind eye quite far enough, because low-and-behold, the very next day, I went to the paddock to hang out with our horses, and as I released the latch and walked through the gate, I was confronted with a never-ending field of trash!

Dear, sweet Yadah had taken our refuse and put it 50 metres away on the pile to-be-burnt. This pile, up until now, had been dedicated to dead trees, grass clippings, cardboard boxes and decomposable odds-and-ends. The rubbish had been blown around by the wind, or carried off by the horses. I don´t know how it spread, but it lay like a hideous tablecloth across the entire terrain.

I slammed the gate shut! What was I to do? The paddock was my refuge, my home-away-from-home, the horses´ home, a serene, pristine environment – Devastated… I felt sick, like there had been a massive oil spill on the Great Barrier Reef! I went and retrieved Yadar. I was a wee bit red-faced at this point, but he didn´t catch on.

As we rounded the corner I was shocked by how proud he was of himself, “Isn´t it beautiful?” (more of a proclamation than a question, and in reference to the empty/tidy bins) “Yes, yes, beautiful… But this? (now referencing the littered paddock) What the dickens is this???” He now sensed some tension. “I thought that´s what you wanted, for me to get rid of the rubbish?” (my Spanish isn´t great, so this is what I imagined him to be saying…) “Yes, but over near the community we´re serving, not right under my nose!”

Buh-bow! Interesting. As I said these words I felt more  guilt settle upon my soul. I´m happy to share Jesus and my waste  with these folks whilst keeping my home in complete order, separate from the dear people I have come to serve? My conscience was seared…

Now truly, back in Canberra (Australia), I know that all rubbish goes to Mugga Lane. It´s not beautiful, but it´s barely seen and due to recycling and other phenomenon (I know nothing about), it never seems to grow or change. It´s there, but out of sight.

However, here – in Nicaragua, rubbish is everywhere. I know that there is a municipal tip that most of Managua´s rubbish goes to, but out where we live, it´s very rural. People don´t have the luxury of having rubbish carted away in massive trucks. It´s in your face and for you to deal with.

I am so used to jogging through fire after fire where the main fuel is plastic. It´s awful. Even “Lucky” (our pet dog, who died of a drug overdose), when she died, was hauled off to the side of the road and burnt. We didn´t quite realise what was going to happen. For weeks after the kids eyes would well with tears as we would drive by her “grave” and the stench of smoke would fill our senses.

So what am I to do? I´ve come up with a toot-sweet compromise. We´re going to start composting and worm farming, that´s for sure. It´s different back home. We´d just give some table scraps to the dog and the veggie scraps would go in the compost. We´d separate our cardboard and plastics in the recycling bin and the rest would go off to Muggas (thanks Muggas!). Our waste was compartmentalised.

However, we have to go further here. I do feel a little bit like the alternate type (the Manor Bourne?), but it´s out of necessity. Pretty much we have to be self-sufficient with our waste management. Nearly everything needs to stay “in-house”. Can you imagine? It was hard enough not disposing used toilet paper down the loo (it´s taken me three years to trash it and not flush – sorry to everyone whose drains I´ve blocked… I lied!), let alone somehow disposing of it in the same fields my children are expected to play in.

Is it called enculturation? We need to learn a bit from Yadar about the Nica-way (cause they´ve got BRILLIANT ways of cutting corners), and there´s also an opportunity for us to educate him about how things could alternately be done. 


Our good friend with the ute will probably also come in handy too. It´s about getting into the grind and working out solutions. We are here to serve this community and to bless them, and not to overload them with our trash! Pray for us, this experience is difficult and humbling, but we are growing and making real inroads to our community of the Punta Plancha. Thanks for reading!

POST by LIZ: Home Buying Queen

These last several months have been rather hectic!  I now take five minutes to stop, breath and celebrate the pains and agonies these months have brought us.  Now statistics show (please don't drill me for sources!) that moving, having a baby, death and buying a house can cause increased blood pressure and major headaches. 

We praise God we have not had to deal with the grief of losing a beloved human, we have, however, had to deal with the loss of our precious pets on top of coping with the other three factors...and before you get excited, NO! I am not pregnant, but we have welcomed three little boys into our home whom we love and cherish dearly. We also add to the Brien household two puppies, five horses, and a baby parrot - the parrot is seriously bringing me sleepless nights. I walk around the place with tired-I'm-a-new-mum looking eyes, and demand feeding is at its peak! (If only bottle was best!).

January 20th was a bitter-sweet day. Up to my eye-balls in grading assignments, I received a call from Jed saying he'd be there in five to pick me up! We were finally being called into the bank to sign contracts for the purchase of this God given property.  Stuffing into my famous red school bag essays which addressed the prompt "Do the ends justify the means? - discuss", I made my way to the parking lot.   

Honestly, I was rather skeptical about the whole event.  It wasn't the first time the bank had called us in; and like puppies wagging their tails, we had previously bounded into the bank to then be informed by the broker that we actually didn't need to come in as they needed more paperwork from the owners! Our valuable time and energy wasted yet again.  Am I bitter.. perhaps just a little!

Suddenly peace turned into Jed rounding the corner, beeping the horn and fifteen sets of smiling teeth, waving and yelling at me to “hurry up and get in”.  (It was Tae-Kwondo time and Jed had rounded up the neighbourhood kids plus our own and jammed them into our eight seater). 

We dropped off the 30 leg kicking champs at the institute of sport and started to make our way to the bank - 50 metres from the building we received a call from the solicitor asking us to bring all our forms of identification in, again. 

We then realised that the human resource assistant at the school where I work had our passports and cedulas, and the school administration were about to close up and go home for the weekend! Long story short, Jed stepped on the petroleum pedal and we were there in a jiffy, able to  obtain our bits and pieces, enjoyed four hours in the bank, and finally sign what appeared to be the contract for the purchase of our new house!

After receiving 10 messages from Francesca asking how much longer we would be, we floored it to the institute to find fifteen weary souls, tired, hungry and depressed as the coach had not showed up for the session!

While contracts had been signed in black ink here, there and everywhere, we still had the small issue of transferring the money over. Minor details! The contract said the house was ours (well the banks - but you know how all that works!) and while we still didn't have the deeds in our possession, pizza was calling us to celebrate in faith.

Jed released the doors of the car and I, along with many arms and legs spilled out of the car and onto the ground, and it was then a pleasure to be trampled by 15 sets of starving feet, who charged over me and into Valenti's-  La Mejor Pizza, Al Mejor Precio! While we placed the order to an overwhelmed cashier, Jed zoomed off to pick up Billy who was being watched by our faithful babysitter, Monica. 

 

He returned with Billy, we ate while we sighed out the relief knowing that this torrid journey of house-purchasing was almost over - we just had to transfer thousands of dollars across on the Monday.

Stuffed and satisfied, Jed reached into his wallet to pay the bill.  To his horror, the bank card was nowhere to be found.  We searched high and low, inside and out.  We retraced steps and started to choke on the idea that Jed had left his card in the ATM two hours ago, when he went to retrieve money to pay Monica.

Like a whirlwind, we left the parlor, cramming all the kids into the car and all mumbling. (Thankfully I had my Australian card to save us from shame).  Our vehicle took to two wheels, as we pulled into the bank parking lot.  We jumped out of the car, leaving the kids looking like sardines in a can, faces pressed up against the windows and all that lark, and ran into the ATM section quizzing the guard on duty.

Jed's limited Spanish was able to cancel the card, but we were unable to determine if the card was in the hands of another or had been swallowed up by the machine.  Jed reenacted the whole transaction for me - much to the delight of the guard; Jed had grabbed the cash and dashed. (BTW: This ATM was designed before the thought of theft so it gives the cash first, asks if you want another service, doesn't ask for a reconfirmation of the pin, and then finally gives the card once all is done). I quizzed Jed left, right and centre, and discovered that there was a dude waiting behind him in the que. 

We prayed, of course! But I tossed and turned all night, knowing in my heart that this guy had the card and had full access to our cool millions, as we had to take the spending limit off in order to have it transferred over.  If the money was gone it would severely jeopardise the entire purchase of the house!

Lo and behold the man had seized the opportunity and taken money from our account!  Thankfully, he only took a little over $300 - which is still a lot of money, but when considering he had access to the full amount in our account, we were thrilled that the finalising money for the house was still in-tact!

I felt God use this situation as an opportunity to teach me about his overwhelming love and treasure He has for us.  It's like we have full access to God, but like this man taking from our account, we only take a small portion of what we have access to.  (If I were a Math whizz, I'd tell you the ratio etc, but I'm not so just work with me and catch my point!)

God has an enormous amount of treasures to give us, and yet we only take $300 worth.  In a sense, we rob ourselves of what God has to offer us.  I felt God say to me, that unlike this theft, we have full rights to the account and God is willing to pour into us, so now it's totally up to us what portion we want to receive!  Self-reflecting, I know that I'm not tapping into as much as I could and I thank God for using this hair-graying experience to urge me to get deeper with him.  

POST by FRAN: Wild Horses

Cadburys is our brown, stubborn, fat, gentle horse. We bought her off of a man who was riding down the road. The man was short and had a bad leg and it was obvious that he hadn’t had a shower that day because he smelled like a horse himself, with moldy fruit and food additives as perfume! And I think I saw a spider hanging from his t-shirt. We have had her for at least five months and have ridden her at least seven times.

What I would like to do is have a riding club and go on trail rides with my friends, but only one of my friends, Sabrina, has a horse. Sabrina is 13 years old and she is in ninth grade at NCA, the school that my mom works at. She is really funny and we do everything together and we don´t care what people think about us. We shuffle, laugh, take pictures, eat together, everything!

So Sabrina and I decided to make a trail riding club for our friends that don’t have horses. We made a Facebook group and invited people to come and ride, but then we figured that we ONLY had two horses. So we postponed our riding club until we got more horses. It is hard when you have to wait, because of these funny mistakes, but at the end it’s worth it.

This past week I have been riding Cadburys everyday and she has been getting skinnier. My dad was all stressed out about the school because it was only a week away from starting. He was running here, there, and everywhere, getting cups, bowls, spoons, and chairs from the market for the school. He didn’t even watch me once while I was riding, even when I zoomed past him and almost knocked him in the head with my foot. I have no idea what was going on in his brain when he finally saw me but his face had a big smile on it.

He finally saw how good I was, both bare back riding and riding with a saddle, that on the day before school started he had a little friend come over… a little pony that was easy to jump on and sturdy enough to hold my dad. He is brown with fair hair and he is the cutest little pony I have ever seen!

My dad said that we are going to get four more horses and so we bought his little brown friend and then another gray one the day school started. They are so cute and they get on really well with Cadburys.

The first day of class went great but I think the kids loved it even more when we did pony rides. I love my job now! I have to look after the cry babies and help dad when we play games. After school I go horse riding with Lorenzy, my sister, and Yader, a friend from church and he is also a gardener here at our house from Monday to Friday. Life rocks here in Nicaragua. You can have a horse even though you’re not necessarily going to use it for work.

CLICK here to watch Franny´s Horses

Capital on the Edge - Third Child Receives a Supporter (Thanks to a Fantastic Couple in NY!)

Capital on the Edge - First Day for students of Capital Edge Community School

POST by JED: My Culture es tu Cultura...

A week ago we became the proud owners of a grandiose 5 bedroom, 3 bathroom house, with a casita (2 bedrooms and a bathroom), a pool, room for a pony (yes, we have a pony… We´re trying to replace our car!), and an orchard full of lush fruit trees. Wow!

We have since turned the house into a community centre, school and foster home. We’re believing that God is calling us into a relationship with our community and local Church, so that we can bless them and see this barrio transformed from a semi-insignificant semi-rural pueblo, into an army of Nica-vangelists. That is the vision.

The road we travelled on whilst in the process of buying this house was a killer. We once owned a house in Australia and to be honest the process of buying and selling, even from overseas, was so easy I´m sure a child could have done it.

We looked online and narrowed our search. Then we went shopping for our dream house. Once we realised that our dream house was unobtainable we slid down the ladder of affordability and reality, until we found what was potentially ours.

The cheapest house in the cheapest suburb, on the wrong street, in a neighborhood of hookers, drug addicts and criminals (sorry Mark & Rach, Karl & Trudes, and everyone else who lives in Gordon… You know where we lived! Gordon really is a splendiferous suburb, I´m just usin you-mer).

We sought info through our broker (thanks Craigie), and he put us in touch with all the appropriate people. Selling was similarly easy. Someone wants to buy, our lawyer takes care of the rest. (you just hand over a kidney and half of your liver for payment…)

Well, that´s not how things work in Nicalandia! We found our dream house. And then we found about 100 more. Everything´s for sale in Central America, it´s the bargain basement for would-be home owners… 

Come one, come all, there’s a small hacienda with your name on it!  I think we could have negotiated for parliament house if our search criteria had included “historic” and “central location”.

But no, we found our dream home and settled on a price in record time.

The owners, a Kiwi-Yanky combo, were helpful, resourceful, supportive and timely. The lawyer, a Peruvian chap, was honest and heartfelt. The government officials, typically bureaucratic, were slow, obstructive, slathered in red tape and closed for public holidays, election days, inauguration days, Islamic religious days, ufo sighting days, and the like. The bankers, hooooo the bankers - a couple of “Nicas”, were true-blue, capitalist money laundering tyrants. (unfortunately for us, I adored them both…) White lies to-boot (I can relate!) and plenty of nose tapping, ear tugging action for all involved.   

And so it was - the day we were to sign our contracts. I was stoked about the progress that had been made since the owner flew into town. I had been working on this deal for the past 4 months solid, and within a matter of 2 weeks he´d been able to slap everyone into shape and organise us to the place where we were sitting down to sign contracts.

I had been instructed by the bank we were borrowing money from that I needed to deposit $6,000USD ($600AUD these days) into our bank account. When working in my previous job, I had been forced to open another bank account, and it was in this account that we now had our money. 

And so, as per instructions from the bank, all I had to do was withdraw money from one bank’s account and deposit it into another.  

However, the transfer of funds had to be completed by 10am or the contract signing would need to be postponed until the following week – something I simply couldn’t allow (every day of waiting, has meant a little more gray…).

I went to the bank. Up until this moment, and for the past few weeks, I’ve been on such a missionary “high” it wouldn´t have surprised me if I’d received an invitation from Joyce Meyers to come and preach to a packed stadium of fem-bot-penti-red-headed-preacher-types… I was that on fire…

I sauntered into the bank. Performed my usual “high five” routine with the security guards, wink winks at the customer service people who don´t really do anything, a dignified nod to the manager – who pretended not to see me, and then I joined the que.

Now in Nicaragua, ques in banks are like ques in Australia, but in the 80s. I looked at my watch. I took a step forward. I leaned on a pole, only to accidently release the 2 inch wide isle divider which whizzed past me slapping the large lady (she, as a side note, was waaaay too adorned with exotic perfume and make-up), who is subsequently facing the other direction, on the rear-end. I started to point at someone, but everyone was staring at me. Red-faced I decided NOT to lean on anything else and switched from leg, to leg, to leg, to leg… I sighed. I sighed again. I sighed again and again and again and again.

I started to day dream. Then I started talking to myself. People looked at me once more but this time I didn’t point at anyone. From the colour of my skin people could tell that it was me who was muttering on about my mother-inlaw (in English)… My stomach growled and again, everyone looked on. I looked back at my watch. It had only been 30 seconds since the last time I had looked. Then I began the hideous cycle of similar actions, over similar time periods - I swear I have adult ADHD!!!

“Yay”, I’m at the front of the que. “Hello friendly bank teller. How are you today?” I asked… He gave me a look like “I´m a banker. I don´t have feelings. You saw the que you were in. Now shut-up and give me your ding-dang bank card.” I smiled uneasily. 

I asked for my money and he asked for my card. I handed it to him. He asked for my cedula and I hand him my expired passport. He asked for valid id. I didn´t have anything else to give. The only id I had on me was my bank card from his bank, my bank card from my other bank, my credit card from Australia, my expired passport, a photocopy of my current cedula (residency card – our current passports and cedulas were at the office of immigration for renewal), my Mexican visa (kind of like a passport), my marriage certificate, birth certificate, driver´s license, frequent flyer card, old American School ID, Pricemart card (a shop here in Nicaragua), hair dressing discount card, atm receipts, chewing gum wrappers and so on, and so forth… I handed it all to him, though nothing was good enough.

After 30 minutes of waiting in the que, my transaction was over (after only 30 seconds). This fellow wouldn´t help me.  I hadn´t had breakfast and was feeling weak. I started to shake. I couldn´t control myself. My feet wouldn´t move. I tried to talk but the wee-bit of Spanish that swirls around my brain, drained… I felt like God slipped out the front doors, quietly, not high-fiving nobody, no winks nor nods, and he left me, left me to deal with this dreadful situation.

The teller looked at me and I looked at him…

He asked me if he could help me in any other way. I just stared at him. My brain was either blocked or had ceased to function, either way I had successfully gone to la-la-land…

And so, this is how we progressed. I will translate into English so that you can fully appreciate the events that transpired...

Me: Want-money-now! Have-card-you-bank! Give me!

Teller: No, it´s not possible.

Me: Give me!

Teller: No sir, it´s just not possible. If you go and get your current cedula or your current passport then I will be happy to serve you.

Me: Give me now!

I look around and notice that all eyes are once again on me. The only person smiling is the lady who had been smacked on the bot-bot with the isle divider. The security guard who I usually “high five” is now standing next to me with his hand on his gun ready to cuff or shoot…

The bank teller continued, now smirking…

Teller: Sir, as I have explained, it´s just not possible. If you go and get your current cedula or your current passport then I will be happy to serve you.

Me: Oh, thanks. Me passport and cedula in government immigration office. Them-slow. Them-not-gave-me-documents. Need money now! You have! Money mine. Not-is-yours. Me give now!

Now when I used to work for Qantas Airways - the Spirit of Australia, I used to be the kind of person who looked for solutions for customers. There is generally ALWAYS a way to help someone, even if you´re only meeting them in the middle. I was in one of two groups. At Qantas, there were two types of people. The “helpers” and those people who got off on some kind of sick high by not helping. They would get an element of satisfaction knowing that they had completely ruined somebody´s day. It was difficult to work alongside people like this. Definitely not the “Spirit of Australia” in my opinion.

I love Nicaraguans, and find them to be more similar to Aussies than Gringos (people from the USA). They tend to be more relaxed, fun, and friendly, just like Aussies. However, there isn´t too much room for “taking initiative” in their culture. They have their rules and rarely step outside of the boundaries to get things moving. 

Usually, that´s where the bribe becomes necessary. However, as Westerners, we find it repulsive to bribe someone when we believe that what we´re asking of them is within their role and inherent responsibilities.

So to me, this chap could have helped me if he had have popped on his “thinking cap”, but because he is Nica, his culture, team mates, rules of the bank, wouldn´t allow him to do so. He gestured for me to visit the customer service people who don´t really do anything. I have been tricked by this tactic before. Once you leave the que and visit with one of “them”, they inevitably send you back to the teller, and not via the front of the que, but by the rear…

Me: No. I sleep here.

The fellow then began to type nothing into his computer. I knew this is what he was doing because at Qantas Airways – the Spirit of Australia, in my ticketing office at the airport, I used to always be typing “nothing” into my computer with a strained look on my face. The objective when typing “nothing” is to think of the next play in your game plan.

Yet in this situation, I was the one being played. At this precise moment I think Jesus might have slipped back through the door and started to give me a gentle “you-who”, whilst simultaneously waving his white flag in a discrete manner. I think he might have been suggesting that I start thinking of my next play. But I can be stubborn. No! I´m too tired! I´d rather just fight this bloke and lose my house!!! I imagine Jesus, at this point, calling in a placid voice “oh right… Well whilst your destroying your life and your future, I´ll just be next door looking at shoes. Pop over when you´re finished here…”

I thought of my next step... I´ll become a person from the Northern Hemishpere!. They´re used to that… I´ll just demand to speak with the manager! That´ll get me a solution.

Me: Me want you boss!

The smirk changed into a chuckle… He walked away and got his supervisor, a beefy bloke who wreaked of attitude. I explained the situation again and he gave me the same story. I demanded his boss, the polar opposite of him – tall and slender, so slim I began to visualise them as extremely different characters in a comic strip. The same story again. However this time, a group of comedians had formed, behind the counter, and they were laughing about me, IN FRONT OF ME! (In Spanish, I can´t speak much, but I understand a fair bit…)

Me: YOU RUDE SHOULDERS! I AM THE RUDEST SHOULDER I HAVE EVER SEEN! HOW RUDE! LOOK ME… ME DESPERATE SHOULDER! ASSIST ME! NOT IS JOKE! IS SERIOUSLY!!!

I demanded the bank manager. She wasn´t to start until 12 midday, waaaaaaay after I needed to have the money deposited in the bank. In desperation I turned to my audience. I wanted to break into song at this point “Shut up, just shut-up shut-up! Shut up, just shut-up shut-up! If you want to lose control…” (the Black Eyed Peas do it so well…) But no, I pleaded: Does anyone, ANYONE here speak English.

A gentleman stepped forward. I had a freakish thought – this man has either lost his place in the que FOREVER, or is using MY LANGUAGE to gain my position. I didn´t know whether to slug ´im in the guts or embrace him with arms open wide. Luckily, I decided neither option would be appropriate. And so I twitched a little and tried to smile a lot!

Him: They´re trying to tell you that… (blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…)

Well thank you. At this point something inside of me just broke. I looked at this man, whose words were in my language but to which I no longer understood. I could go to the ATM and be charged $50 for taking out the funds over-and-over again, I thought. (which, is rather hilarious, because this same day, but in the evening, I was so exhausted I left my card in the ATM and had $300 stolen – the machine gives cash first and doesn´t ask for the pin number again – 6 transactions later…)

I waited for another 10 minutes. The man who had assisted me in English went back to his place in the que (the cheeky rat-bag proving that Nica´s are gentlemen). The people behind the counter chatted quietly or stared at me. I stared at them. I didn´t say anything to them and they didn´t say anything to me. I waited and waited and waited…

Then, I picked up my things and walked out the doors. I drove to another branch of the same bank in the city and handed the female bank teller my card and expired passport. I tried to make friendly small talk.

Me: Oh, you are a big bank. A lot big and many handsomes. I like you bank!

Pretty Female Teller: Oh thank you, you´re too kind…

She giggled and then asked me how I wanted it. I was so overjoyed I nearly leapt over the counter and kissed her. But that would have been inappropriate in any culture.

I spent the rest of the day going from bank to bank, from meeting to meeting, and from machine to person, to machine again. For the rest of the day I succumbed to local requirements and did as I was told.

I believe that after nearly 4 years of living in Latin America I am beginning to settle in. I really think culture is the most amazing phenomenon. It´s a true gift from God and can either make you feel so at home, or so displaced. (Different when you´re a tourist “oh nice”, “how interesting”, “so fun”, etc…)

Some things in my mind will never gel with the Latin culture. (It doesn´t feel normal for me that the bank manager leaves her office, says “hello”, kisses me and then returns to her office) I want to change them and show them “the way”. Yet that will never happen and neither should it. Other things feel so right. It´s like I´m at home…

Please pray for us. We are taking JUMBO sized steps in our mission here. The locals are in love with us and we truly believe our “Jesus” impact is tremendous and permanent.

However, we tread a precarious line between trying to change culture and radically affecting our community so that they learn to “walk in the way” (to quote my Dad) - embracing the things that matter to our Father in Heaven, and rejecting the things that don´t draw them in to Him.