Marcos had diarrhoea in the desert and we pelted him with rocks. OK, so we all have things in our lives that we’re ashamed of. But you have to understand, it was a different time, on the cusp of the last decade of the last century… (cue time travel graphic overlay…) South America was being ravenged by Cholera.
Writing about this stuff really helps bring back the memories. Most of the time you try to forget. Shivering naked at night in the closet usually helps. But now that I’m jotting this all down, even more keep flooding back. After a brief stopover in Buenos Aires, which I don’t remember at all, these are my memories of the first couple of days after coming ashore in Bolivia, aged 10.
The trouble with the whole missionary situation is that, by default, the mission field is always a zillion miles from home. Pastor’s Kids get it easy in this regard. Their dad drives to work. Ours took 5 separate flights of varying length and comfort (I take that back. The comfort was non-existent) over 12 different timezones and dragged us along for the ride.
Welcome to MK Tales, home to MK’s that survived the journey and lived to tell the tale. As a Missionary Kid, you’re pretty much an acronym from the word go. MK*, TCK**, PK***, CL****, you name it. They slap a badge on you and shove you out into the bright light to run around blind and disoriented, bumping into things.