At every school there has always existed the expanse separating the cool kids from the losers. The dividing wall constructed from perfect DNA and wealthy parents, segregating the Rob Lowes and Tom Cruises of the world from the pond scum. I was wedged firmly in the latter camp, with nary a chance of ever migrating to the former.
By now you’d know that when I was young I was pretty fast around the track. I’ve talked about my skills here on MK Tales at length, it’s been in the news, and generally passed down from one grandmother to the next in villages everywhere as legend and heartfelt tales of yore.
I’ll be brutally honest: church in Bolivia was never any fun at all. Mum & Dad tried a few different churches over the years with ever loftier heights of boredom and awkwardness. Making things more difficult, in the beginning we weren’t speaking Spanish, like everyone else. Also, we weren’t dark-skinned and attractive, like everyone else. Even when we learnt Spanish, which helped our survival somewhat, since it made buying food a little easier, by then everyone was speaking Quechua, and there was no way I was going to that much trouble.
Midway through highschool we caught whiff of rumours in the wind of another 2 boys joining the school after the summer break. They were coming down from hellish Florida to idyllic Cochabamba to stay with their relatives and live the opulent lifestyle afforded to them by their DNA. This was exciting.
Thursdays were always Mum & Dad’s special day to spend with the child protection lady, so as a kid I spent the afternoons at Joel’s playing with his Micro Machines™. I don’t think we ever ended up really playing with the toys at all. We only ever poured the whole collection onto the floor and came up with new and marvelous ways of divying up the spoils for everyone in attendance.