MK Tales couldn’t exist without Bolivian stories obviously, but those stories couldn’t happen without a little prefacing. To prepare me for the onslaught of emotions and out-of-body experiences that comes with living in a
3rd World Country Developing Nation, my parents gave me all the practice I needed in Molong.
Almost more harrowing than being flung out the door of the pre-WWII plane into the dust of some obscure foreign country is what is commonly known in the industry as re-insertion:* returning to live in one’s country of origin after many years in some glorious foreign land that only made it onto the world map in the past 2 decades.
For my 11th Birthday, in a flash of parenting brilliance that sadly didn’t set a precedent, Dad thought it would be a good idea to take a trip down into the jungle to visit one of the obscure tribes out in the middle of nowheresville. It would be a personal growth exercise; seeing how other people live, how they deal with their own personal growths etc.
The relationship between Bolivia & Football is like that of Sonny & Cher, Strawberries & Cream, or Americans and Twinkies. So, in honour of the recent FIFA© World Cup® I thought I’d better do a football post. In Australia, every aussie knows they’re a sports fan because they buy big screen TVs and yell at their kids on the field every weekend.
Weddings in Bolivia were very festive affairs. They were pretty much just an excuse to have a giant feast and invite around 1000 relatives and the mutant fly-man. I’m sure many of them were days long. Such was the case with Juan. He was one of the groundsmen at school. Roy (Joel’s dad) was lucky enough to be godfather for Juan’s wedding.
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.