Since neither set of our parents were really into the whole ‘looking out for you’ deal, Joel & I mostly just roamed free around the countryside growing up, chatting to homeless people and playing in filthy, dark alleyways whilst child slave traders looked on with a gleam in their eye, dreaming of thumbing through reams of greenbacks.
The thing about being an MK is that once you return home and attempt reentry, the process is like jamming a pickle in an electrical outlet: shocking. And everyone stares at you since you smell horrid and have green goo on your hands. In our 3rd world country (sorry, Developing Nation) we’d become accustomed to wealthy friends and the country clubs, spas, and sauna access they provided.
‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the barrio, not a creature was stirring, not even drunk Mario.
Because in Bolivia they did it all early,
The Day before! Which made me quite surly.
The only kids ’round without any gifts,
still waiting for presents, ex-patriot twits.
The stockings weren’t hung by the chimney with care, And under the tree was also quite bare;
We knew Santa might skip us outright,
so we prayed for abundance all through the night.
Ah… where to start with Abi? The beginning I suppose. That’s a good place to start things. Let me take you back through the murky mists of time to Grade 5…
I know this will be hard for most of you to believe, but when we first arrived in Bolivia I was pretty dorky and not much of ‘the cool’ at all.