OK, there’s actually nothing special about this at all. That was a complete load of False Advertising. But I’m on holidays and too lazy to bother writing anything decent this week. I would like to take the time to thank everyone reading the site. If you’re an MK you’re allowed to write here too if you like.
With the 20/20 vision that the rose-coloured glasses of hindsight provide, history can be boiled down to more clichés and monumental confrontations for the most part. Clashes replete with victors and losers. The making and breaking of civilizations. Bush V Gore, The Romans V Everyone, Napoleon V debilitating shortness, the American Public V the chance at decent healthcare… The list goes on.
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.
Say what you will about 3rd World Countries, but their public transportation systems are not to be trifled with. Of course, taking a trifle on anything moving is a mistake and will only end in tears and a shirt that looks like the entire Rolling Stones entourage puked on you, but in the other sense of the word I mean transport in Bolivia was quite good.
DAY 1 Our adventure was underway at long last, and cresting the mountain, I gazed across the wide barren valley that would become our home for the rest of the day. The trail would wind down through the andean peaks, eventually disappearing into the valley far below, up and down hills for the next few days, past streams and tiny villages.
Years after my damaging MK experiences I spent much of my holidays in Sydney convalescing with my cousins. They lived near the beach, which was a plus. We were all lazy and never actually went to the beach, which was a minus. After dinner out one night we were walking home and happened upon a 2-foot long Tasmanian Atlantic Salmon in one of the salt water 25-mitre swimming pools built along the shore.
The Summer before my senior year, James hatched a plan to hike the Inca Trail with his brother Jeremy and they invited me along. It had been done before. Some of the grades at school had traversed it for their camps on previous years. The whole region was littered with white kids’ bodies.
Just like driving on the wrong side of the road and consuming 19 boatloads of Twinkies per capita per annum, Americans once again threw caution to the wind, stood in defiance of the rest of the civilized world… and decided to misplace their summer break and stick it in July. The prevailing theory is that it had something to do with catfish hunting.
I was maybe halfway through my high school years in Bolivia when the most extraordinary thing happened: The heavens opened and George Lucas revealed he was re-releasing the StarWars trilogy with updated special effects not involving potatoes and hopefully less incest, for the 20th Anniversary of the original film’s release. The world went nuts.
Remember when you’re a kid, and there’s always some older guys at your school that you look up to? Not just because you were 2ft nothing. But you know the ones. The embodiment of everything you wanted to be? Purveyors of coolness and suave-erity?* Despite appearances, being fully aware of the amazing mullet, John and Walter, sadly, were not those guys.
While we were back in Australia on furlough, most of my free time was spent either talking on the phone to my girlfriend for hours, or talking to random strangers online for hours. It’s possible neither activity was actually helping my non-existent social life. This was before all this new fang-dangled stuff you kids have, like Facebook.