It looks like Magnum P.I. has opened the floodgates! Another guest Tale, this time from Dad, obviously reciprocating after many gracious, positive mentions on the site… For those who have never had the pleasure of climbing the famous Mt Tunari, at the end of the Cochabamba valley in Bolivia, I thought I would pen a few words to tell of our expedition some years back.
The first Camp I ever went to, at least the first I have any memories of, was Candelaria. The campsite was high in the hills far from Cochabamba, impenetrable from threats like marauding villagers, personal hygiene, or warmth. They named it Candelaria after a Virgin or someone that was seen nearby back in the day (they were always seeing virgins over there) or perhaps because calling it Stallag 18 would have been walking on well-trodden ground.
Well! At long last, a brave soul heeded the call for decent (at last!) writing on MK Tales. And a celebrity no less! He often gets confused with that guy from Blue Bloods. Magnum P.I., take it away… I see you have been compiling stories of some truth about me without revealing my true identity.
When we lived in Bolivia, we were pretty poor. Better off than most, but compared to Steve Jobs, the IKEA guy or Mother Teresa: pretty poor. This meant I got no pocket money and as a white kid, opportunities for honest work weren’t plentiful, aside from maybe selling vegetables on the street for 50c a month, or my remaining organs Dad didn’t have dibs on.
Well, here we are, one year older but not wiser. Thanks everyone for visiting throughout the year. Your support means something. I just haven’t figured out what yet. Of course, my pleas for photos largely went unnoticed; save for about 2 people, and I’ve never had anyone else try to write for the site, aside from threats from family members looking for revenge.
A while ago a friend of mine had a melanoma removed from her arm. It left a rather large scar on her bicep and left my wife rather worried about the health of our skin. As a couple, we agreed the best course of action was to be men and to do nothing about it and ignore any symptoms that might arise in the future.
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.
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.