The Lady In The Lake

The rains came.
They were heavy. They trickled through the holes in what passed for a roof. We put buckets on the floor to catch them.
‘Sometimes it’s like a lake in here,’ said Father Felipe’s wife.
Now, I like to think that I’m reasonably smart and learned. I mean I’ve studied Shakespeare, I can multiply in my head, I know the capital cities of many countries. But all that means sod all out here. I’ll fix a hole or two then one day I’ll fly back to a nice flat near a Tesco, a Starbucks and a Blockbusters while these people will be putting buckets on the floor to catch the rains. I'm not smart enough to make sense of that.
At least next time I’m on a bad date I can say to myself Sometimes it’s like a lake in here and it might not seem so bad.

The Virgin Mary At The Kitchen Table

This morning, there was a Virgin Mary on the kitchen table. I was pretty sure that she wasn't there yesterday. She was in a big glass case so I think I would have noticed.
I'm living with a Costa Rican family. The house is deceptively big and new family members keep appearing. It reminds me of a clown car at the circus, just when you think it's empty, another person pops out. It's not grand luxe and it's not quiet but it's Costa Rica.
'Hay una Virgen a la mesa,' I said to my hostess. There's a Virgin at the table. I hoped she didn't think I was talking about myself.
She explained that the Virgin did a tour of the local houses during Lent. She watched over the families to make sure everything was OK. Tomorrow She would be gone, moving on to the house next door.
Now, I'm no believer, but as I tucked into a pancake and a big bowl of fresh fruit I was pretty sure that She was watching me. I think I even heard Her stomach gurgle.

Father Felipe

‘Today, we are going to the poor part to give food,’ said Father Felipe.
Father Felipe had served in the Nicaraguan Army then he had been a drug addict then he had found Jesus. I told him I had been an account manager and once chipped a tooth. Here in the slum, he served out food and salvation.
‘I thought this was the poor part…’ I said.
His wife cooked up a huge rice dish and we carried it across the slum. The area we arrived at didn’t look like an area. If calling the other part basic was like calling a dead man sick then this was the rotting corpse.
Dirty children lined up and we served out food onto paper plates. I felt sick to my stomach.
Later, back in town, I got overcharged for a beer which I thought was outrageous.

Who Helps The Helper?

'Me llamo Luis,' he said in Spanish. My name is Luis.
He was ten. He was helping me. I was supposed to be helping him.
'Hola Luis. Soy Sebastian.'
We were painting a piece of corrugated iron for a wall. He slapped the yellow paint on. He sent splashes everywhere. He created stars on my clothing.
I was working in a slum. It was a shanty town on the outskirts of the Costa Rican capital built up by Nicaraguan refugees. To say it was basic would be like saying a dead man was slightly sick.
'Don't go in there, it's dangerous,' said a man helpfully as he came out.
Luis was clean and polite. As clean as a refugee kid could be. I was wearing four day old clothes as my luggage was missing. I felt like every time I took my shoes off an angel died. Looking at the both of us, it wasn't clear who was helping whom.
Luis smiled. I had travelled thousands of miles to come here but he was helping me.

Nowhere Man

Now boarding for Los Angeles.
I was at an airport for yet another transfer. I didn't know where I was.
Now boarding for Lima.
I was in an in-between place. I was in an in-between time zone.
Now boarding for Santiago.
I hadn't slept in 24 hours. They already lost my luggage. This whole thing seemed like a very bad idea.
Someone should volunteer on a project to help me.

From Penthouse To Pavement

Tomorrow I’m off to the airport.
I’m off on a plane to Central America.
I’m off to Costa Rica to join a volunteer construction project to build hospitals and orphanages and care shelters to help the poor and weak and make the world a better place. OK, that’s an exaggeration. I’ll probably just be changing light bulbs or painting outhouses but it still beats sitting in a meeting room having a heated discussion about why Arial is better than Times New Roman for a response document.
Postings from here on in may well be erratic.
Life from here on in may well be erratic.
Which I guess was the point.
By the way, I bought the cargo pants.

Stuff & Nonsense

So I’ve booked a ticket and I’m off.
And I’m trying to let my place so now I’m packing all my stuff into boxes. All the accessories to a life that I didn’t really live. Overall, there isn’t much. I have little baggage. It seems I avoided all big responsibility.
There’s a line in the novel Fight Club that goes ‘Then you’re trapped in your lovely nest, and the things you used to own, now they own you.’ I felt like that. So now I’m packing my nest into little boxes. I am no longer my stuff. I am no longer my flat. And I’m no longer my job.
Now I’m just my jeans and some earwax.
What’s more worrying is that I am no longer my bookshelves. How am I supposed to impress girls if they can’t see the way I strategically placed Sartre's Being & Nothingness next to 15-Minutes Abs Workout?