Indian Timing Part 2

At the moment I'm sitting here with wires trailing from my pockets, down my legs before they curl back up and disappear into my back. They're attached to pads stuck to my skin, sending little shocks of electricity into my body. Stupidly I've managed to overstretch the muscles in one of my hips again so I'm hooked up to my TENS machine and toddling about as best I can.

When I was a missionary kid, there was one summer which sticks out in my mind. It was the summer where I seemed to spend one day a week of the long holidays in hospital. Somehow, I'd gained a "thing" for breaking my fingers. By the end of the summer, I was an expert in tearing surgical with one hand. I still have kinks in the ends of a couple of my fingers, possibly as a result of that summer.

How do you control your kids when you live in a massive building and you live in a time before mobile phones? The answer - you try. And try my parents did. At first, my Dad utilised a whistle. We still have it and it's still used. It's the same brand which are used by football referees (That's the soccer for my American readers. Hi guys!). It's loud and, over wide open spaces, you can hear it for miles.

Except that we didn't. We were kids. We had lots of wide open spaces to ignore. The last thing you're going to listen to is your Dad leaning out of a window and blowing a whistle. During our second, and longest stay, at the Lodge my parents invested in a pager (we still have that as well somewhere!). It was nicknamed The Frog due to it being green and a pain in the ass to carry. Problems? It wasn't always guaranteed to be on the person you were calling and it was stupidly expensive to call and leave a message.

Eventually my parents all but gave up. My Dad is the king of lingering threats and you didn't mess with him. If he told you to be back by 9pm, dammit, you were back by 9pm! He has "A Look" which still puts the fear of God in us, although these days it's more likely to make us laugh.

As a kid with this huge place to explore, you didn't want to sleep. There were too many interesting stories to hear, to many awesome pictures to see and, in most cases, too much incredible food to eat. It's a good job we had all of that wide open space to run around in because, damn, we met some awesome cooks! One of my favourite foods was cooked by a lady who now lives in South Africa. She cooked this incredible peanut sauce. Horrifically fattening but it didn't matter. It was a little slice of heaven.

I've just asked my Dad "How did you keep tabs on us while we were at the Lodge?".
He thought about it for a moment before replying, "We didn't."

You can read the first part of this series at Indian Timing. At some point, I'll go in to the attic, find all the photos, and scan them in for you. Thank you so much for reading!

Indian Timing

"So, your parents are missionaries..."

It's an odd way to start a conversation, but it does happen. Not that I mind. Not in the slightest. I'll admit that I've had a life which is less than normal and I'm more than happy to talk about it.

It all began in 1992. My parents left fairly well paying jobs, packed up their three young children, and moved into a missionary community on the edge of Nuneaton, England. It was an immense leap of faith, something they did with very little money. For however long they lived there, they'd have to rely on the generosity of donors to fund their work.

They'd felt like they needed to do it for many years. People called them "mad", called them "crazy", but it was something they desperately wanted to do. They wanted to make a positive change in the world. Wanted to help people who'd lost homes, families, jobs. Wanted to rebuild places which had been destroyed by war or natural disaster. And they wanted to do it all with love.

One thing they thought long and hard about was how it would affect us. At the time, my younger brothers and myself were 3, 8, and 11. It was a huge move for us. New home, new people, new schools, new friends, new town, whole new life. The town we left behind was, at the time, not the greatest place. It had all but died when the collieries left.

It was a bit of a shock to the system. We'd gone from living in a small, semi detached house to this:

We swung between missing Swadlincote and being wildly excited. What kid wouldn't be when approached with the prospect of living in an old building with aches of lush, green grass around it?! It was haven, with trees, and ponds, and playgrounds, and tennis courts. Basically plenty of places we could cause trouble. And boy, did we cause trouble. Endless corridors, dark corners, a maintenance office which had a hidden pool under the floor, an attic space with a shooting range in it (no joke! The building used to be a school.). It was the crazy kind of place which dreams are built in.

But so are nightmares. Living with around 200 people, while great for building social skills, could be horrific for those of us pushed out in to the real world. My parents wanted us to live as normal life as possible so we went to mainstream schools, attended events outside of the missionary base, and generally explored the world like any other kid would. However, at school, I was bullied because of where I lived, because of the way I spoke (my accent was slightly Americanised during that period), because of the clothes I wore, because I wasn't in to the fashions and trends of the time. Kids can be so cruel and so merciless, and that period of my life was not a good one. I got in to some pretty dark places, began skipping school. It was horrendous.

However, the good times definitely outweighed the bad. Can you imagine being a kid and having 200+ other people from all over the world to learn from?! It was crazy! I learned to play some cool games, had deep discussions until 3am, learned to cook some wonderful foods, tried even more wonderful foods. They were brilliant times, character building as my Dad would call them.

I'll definitely write more about this. There's 10 years worth of material sitting in my head. Admittedly, my parents tell some of the best stories. Maybe, just maybe, I'll convince them to write something for here.

Thanks for reading, and much love to you all!