THANK YOU!

Anthony, Matthew, Debbie, Lara, Kate, Liana, Graham, Ben, Duncan, Sylvie, Louis, Luke, Steve, Leonard, Isabelle, Enda, Sophie, Julian, Jean-Noel, Hannah, Gayle, Matt, Anna, Jennifer, Will, Stephanie, Lewis, Olga, Alessandro, Alessandro, Pasquale, Carlo, Sebastiano, Stefano, Nicola, Pere, Luca, Lucia, Alessandra, Maria, Maria, Roberto, Alejandro, Jack, Laetitia, Katerina, Vanicha, Michael, Inge, Elisa, Donella, Stefania, Daniele, Amar, Babloo, Pascal, Lizzy, Antonio, Anna, Sandip, Cristina, Beppe, Beth, Patrick, Gina, Sam, Kishor, Margot, Jean-Guillaume, Rodney, David, Marie, Pinku, Subash, Deepti, Govindo, Lucy, Sanju, Gabriel, Rahki, Sonu, Nilaya, Leema, Rajni, Lilly, Arundhoti, Ankush, Kabery, Aradhna, Anjeli, Bashker, Raju, Kusum, Mary John, Piya, Shakina, Nisha, Manjuri, Helena, Pauline, Mithali, Megha, Shirpa, Argina, Shushmita, Pushpa, Aunty Mary Lou, Ernst, Annabelle, Michelle, Antonio, Lara, Nina, Dimitri, Paul, Lynne, Christian, Frank, MC, Dave, Glen, Azania, Rishi, Nadine, Sue, Anja, Glyn, Cheryl, Daniel, Jess, Tony, Vincent, Michelle, Christine, Klecius, Simone, Lidia, Nadja, Susie, Manuela, Walter, Del, Paulinha, Ania, Jorgelina, Karina, Bijan, Paula, Don Luciano, Dona Raimundo, Erika, Tata, Hernandez, Hildo, Jo, Andre, Elma, Bruno, Luciana, Maceania, Dona Raimunda, Francisco, Arnaldo, Sergio, Edison, Vikram, Micaela, Don Roberto, Don Jose, Carmen, Giovanna, Ismael, Evert, Lin, Matthias, Amance, Raphael, Gerrit, Lin, Claudia, Hubert, Maribelle, Josephine, Mercedes, Ruth Carina, Zoila, Roxanna, Martin, Carlos, Juan Maria, Juan Daniel, Mathias, Luz Marina, Milagros, Marilou, Maria Teresa, Delia, Helene, Jose Maria, Guiulfo, Ingrid, Karina, Veronica, Yaqui, Cynthia, Ricardo, Hassan, Awais, Lisa, Milagros, Senora Jenny, Senor Carlos, Desiree, Necho, Michelle, Carolina, Nelly, Senora Lidia, Orlando, Hector, Sawyer, July, Cecilia, Dionisio, Santiago, Felipe, Iskra, Senora Dora, Leonor, Maricela, Yuri, Kelly, Paola, Alexander, Fernanda, Antonio, Billy, Javier, Junior, Rocio, Catalina, Katia, Dean, Mileidy, Maria, Isaia, Juan , Marcos, Martin, Olonso, Louise, Stewart, Chiara, Thierry, Mary, Alessandro, Hero, Mirtha, Lyra, Nerys, Jairo, Antonio, Santiago, Luis Alberto, Gomes, Mariano, Andres, Carlos, Orlando, Julio, Alfredo, Joselina, Pedro, Joaquin, Valencia, Ryan, Erica, Alexander, Michael, Neibis, Colin, Amanda, Senora Cecilia, Senor Regino, Jesus, Yuliannys, Norys, Nelson, Juan Carlos, Javier, Saul, Nelly, Trino, Cesar, Ulyses, Pepito, Ivan, Pedro, Fidel, Riccardo, Baldomero, Oscar, Luis Alberto, Luis Alfredo, Rea, Ivol, Lauren, Gale, Soizick, Fabrice, Jonathan, Sean, Natasha, Alex, Theo, Tony, Craig, MAMA, PAPA, COLIN, ALAN, ELAINE!

Back with my feet on the ground ...

... But my head is still in the clouds!

It has been nearly a month since I arrived in Malta and two since getting back to Europe. I made a couple of pit-stops on the way to the little Mediterranean island, in Brussels and London to catch up with friends I lived with and partook in many an adventure during my 6 1/2 years living on the continent.

By the time the plane from Trinidad towards London took off, I was decidedly tired and looking forward being back in an environment I knew well. To have not to recount my whole life amongst strangers; to stop looking over my shoulders.

As the BA plane from London landed in Malta a month later, I nearly burst out in tears as I buried my head in the palms of my shaking hands. I was glad to be back home, but overly saddened that ... it was over!

In between leaving Venezuela, walking the cobbled streets in Brussels and lingering around Covent Garden in London, a pyschological time-bomb went off inside my head. I felt more disoriented here, amongst people I knew, then I did when walking up and down the pot-holed streets of Colombia or Bolivia.

I felt like a stranger amongst friends, a vagabond in the eyes of the darting looks rushing past me in suits and flash cars, an alien rubbing shoulders with an unrecognisable species of being. And I was afriad once again. I watched over my shoulder more than I did in Venezuela or South Africa. I walked faster, evading the following footsteps I imagined creeping up on me from behind, than I did amongst the throbbing masses in India, I smiled less and frowned more than after having been robbed of our money on the beaches of Rio de Janeiro. I was a fugitive running away from my own memories.

The commodoty of living with friends I had known for years was great respite from all the frantic panting that trying to re-aclimatise had provoked, but I was happier lying on Duncan's sofa watching cooking programme's on BBC, or watching the flickering flame from the fireplace in the Ardennes, than venturing out into the urban jungle I thought I knew so well.

There seems to be so little time for anything. Cars raced by you, driven by rabied hogs vying to engulf you in their way unles you bugger off quick enough out of sight. People barely smile or acknowledge you as you pass tem by, unless I presume, you are worth their glance in beauty or gold. Manners are a bygone priviledge, only available to the clique of friends one is inbred into, or introduced to by a willing and well respected member of the clan. Racism is running rife even in the heart of the Mediterranean warmth. Global warming may be affecting the planet's climate, but doesn't seem to be having the same affect on human relations.

Maybe I am naive at thinking that the world should be a better place now that I have seen the difficulties within which a majority of the planet's population live, and maybe it is childish of me to look for the odd smile in the crowd or nod of approval as I walk along the seafront. But I still find it hard to believe that people are unhappy when surrounded by all this ben di Dio, as others float dead along the flooded streets in Kolkata, or rummage in garbage along the streets of Lima.

I wish everyone a very Happy 2008, full of peace of heart, love, health and friendship. As we journey on through the bottlenecks along regional road, mass meetings in Floriana and the throngs of party revellers in Paceville, look up into the night's stars, because on the other side of that star, there is another child or homeless person looking up at it, imagining all the wonderful things that he or she will never be able to see!

The Long way home ..

After about a month in Cocorote and the end nearing closer, I started to get itchy feet to get back home to Malta.

It had been an exceptional time in Venezuela and the whole of South America, South Arica and India, and there is really no other way to describe it all, but incredible. However, I guess there is really no place like home, and after over a year on the road I started to feel both physically and emotionally tired, so I knew it was time to head back home.

As has been the case ever since setting off, nothing is as simple as you may think with me. I had visa problems in Brasil, and could not get hold of my flight tickets early enough to sort out my travel arrangements, especially in the case of Cuba and the US. The latter then told me that I had a 6 month wait for my "securityclearance interview" at the embassy in Caracas when I had a flight that would have left in three weeks to NYC.

So after having cancelled my NYC ticket, I tried to get hold of an alternative way round back to Europe. This finally transpired only to be possible via Trinidad and Tobago on certain specific dates and obviously at a premium I was not too keen on paying at this stage. However, the ticket bought and a night spent on the orange plastic benches at Caracas International airport, the flight was delayed twice, cancelled once and arrived eventually in Port of Spain, Tirindad a couple of hours of my supposed departure to London.

Thinking I was finally in luck, at the time of check-in I was told the flight was full and that I had to wait a further couple of hours until check-in closed and stay on standby until then ... inevitably my turn of "badluck" had yet to end, and I never got on my flight to London that night and consequently missed my non-refundable train ticket from London to Brussels the following day!

So I was due to delay my return to "civilisation" and spend an unexpected night in Trinidad.

As much as the prospect of spending a night on a Caribbean island appealed to me ... I REALLY wanted to get back to Brussels and join my friends for a weekend away in the countryside for Sylvie's birthday!

As everything else on this trip, my day in Trinidad turned out to be a full and eventful one indeed. Having been recommended a small guest house 10 minutes away from the airport, I was welcomed into the home of Rea and Ivo, who had opened the doors to their home to curious visitors and stranded travelers like myself.

I was in for a further surprise when I found out that that night we were in for a culinary treat by the other German guest staying at the guest house. A chef by profession, we were to be served up Lobster and Champagne! Another first for me on this whirl-wind trip.

We were accompanied at dinner by two family friends of my hosts, Lauren and Gale who also work in the same insurance company as Rea did, and we all hit it off like a house on fire. So much so, that the next day I was taken on a quick tour of Port of Spain, the capital, by my two new guardian angels.

Trinidad is very green; greener than I had expected, even though I had no idea what to expected since I never thought of spending any time there at all. However, the air of things is as cool and relaxed as any caribbean story may tell. Music is constantly in the air, and the place decked with lovely restored wooden colonial houses. Open spaces and curvy hilltops provide a spectacular panorama at the edge of the clear blue sea surrounding it.

People walk around with dreadlocks, sandles with a little bounce in their step simulating a little dance provoking me to sare more at feet than faces. Another colourful character seemingly roams around the busy streets of Port of Spain, without any apparent reason other than "that's how he dresses", in original 1960's attire ... fantastic!

At the end of this whirl-wind tour of the city centre, I was whisked off to the airport for my second attempt at boarding my plane towards London. Again I was informmed the flight is full and placed on standby once again. At the end of check-in we were again called to our attention by how full the plane was and told we would have to wait a little longer because the plane was delayed ... at 5 minutes to the original departure time, we were finally admitted on board and given the boarding card that would finally take me ... home!

Football, movies and dominoes

After having spent a couple of nights sleeping on a mattress on the floor in the home with the elderly residents in cocorote, the superior Sr. Reeshma insisted she find me a place in a warm bed with one of the families that help with catechism classes on sundays.

I tried to insist that I was perfectly comfortable and sleeping like a baby where I was, but there was no bending sr. Reeshma.

She finally introduced me to Senora Cecilia who would take me in for the next couple of weeks and provide me with my own bedroom and tranquility for as long as I wanted.

Cecilia and Regino (her husband) live down the road from Plaza Bolivar, the centrefold of activity in Cocorote and main gathering spot for most youths in the temperate evenings.

The house is a three story, white building and one of the largest in the surroundings. They have a lovely, adorable son ... Jesus, and live with Cecilia's sister Norys, and her two children Yuliannys and Nelson. The environment is purely familial and overwhelmingly accomodating.

There is a constant air of euphoria in the house when the kids are around, and the new guest has a dded a little of his own to the excitement anf fanfare in the household.

Jesus is 11 years old turning 21. He is one of the maturest 11 year old's I have met, yet as gleeful, innocent, friendly, shy, spontaneuos as any child I have met.

He carries the name Jesus becasue his parents are bothe strict catholics, which for a while mademe feel a little uncofortable, purely due to the fact that I wasn't.

However I soon found out that it was not an issue with them ... I was immediately accepted for what I was and no questions asked. Somehow, it actually drew them closer to me.

Nelson is only 7 years old, has got one of the most charming laughs and smiles like an adorable chipmunk.

He constantly runs up to me, hugs me and sits on my lap, holds my hand and aasks me if I want to play dominoes with them.

We spend many nights laying dominoes with his sister Yuliannys, who is 17 and a whole world apart from her brother.

Women tend to have to grow up much faster than boys and light years quicker than girls in Europe. It is expected that they take cae of the houselhold, dress and feed their siblings, study and get a part-time job from the earliest possible age. Yuliannys is no exception ... She talks and thinks like a woman, yet her youthful heart beats with all the innocent joys and pains of a teenager.

She has a beautiful smile and penetrating eyes that tell you stories of family hardships, teenage romances and the endless need for affection.

And this is the story of most teenagers in South America, that have experienced, broken marriages and manhandling at the expense of drunken, desperate, irate parents and relatives. The cure is simple yet so fucking hard to come about ... it just breaks your heart.

Yet no one is standing back from approaching me and offering me all the afection I need. All my requests are attended to, without even me knowing. Senora Cecilia becomes irate with me if I ask for a glass of water and repeats to me that as her adopted son, this is my house too! So no questions need be asked.

I am forced to eat, just like my grandmother would, if I said I'm not hungry, and there is always lunch or dinner aiting for me when I get back home from the sisters. If I don't eat, then she would put it in a plastic container and save it for the morrow.

On Tueday's and Thursday's Jesus has football practice and on a couple of occasions I took time off from my voluntary work to go and watch him practice.

He would even tell his mother that there was no need for her to go as his hermanito is there with him!

In the evenings, apart from playing dominoes we would watch movies, the four of us, a family of brothers and sisters!

A medical nightmare

Having been in Cocorote for just over a week, Sr. Jose asks me to "step up" my activity in the home by going to the local hospital and watching over one of the residents who is interned there after a recent operation. I had never done that until now, and was quite chuffed that I had been given the vote of confidence by Sr. Jose, and quickly jumped on the next taxi to San Felipe.

My destination: traumatology; my patient: The legendary Pepito. I found him sitting up in his bed, wearing his sunglasses crookedly perched over his nose, and a military beret (thankfully not the red Chavista one), but a black one from under which a plastic bag full of money and coins was falling out.

Pepito is 76. he is from Caracas and was found by the Sisters in Plaza Bolivar, Cocorote lying on his back, dead drunk with his two feet in the air. Today he has neither of his legs! He has been riddled by cancer. Had four amputations in the last year. His right leg is a mere 10 inch stump and his left one is cut just below the knee.

Not withstanding, Pepito is a little bundle of ... trouble really! He is as charismatic and charming as most South Americans, but just as ill-tempered and heavy-handed too.

I am not very popular with him.

He had the habit of begging for money, and with those sunglasses and beret, his stumps dangling off the chair and mesmerising story-telling, he quickly notched up a few thousand bolivares in no time. He would then ask anyone to buy him coffee, cigarettes, biscuits, cake, whilst refusing the hospital's food and that brought to him by the sisters.

Under normal circumstances, it wouldn't really be a problem. "Let the little guy live" they would say, or "let him enjoy a little good life" others would quip. trouble is, he's diabetic and has a cardiac condition that would, by default, restrict him to taste-less, sugar and caffeine-free diet. And I cut all that out!

"El volontario dice no" (the volunteer says no) would be the answer to his requests when I was there which, in return, received a barrage of insults and perjuries attacks from our little old friend I was trying to protect. Of course I couldn't do anything about it when I wasn't around, which contributed to my unpopularity with the Pepito fan club every time I came around and said no to his coffee and cigarette breaks.

In any case, after a week or so, Pepito was discharged from hospital with the order to bring him back every 48 hours so that his wounds would be medicated and checked.

After the stitches were removed and another 2 weeks passed the diagnosis was not looking good. his right stump would continuously get infected by Pepito's constant messing around with the bandage and poo-dirty fingers. poor fella, the bandage was taped to his leg and caused him a great deal of pain and irritation ... at 76, it was bad enough to have no legs, and being bed ridden, but not even to be able to itch just blew his top off. it was evident by the end of my stint in Venezuela that Pepito was purposely infecting himself ... so that maybe, he could get some peace and quiet!

I am told today, that Pepito is now back in hospital and in critical condition. His right stump newly infected and his left one amputated again above the knee.

The medial situation in which Pepito is found is not unique ... there are hundreds, thousands and the health care system just cannot cope. I cannot recount how many times the nurses and doctors would send us back without treatment due to lack of medications, staff or supplies.

Lethargy rules the corridors of the hospital whilst doormen would turn you away, if you were a man, and walked into the hospital in shorts! I do have to admit though, that walking through those same corridors with the sisters and yes, even Pepito, gave me some "social weighting" amongst the medical staff.

On entering the hospital the doormen would greet me with an "hola muchacho" and the medical staff would recognise "el voluntario" with a hand shake or pat on the back, however, this did not solve the problem ... it helped at times, but the socialist revolution is just not penetrating the grass-root levels of the nation as would have been expected!

Gross corruption is still rife and standards are below par with most South American countries, let alone Europe. In one newspaper article, it was reported that stray dogs were feasting on the bodily remains of patients "thrown out" (literally) after surgery, and wards being infested with cockroaches, bugs and rats.

The revolution is failing, and with it, the people are dying, I just hope that faith and charity will help the country and people out of its rut as soon as possible.

The wild bunch

Unfortunately, due to the works going on in the convent, the residents had to be moved out to two separate locations. The boys to the Curia in San Felipe, whilst the elderly to the Sacristy of the Cathedral in Cocorote. Both are very basic but, they do the job for the time being.

However, this does not deter the guys in the least. They are all up at the crack of dawn and as mischievous as any littler of kittens would be trying to get a taste for life.

Of the muchachos that are staying in San Felipe, four go to school during the day. Its more of a technical school where they are taught to put into use their skills, whilst being taught basic educational development skills such as reading, writing, colouring, social skills, etc.

Two, Bernardo and Oscar are extremely bright and both very good with their hands. Bernardo does pottery and bead work, whilst Oscar is quite an accomplished carpenter. Both have helped decorate the home, fix the odd broken cupboard or mend the sisters' rosary.

Louis and Miguel are not as capable but, probably, more creative in the way they lighten up the lives of everybody in the home. The sweetest of characters, Louis runs around with the aid of a walking stick whilst Miguel zooms about in his wheelchair, ensuring that the sisters and the carers are well entertained, or busy (!) whilst at the home.

With Bernardo and Oscar I could sit and converse about the happenings in Venezuela and their progress at school, whilst asking a few tips on how to mend the loose door on the food cabinet in between mouth fulls. With Louis and Miguel we'd stroll around Plaza Bolivar (every town or city in Venezuela, and Latin America basically, have a Plaza Bolivar), racing each other, watching people go by and enjoy the beautiful sunshine which they lack so much in the dark corridors of the curia.

It is a daily event. And the moment we arrive, even the less aware of the muchachos spring to life and bundle towards the door ... they know its playtime! Even Juan, a young twenty year old, who is both mentally and physically challenged and basically response-less during the day, bounces his way on his bottom towards the door and the street, crying out with joy and sheer enthusiasm. He may be one of the most difficult to manoeuvre, control and watch over, but once he is in his chair and "on the road", he is giggly and all smiles as we pace beneath the tree-lined pavements and paved plaza.

It is obviously difficult and nearly impossible to take everyone out on our outings, and unless I am accompanied by my "little helpers", I can only ensure that 3 or 4 muchachos will be able to enjoy the beauty of a blue sky above them. When Jesus, Nelson, Yulyannis and Yulexis come along, as many as 11 of the muchachos relish the fresh air, colours and company of a chat with some of the people sitting in the square.

Apart from stating the obvious and loving the sounds of the kids screaming with joy, chatting and laughing, the sight of them running around in circles after me, after each other, their gaping smiles, shining eyes and sweaty bros from their efforts, the best thing of these daily outings would be seeing locals sitting, standing and chatting with them all. joking, gossiping, flirting.

Many would come up to me and ask, where I'm from, what I do and why? Others would enquire where the kids are from and where are they staying. The white foreign boy with a bunch of local kids in wheel chairs surely attracts attention and many looks, but it is a pity that stigma, fear and shyness has kept them out of sight, out of touch for so long.

The daily forays into the public eye has definitely helped to increase awareness and also brought to the fore the fact that these lovely beings are hardly any different, if at all, from us "normal" folk. On the contrary, I strongly beleieve they are more normal than I am; Fearless, honest and sincere ... emotions and sensations that have stalled my stride, tight-lipped my mouth and forced my hands deep into my pocket, whilst all I really wanted to do was ... open up.

These kids have been a blessing to me and the community of San Felipe. People have come forward to share their thoughts and jokes with them, embrace them, walk with them, listen to them. During the time I was there, people working with other charity organisations would come up to me and ask "may I help", "how can I help". And they have brought medicines, donated wheel chairs, and provided transportation for the guys that go to school.

As mother Teresa once said, "every drop in the ocean COUNTS"!

A home for all

With 22 hours of travelling on me without sleep I walked the two blocks to where the sisters were said to be with a tired stride burdened by the 20 kgs I carried on my back.

In Cocorote, there is no mistaking the Missionaries of Charity for any other religious order, as they are celebrities here thanks to over 40 years of self-less hard labour and love giving to the people who need it most. Sign-posts direct you to the street that joins San Felipe to Cocorote, leading you past the Catedral de San Geronimo and Plaza Bolivar.

The convent is across the road from the sacristy, but due to the works in progress, is only recognisable by the characteristic blue doors and stripes along the facade and, the name "La Casa de la Caridad".

I walked round the mounds of rubble and enquired with one of the workers where I could find Sister Superior and was re-direct a block up towards the Sanctuary. It was 8:30 am by now and people were already queuing up outside the door to enter the chapel and pray, whilst skiving the intense rays of sun.

As the door opened and I presented myself to Sr. Susanna, I was invited in to lay down my back pack and wobbly legs. Sr. Superior was out in Valencia due to a mechanical problem with the van and would not be back until later in the afternoon. So I asked whether she could direct me to a hostel or B&B. "There are none" I was told, and the only residencia was full.

Shaken, but not stirred, I asked about an Internet cafe and was informed that there are many around here, so I quickly set off to do some research on the place with no hostels I had chosen for my next stint of voluntary work.

The town is quiet; streets are mostly barren and even street dogs tend to shy away from the intense heat beating on the pot-holed tarmac. In the Internet cafe, kids are battling out dominion of the cyber-game world. Bullets are being shot and missiles fired from one side of the cafe to the other. Groups of friends are cheering on their war-trained peers to vanquish the oppressors torment from the other side. All are under 10 years of age.

The room goes momentarily quiet as I step in and ask for a pc to "surf the net" and after a moment of hesitation and curious enquiries, I was seated at pc number 6. Thankfully it is air-conditioned and refreshingly cool, the connection is rather good but my research returns "no results for hostels in Cocorote".

At 1pm I head back to the convent and am met with a plate of pasta and fresh glass of watermelon juice. I start to meet the residents in the home and familiarise myself with the surroundings.

That afternoon I meet Sr. Reeshma, the superior. She is a little worried about the fact that I have yet a place to spend the night but reassures me there will be no problem as there is a spare bed downstairs in the small dormitory that is usually used by the night helper, who was, coincidentally ill today.

So my first night I spent it amongst the older men staying at the convent. There are 20 men ranging between the age of 28 and 86. Fidel, who was a night watchman during his working days, sits on a wooden school bench with a foldable table staring, watching, the door throughout the night. He hardly sleeps and is up at 4 am.

I sleep on a soft mattress on the floor by the kitchen upstairs. There is a light cool breeze sweeping across the floor with the moon shining brilliantly from above our heads. I sleep like a baby tucked away by an imaginary hand, caressing my brow with a soft, breezy hand. I am only woken up by the sound of busy footsteps around me, signs of another intense day of activity in la casa de la caridad.