Nicaraguan holiday
Dad always liked unusual holidays. He despised those happy, smiling families who went off to Spain and Mallorca for a fortnight of sand and fun. So we had to visit a variety of Thrid World hotspots to "experience culture" and learn about how "the other half" lived.

On one trip to Nicaragua, we were met at the airport by a group of armed men in a 4x4 who loaded our luggage on to it and then drove off at speed, leaving us on the tarmac a little bewildered. After nine or ten hours, dad accepted that our luggage had been stolen. We never saw it again.

Fortunately, there was a taxi waiting at the aiport gates and he agreed to take us to our hotel in exchange for dad's watch. He took us to a reeking hut in the hills and introduced to the the staff, a bunch of heavily armed and unfragrant banditos who gave us pirate smiles and bade us make ourselves comfortable. This was tricky, as the bare hut had no furniture at all, and only a communal bathroom with chickens in it. It was only as the sun went down that dad checked the brochure and discovered that this wasn't the Eco Lodge. We'd been taken hostage by the Mountain Militia.

On the third day, we had a visit from the Red Cross who gave us ration packs and water filters. The kidnappers entertained us with an impromptu show that involved attaching electrode's to dad's nuts and making him dance about like Pinocchio with Parkinsons. We laughed until tears rolled down our faces.

By the end of the week, us kids had fully embraced Stockholm Syndrome. My sister was pregnant by a AK47-toting terrorist boy and I'd been taught to fight with a knife by Carlos, the team leader. I even made a start on a rudimentary beard and stopped attempting to wash. In retrospect, it was much better than any previous holiday we'd had (certainly better than the two weeks we'd spent attending funerals on the shores of the Ganges).

Halfway through the second week, the hut was stormed by special forces and most of the terrorists fled. I was held for a day as a suspect but released shortly after. Dad was beaten half senseless by the soldiers, who mistook his dishevelled and ordure-smeared figure for an insurgent.

Back at home, we asked him if we could go back to NIcarague next year. "Fuck that," he said with uncharacteristic profanity. "We're going to Disneyland."
(frankspencer, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 10:04, Reply)