Easter in mid-May: The Last Stanza

[This is the 200th and most likely last post at this blog.]

The previous two posts were the lead-up to this. The wonders which the evolution of the written word has spawned will never cease to amaze me: show me a card trick that I've yet to see and the reaction's likely to be similar, if not the same. Anyhow, on with the recollection of Easter in May (insert echo here), as it were.

The weather took a turn for the better, following two weeks since the end of Golden Week where showers were the order of the day. I'll leave it to your own devices to create your own puns from that information. Smiling faces from many a continent greeted those already assembled and seated. The kids arrived via their own personalised vehicles, each of them bottled with anticipation. The foreign counselors arrived via train and automobile since planes had been excluded from the short list of acceptable modes of transport.

All was dandy by the crack of the 10th chime in the am: approximately fifteen minutes from the official commencement of what had been billed as "show time."

As always, friendships were formed almost instantly as campers and big foreign people alike got their hands busy with crayons, textas and anything in between. Once the introductions were out of the way, and the formalities governing the rules of the venue were presented by way of PowerPoint, a wavering ear greeted the gist of what was what, and everyone ventured outdoors to enjoy a bite to eat.

Then the activities began: slabs of ice-cream were pried loose from freezers inside a convoy of trucks. Decorative plans were firstly etched onto table tops then onto the squared blocks of perpetually melting enojoyment. A plethora of additional treats were sprinkled, sprayed, dropped, pushed and moved into position.

Winners were awarded paper badges and confectionary delights as a permanent reminder of their honourable efforts. Losers were largely ignored and left alone in a room filled with mirrors to contemplate their inferior designs.

Eggs had to be decorated.

Energy had to be extricated in any number of ways likely to quicken the process of exhaustion. Some were well past the point of continuing on their own steam and required the complimentary donkey service. It was all fun and games and nobody was hurt in proceedings. The kids were raring and able to continue should the desire be reignited.

Photos were taken with the main reason for everyone being there: Mr/Mrs/Uncle Easter Bunny. More activities ensued until the dinner gong was sounded.

Bonding of the seated variety took place as all comers greeted the offerings with a salivating grin and a steely glare of acceptance.

An almighty fire was created thanks to an uber anxious pyromaniac (his eyebrows will grow back eventually, one would hope), and with the supervision of at least two sets of eyes with partial education in the underrated field of fire starting, the kids were able to burn their marshmallows to within a millimetre of charcoal-like state and partake in what would become the lip smacking fruition of their labour.

We sang some pretty funky songs involving all manner of physical contact and even upped the rhythm for all the ska fans in the crowd. Oi!

Sometime shortly thereafter, someone yelled 'lights out' and the lights were turned out. It was a brilliant plan that was carried out with deft precision.

As luck and geographical proximity to our apartment would have it, Tulani and I were perfectly stationed to escape the demands of a crowded, airless room with tiny bodies splayed indiscriminately throughout. We were in no way going to succumb to the onslaught of tiny gaseous omissions, so we pulled our tent pegs from the ground, grabbed our bat and ball, and found our way home to where we slept effortlessly on three futon mattresses that reside on the floor of our bedroom.

As the alarm sounded to welcome the new day and the reality of waking up at 6:00 am on a Sunday, we were unanimous in feeling robbed of at least six additional hours of required sleep. The eyelids were to reveal our united affront for the rest of the morning, but we soldiered on sans Codral, for it was the mini-Olympics portion of the weekend after all and we weren't about to shortchange ourselves of the water-based antics to come.

(Over the course of the previous night, six-hundred balloons had been filled with precious water by volunteers with far more staying power than us. To these anonymous folks I extend my right hand in friendship and in appreciation of a job very well done.)

But before the watery finale, an egg hunt of emphatic proportions was underway with each group having a quota of twenty-four eggs to collect from various parts of the Mikkabi Youth Centre grounds. Some couldn't see the signs. Others saw the eggs and sensed that they and their tiny paws had no assimilation whatsoever. These were the smart ones and/or not those training to become fully-fledged pranksters. As a neutral observer, I felt the need to point and reveal the secret hidden locations on more than one occasion. I fought that urge bravely and expect a medal made of cheese in the not too distant future.

People of Holland: are you reading this?

About thirty minutes later, winners were crowned and losers were shamed publicly by having their group name written on a piece of paper and digested in front of their eyes. I made that up, but it would have been an inspirational act for all future hunts. It was the ideal time to be a neutral observer and we reveled in the glory of having no say in the outcome whatsoever.

And then the balloons fell from the heavens. It was like walking a tightrope on the border of Mayhem and Ecstasy. Most saw the funny side, even when carnage reared its indifferent head.

A lunch of chilli dogs, potato chips and cold tea fit for a conglomerate of kings, queens and their entourage was served to settle the stomachs and prepare everyone for the grand finale: an assembly with loads and loads of sitting, standing and bowing. As is traditional during the concluding stages of such a group event, everyone and their distant cousins were thanked (thank you: no, thank you) and kids were handed photos and Easter goodies to commemorate proof of their physical presence.

As was the trend for the entire weekend, smiles were revealed to be the genuine article and laughter was heard in every corner of the hallowed establishment. The enjoyment of the event resonated all the way to the parking lot.

And then we all went to the local coffee shop and freaked out the staff by our strength in numbers. But that's an entirely different story and one which you'll need to subscribe to by providing your credit card details and pin code.

Farewell from Sash and Tulani in what was our final AIEC school function in the wonderful town of Mikkabi, where we've made a wonderful home for ourselves during a significant part of our time in Japan. We'll be around somewhere, if not somewhere else. See ya then or perhaps slightly thereafter. Hopefully, that's vague enough to throw-off the bloodhounds.

- Sash and Tulani.