The Indian Epic Concludes

I have completed my month long journey in India. I started in Bangalore, went on to paradisical Goa for a week to party, then to dingy Delhi, on to Kashmir for another week to go trekking in the snowy mountains and chill out on the serene surface of Dal Lake, and then made my way down to Agra . . . where after seeing the Taj, went on a 10 day road trip across the desert terrain of Rajasthan. I started in Agra, went on toJaipur (the Pink City), Jodhpur (Blue City), Pushkar, Jaisalmer (GoldenCity), and Mandawa.
Rajasthan is the 'Land of Kings,' and is reminiscent of 'Old India.' I was by myself for the duration of my trip in Rajasthan, and here are a few things I observed about the place: there were a greater proportion of people with animals there than the other places I had been: camels pulling carts stacked high with hay or with goods to sell at the market, donkeys the size of that Shrek character - Donkey, and also, many wandering cows, water buffalo, gangs of monkeys, and of course sleepy dogs. It is commonplace to encounter a cumbersome cow standing in the middle of a busy intersection, chewing on cud, its ears twitching in response to the hasty beeps of motorists. Also common for unconcerned dogs to nap in small packs, with people having to veer around them.
Rajasthan is known for its old, massive forts such as Amber Fort in Jaipur, Mehrangarh in Jodhpur, and Jaisalmer Fort, in Jaisalmer. I visited all of these sites and they were utterly fantastic. Atop Mehrangarh fort, I saw the most incredible view of a city, of the most dense collection of houses imaginable. Think about a scattered mess of toys on your living room floor, and then taking your hand and sweeping them all into a big pile. It looked kind of like that. Super consolidated. In Jaisalmer Fort (which houses somewhere between 4,000-5,000 people), it is almost the same thing, but the city is made of sandstone. I was awe struck by the Jain temple housed in the heart of the fort. I think the vast complexity of the Hindu religion is what inspires the INCREDIBLE amount of detail that went into the carving of this stone temple. Pictures will not do it justice, but I'll send some anyway.
After taking a camel safari, I spent a night in the Thar desert, in the middle of some sand dunes. It was so quiet. A small flock of birds flew over my head and I heard a sound vibrating from their chests as they passed . . . they sounded like light sabers cutting through the air, or swords slashing through the wind . . . at first I thought it was the sound of their wings, but when I listened closer I realized it came from within . . . how many types of birds make such a song in their passing, but we don't hear it due to their distance and the clutter of noise intercepting the transmission of their gentle sounds?
At my last stop for lunch on the side of the road, before leaving Rajasthan back to Delhi, a loaded bus drove by. Not only was it packed to capacity on the inside, but it was brimming over the top, with about twenty people riding on the roof, surrounded by a thin metal rail. They watched me watch them, and a couple of the men threw their hands up in the air and waved, their hair fluttering in the wind, toothy, loving smiles spread across their faces. Man, do these people have soul.
So now, I'm back in San Francisco. I have survived -- survived the pollution, the sun and heat (which really wasn't too bad), the numerous Indian boys I had to bat off left and right with their professions of love for my heart and their annoying offers for marriage, the all too persistent scammers who would NOT cease to step in my path and try to hook me with their charm, the sight of abject poverty and utter helplessness . . .

A month ago, a night or two before I left for this journey, I had a vision of India -- a great beating heart, tied down and bound by the strings of its history -- its conquests, its colonization, its rapid modernization and the chaos that has ensued in response . . . and this heart beat furiously, fervently, refusing to be choked. Here, an indomitable power reigns over the land, and it fiercely benevolent, like the fire of a great alter, people are moved to persevere by the light of the sun. Most have no control over the shape the future takes, but through the veins of the people here, courses insurmountable joy.
So do not assume that the 'poor' are pitiable. Many of them look upon us and realize that we lack a greatness of being, that we search for happiness in the wrong places, that it is really quite simple, and we are rather stupid to miss it . . . and many of them will look at you with such love in their eyes, you will forget that their eyes are black. It comes almost unwarranted . . . a sight to behold.

I will come back to India one day . . . but my next adventure: Someday I shall take sabbatical, travel to Brazil, take a crash course in Portugese, learn to drum and join a drum band (KICKASS!). For the sheer joy of it.

From the Steps of the Taj Onto Camel Country

From the Steps of the Taj Onto Camel Country

I went to see the Taj just to say that I saw it, because I knew all my friends and co-workers would give me a hard time if I didn't. After seeing dozens of churches in Europe, I pretty much got over the 'thrill' of architecture . . . I think man is too full of himself, and I didn't want to take part in worshipping anymore of his holy, static creations. Why, when I can just marvel humbly at the anatomy of the organic, human body, with its veins and magnificent respiratory system, the miracle of the eye that can be peered into, and which seems to reflect the state of the entire system . . . a machine more complex and perfect than man could ever devise with his own hands . . .?
But the Taj breathes. It even took my breathe and breathed it better than I did, exuding the essence of pure love. Or perhaps it was all the pollution in the dirty city of Agra that gave it its etherreal quality. I didn't care . . . it stood taller than I could have imagined, luminous, and otherworldly. There is a ton of space surrounding it, in the form of ornamental gardens and stone walkways, allowing for the monument to exhale and let its aura permeate unobstructed, undisturbed.
Though the acid rain caused by all the smog in Agra has led to a bit of discoloration of its white marble, and has eroded its carving and inlays, I'm sure its spirit remains untarnished. True, 20,000 slaves were forced to build it on the orders of of Emperor Shah Jahan, as a memorial to his second wife, but as Virat said, after I cynically lamented this fact, suggesting that evil and ignorance played a part in its construction: 'Once you see it, you'll realize why one man couldn't have built it on his own . . .'

So, you've seen pictures of it, you know what it looks like, but I can say with confidence that it is one of those places that despite the hype, never ceases to impress . . . you have to see it in real life to experience its true magnificence.
From Agra, we (as in my driver and I) travelled to Jaipur in Rajasthan. I knew we were close when we started to pass camels strutting snobbishly down the highway. They have a runway walk and most of them point their noses upward. They are most AWESOME. I look forward to the camel safari I plan on taking into the desert for a night or two under the stars.
Now that I'm here, I'm exploring the old city, and dusty palaces atop arid mountains. I saw a Hindi movie about a suicide bomber in Delhi, called Black & White and could understand barely a word. I ate my favorite dish today, Gobi, with a heap of steamed rice and Indian tea. Later, I went to a park to read a book under a tree, drawing stares from the boys playing cricket, the ones sitting idly under their own trees, and . . . everyone. Just everyone. I was approached by a couple Indian boys wanting to know where I was from, but I told them I didn't feel like talking. So they stood there for five more minutes, staring at me while I read Bridget Jones' Diary, picking at their teeth, splitting apart leaves in their fingers. Finally, one sat down next to me, and reached for the other book I had brought with me, Ayn Rand's Fountainhead (stark contrast between the two books, I know). He opened to the first page and started reading the introduction on Objectivism. I knew he was making progress because I snuck a look to see if the words on the page had changed, and indeed, they had. But I had to be careful he didn't see me looking, otherwise, he'd try to start talking to me again.
So that was my day. I'm glad you're still reading.

Kashmir is a Cold and Beautiful World

Kashmir. I have never before visited territory predominant in the Muslim faith. It doesn't seem like part of the country of India, which is alternatively known as 'Hindustan.' Very few Hindus in sight here. My knowledge of this culture and religion has been derived from such books as 'Infidel' by Ayaan Hirsi Ali, 'Now They Call me Infidel,' by (I forget her name) and columns by Thomas Friedman on making democracy work in the middle east. So basically, I am more familiar with radical Islam and the tension between the East and West as a result of colliding fundamentalisms, the lack of women's rights, etc . . . but regardless . . . this is a land whose richness of power is accessible to anyone who can perceive it, from the mountains to the serene lakes . . . and though many of the faces I see as I drive through town are mysterious and unyielding, I can tell they are as fascinated with mine as I am with theirs . . .
I am staying on a houseboat on Dal Lake, which is abundant not only in shikaras (boats that serve as taxis, transportation for food from house to market, etc.) and the souvenir peddlers that often go along with them, but wildlife as well. When I wake up in the morning to gaze out at the peaks of the Pir Pijar mountains with a cup of tea in hand, eagles swoop predatorily down onto the water to catch a fish with their CLAWS, kingfishers perch on wooden rails and proudly puff out their chests, and various colors of gregarious ducks float past, shaking their feathery butts. Each day I feel I see a new kind of bird, many of them with long thick beaks I suspect to pluck fishies outta the water.
Prayer occurs five times a day. It will start over a loudspeaker at the 'neighborhood' mosque, a kind of elderly howl, which is met by cries from men all across the lake, their voices moving across the water to meet the prayers of men on the other side. Think of the way a dog howls (I am in no way saying these people are like dogs, just bear with me ) in response to a siren, and how canines from miles around will join in, a chorus that is at once a proclamation of suffering, and the glory of enduring it, transmuting it through holy self expression . . .
The family that runs the business here has been kind enough to let us (I made a new friend here -- Caitlin, from Pennsylvania, who is my key companion in this strange land) eat and hang out with the family in their adjacent home) Every night, Caitlin, Al Rashid (the head of the household), his wife (I don't know her name, she doesn't speak english) Haroon (our tour guide, son of Al-Rashid), Akhil (Al-Rashid's nephew), Shabira (the servant) and I eat on the floor, making sure not to touch the food with our left hands (as they are used for 'washing'). Kashmiri spinach, roasted chicken or mutton, spiced veggies with potatoes are most often served, with white rice. Always, Al-Rashid insists that I eat more. Even if I had two plates piled high he reaches across the floor mat and insistently puts the shared metal bowl of food next to me. I give him a look of 'please don't make me' and all he does is point to the bowl with wide eyes and say again: 'Eat!' Not in a mean way, I might add, but out of genuine concern that my belly be stretched to the limits -- as if it were grinning in contentment. Grinding in resentment is what it feels like though.
On Tuesday, we travelled to Golmarg, a snowy valley where the shepards have stationed themselves before they move deeper into the mountains, once the weather gets warmer. Caitlin and I, along with Haroon and a local guide, Imtayuz, trekked through the snow, through a narrow beaten path, along which was an untouched layer of fluffy snow that hour feet periodically fell through, down to our shins, sometimes to my thigh. 'Slowly, slowly . . .' Haroon would repeat relentlessly. Whether we are boarding or de-boarding a shikara, or hiking through the snow, he repeats this annoying ass mantra way too often. So when he fell through the snow down to his knee, and upon rising fell again down to his other knee, we said: 'SLOWLY, SLOWLY!' and all laughed. Cheesy, I know, but it is easy to laugh over simple things here. Since most people here speak only limited amounts of English, we are all happy when we are simply understood.
After coming back from adventures such as this, Caitlin and I like to kick back and relax. Every night I have watched the sun set here, it has been the same: the sun itself is hidden behind a veil of clouds lined with pink and gold, with the rays reaching out from behind like the feathered wings of an eagle, aspiring towards a greater heaven. The sunsets remind me of the Kashmiri people themselves . . . those who stand before God five times a day, confront a being whose face I may never know, a God I only see shine through their mysterious, exultant looking eyes, post prayer.

Out of Dingy Delhi and Into an Islamic World

Being a lone foreigner in Delhi fucking sucks, excuse my Hindi. I could deal with Bangalore, but the traffic here, especially surrounding those round about vortexes -- where these auto-rickshsaws whip and rumble around and nearly collide with everyone in their path -- spin me in the wrong direction. I often sit in congested traffic to the point where I literally get a sour taste in my mouth, as smog checks are probably unheard of around here. Wicked witch of the west deisel clouds and sputtering gray plumes of exhaust swirl into my nostrils and lungs, and I find my brain shutting down from holding my breathe. Ponies trot through all of this with their heads held low, cursing to themselves, gnawing in frustration at their mouth pieces, lamenting their fate. Helpless kids beg for money for food at my window, holding little ones in their hands, whining for food with expressions of desperation. I have seen men on skateboards with one leg and lepper hands scoot themselves across the chaotic street, as people beep at them to hurry up.
So, you can imagine, when as I was being scammed by some guy who approached me on the street -- saying he just flew in from Goa and his money was stolen and he needed to call his dad but needed thirty rupees, AND MY ADDRESS, who was crying PLEASE! HELP ME PLEASE! -- my welcome relief when two young chaps close to my age intervened. They asked me what I was looking for. I told them the bookstore, and one of them led me to the nearest one. He asked me if he could buy me some tea afterward. He sensed my skepticism, but said: 'It's just tea!' I said 'Allright.' Call me naive, but I did need a friend, and a break.
These guys, John and Rafiz, turned out to be my best friends, and seemed to truly want only to help me out and show me a good time around Delhi. After tea, they took me to a bar called Regent Blues, a loud space where every song they played I knew the words to, treating me to any drink I wanted -- and the next day Rafiz (whos owns several textile shops in India and abroad -- his cell phone was ringing every five minutes) took me around the city showing me Old and New Delhi, showing me how to get to a certain travel agent so I could plan my next trip, and how to get to my next hotel. He coached me on surviving in Delhi, saying that you should basically never trust anyone, even him. Hanging out with these locals, I felt less vulnerable, though still a little cautious of course because you never know what people's intentions are.
I arrived at the travel agent, and planned a trip to Kashmir and Rajasthan, calmy accepting that I was, indeed, going to blow all my money on this trip.
I now write this from Kashmir, wearing a black headscarf and a most unflattering, long gray woolen tunic -- a style imported from the British. This is a controversial tourist destination, as Kashmir is a disputed land, India and Pakistan both claiming it as their own. The Islamic Kashmiris would like to belong to neither. They want to be independent. But, if they had to choose, it would be India because they can enjoy more rights than they would if they were Pakistani. Riots and demonstations sometimes erupt, often fueled by radicals, and they can be deadly. But at the moment, Kashmir is safe, and Caitlin and I -- the American girl who I met on the houseboat here at Dal Lake -- are always accompanied by at least one male, Herron, the son of the man who runs the business.
I will describe this land and the people more next time . . . but suffice it to say that I have trekked through a snow shrouded valley where sheperds reside now in the winter, and where I held a lamb in my arms among a flock of Kashmiri children, have visited the barren Mughal gardens where leafless trees stand stoically against the cold, and have smoked from a creaky wooden hookah in the company of two yellow toothed old men, where I proceeded to experience the most pleasurable buzz.

Livin' it Up in Goa

I have had my first experience feeling like a celebrity in India. On our drive to the airport to catch a flight to Goa, traffic stalled for the tenth time. We sat next to a bus crowded full of Indians, and the woman sitting up above me took an interest in my face, pointed at me, and whispered to the boy next to her. His eyes lit up, and then he told the person next to him. It was like a wildfire. All of a sudden the whole bus was pointing and smiling -- women, children, men in turbans, young and old. I suppose it would have neen more appropriate to bow my head with my heads in prayer, but instead I decided to blow them all kisses. They were delighted. Virat was hysterical.
After an hour and a half taxi ride from the airport, we arrived at Morjim, a beach here in tropical Goa. The sun was setting red, and the sand slithered and hissed across the surface with the wind, creating a scaly pattern on the surface. The waves of the Arabian sea broke gently, creeping like fingers across the shore as if it were a huge thigh. I ordered some orange juice from the bar, and like most things ordered from behind a counter, it took forever. But it was worth the wait, because it was fresh squeezed and basically the most delicious glass of juice ever, full of pulp. Then I ruined it by pouring a shot of gin into it.
The food here is basically unparalleled to the Indian food I've had in the States. The coconuts are ground from the trees hovering above, instead of imported in a can. The vegetables are locally grown, and it's dirt cheap. And, I can get it all right here at the rustic resorts situated right on the beach. It's paradise I tell you. As soon as I walk out from the stuffy hut into the palm tree forest for a post-nap snack, I am overtaken. Magic permeates, it dominates.
So what have I been doing with my time here? Swimming, motorbiking, and partying for three nights straight, in celebration of the union of Bri and Patrice, the bride and groom (I am truly impressed by my ability to handle six shots of tequila without getting sick or stupid, just a little sleepy) Bri is from Kerala, and Patrice from France, so there are two rather different sides of the family coming together. After the wedding ceremony a couple nights ago, each side took turns going on the stage to perform, the Indians doing improvisational Bollywood dance, the French singing chants as if they were at a soccer game, like Vikings. This manner of singing continued throughout the night, often with beer or wine in one hand. DJ Vachen, one of the top 20 DJs in India, spun sets -- a fusion of electronic, house Bollywood and classical Indian music -- and we danced until 10:00pm. Lame, I know, but there has been a crackdown on the playing of loud music here late into the night, apparently because it promotes drug use and craziness.
Yesterday I learned how to ride a motor bike, a Honda Activa. 'Go slow,' the Indian merchant told me while sitting on the back, 'and take this off!' He pulled off my wide brim straw hat, which was flapping in the wind and obstructing his view from behind. I wobbled around potholes on the road leading away from Morjim. Finally, he started to laugh and told me I looked 'cool' on the bike, that I had gotten the hang of it. It wasn't long before I was comfortably humming down the freshly paved roads, with their minimal traffic here in the beach towns of Goa, enjoying the panorama of palms (while keeping my eyes on the road of course). It is how everyone travels here. I often pass half naked European hippies in multicolored knit caps, who rarely, if ever, smile at me as the locals do. It makes me feel like I'm back in Ibiza.
I made a friend at a nearby internet cafe . . . Vicky. I made him a facebook account, complete with an uploaded picture, and the basic information: 'Male . . . Single . . . Hindu . . .' . In exchange, he took me to Paradise beach, which is actually outside of Goa. After zooming through the narrow streets of the Sunday market, winding cautiously through the dirt paths of rural villages, and along the highway between rice paddies, we arrived at a river -- which also serves as a border between Goa and . . . Tiracol I think the name was? Here, we crossed on a ferry to the other side, where we made our way another 4km to the beach. WOW. Neither words nor pictures would do it justice. Fine white sand not far from the texture of snow, few people, waves that I would rather gaze at serenely than immerse myself in . . . we sat and were served tea that was already sweetened with sugar and milk.
I arrived back home just in time to catch a group of people heading out into the city for some fine dining. We went in a bike gang -- about five motorcycles, me riding on the back of one, and I took great pleasure in imagining that I was part of Hell's Angels.
This letter's getting kinda long so I'm going to end it, despite the fact that there is more to write about -- the dolphins I saw out here in the Arabian sea, the bug that lodged itself in my ear canal where it proceeded to beat its wings furiously, freaking the hell out of me . . . but I'll leave it at this.

I Dreamt of India

It all started at Durty Nelly's, when when over curry chicken topped fries, I told my friend Virat of the vivid dream I had of India. I arrived by plane at the top of a mountain with an expansive view of two cities built in the shape of mandalas. Their configuration stimulated the flow of prana in the air, and from where I stood, I began to resonate with it. I started to fall in love with the friends I had come with, and the feeling didn't fade, it only grew stronger as the dream progressed. Virat clapped his hands. 'That is exactly what India is like! That is its spirit. You should come with me next month when I go to my friend's wedding in Goa!' Inspired by my own self, I called him on impulse a week later say I was coming along with him. I got off work for three and a half weeks.
So, at 5am yesterday morning (Bangalore time), we flew in over a sea of ghostly blue hued and orange lights with no discernible roads, into the airport where the first thing I noticed was . . . there was no toilet paper in the bathrooms. Virat had warned me about this, and told me to bring my own roll. There was only a faucet, with a bucket sitting underneath, containing a mug. People will only shake with their right hand, he told me, as the left is used for 'washing.' I wasn't ready for this . . . luckily I had kleenex.
Virat's parents met us outside, and drove us back to their flat in Langford Grove,a few minutes away. One of the first things they asked me was: 'Do you know what your name means, Kaela?' I do know, as my best friend in high school was Pakistani. 'Yes, in Hindi it means banana.' : ) Servants were ready to carry my bags and did so despite my protests, and served us tea and coffee in the marble tiled dining room, full of relics of old India: old brass beechnut crackers in the shape of deities, stone, clay, and porcelein figures of Ganesh on the altar. I was to stay there until noon, when I would check into The Bangalore Club. Until then, I settled into one of their rooms in Grandma's flat upstairs (Virat's family owns the complex), where the sounds of the beeping rickshaws and bikes emerged from the madness that was beginning to stir outside. The beeping here is of a different quality than what I am used to, which in SF is actually more of a honking. The beeps here from the small cars are for the most part non-aggressive signals from one driver to another that they are coming through. They are as frequent as chirps in bird dense forest. Literally.
The first adventure I had here (after a hot and hearty homecooked meal of Dhanshak) was riding on the bike of Patrice's motorbike (Patrice is the groom at the wedding in Goa -- Virat is his best man). We headed to the beauty parlor where he, Virat and I were to get facials, pedicures, manicures, and massages (the works) to prepare for the wedding. I must say that speeding through the open stretches that we sometimes found was far more exhilarating than when I rode on the back of a BMW motorcycle years ago, zooming through Twin Peaks on a clear day. It was too easy. The danger here on the road is thrilling, and of course I love the wind blowing through my lucious locks. Call me crazy.
I was under the impression that Bangalore was going to be ugly, but at least in this part of the city, it certainly is not. The air may be polluted, it is relatively developed and commercialized, but it is fantastically green. Against the chaos of congested roads where it's every driver for himself, a variety of often gnarly, colorful, and enormous trees stand serene, lining the sidewalks, standing robust and abundant in the parks, stretching their branches above and beyond fences to provide shade and solace. The biodiversity here is awe-inspiring: coconut palms, banyon trees, Bogavillias, Flame of the Forest trees . . .
When we got to the parlor, I settled for a foot soak in milk, honey, and rose petals, a pedicure, a foot massage and a facial. The women there giggled at me when my foot jerked erratically in response to the ticklish sanding of my soles, and again during the facial when I couldn't refrain from scratching my nose covered in wet clay, and again when I flinched in reaction to the water shooting from the spray bottle against my face to get the mud residue off. 'This your first time getting a facial?' I was asked more than once. Yeah, I think YOU know that I am not the girliest girl.

Playtime in Puna

The other day, I took my first trip to the East side of the island, to the Puna district. The place where it is said that all the hippies have fled to from Santa Cruz, once they were displaced b the more conservative and uptight southern californias. I went with my friend Keola who lives up the hill and works alongside me on the lettuce farm. Keola (Kay-oh-luh) is originally from Oahu (he’s Hawaiian), but has made a home for himself in South Kona. Often, when someone is calling his name, I think they’re saying “Kaela!” He has never paid rent here, and it’s the same for him everywhere he goes. Somehow (perhaps due to his charm) people offer to let him live at their house free of charge as long as he caretakes at least once in a while (and they’re always emperor’s pads). He goes to the beach just about everyday after work. When he’s baking under the sun, he “doesn’t feel he has to be anywhere or be doing anything. “ Though he realizes the only downside is that he might age prematurely, he’s willing to make the sacrifice. Keola has the privilege of being the token “gay guy” on the farm (he absolutely loves Madonna, Oprah, cooking shows, that show “Extreme Makover,” knitting, and putting flowers behind his ear) and everyone loves him. We traveled through several different micorclimates on the way, and the shifts were perceptible, not only visibly, but physiologically. From the lush slopes of Ho’okena through the dry and sometimes barren expanse of Oceanview (the largest subdivision in the world), through the majestic areas of Pahala and Na’alehu with their cliffs that loom black in the distance, through sunny Volocanoes National Park, and to the jungly town of Pahoa. Coming into Pahoa was like becoming resonanct with a deep, bassy drum, felt, but not heard.
First place we stopeed was the steam vents. Keola led me through a narrow trail lined with ferns and pathways, to a collection of craters not far from the road. As we walked along the perimeter of one crater, Keola (who was ahead of me) peered into it, and lifted his head as if smelling a rich pot of stew. As I followed, I felt a wave of warm, dry air rise up my body and past my head. Behind this crater was the hottest one of them all, he told me. There lied the vent, an opening in the rock like a secret passageway. “It’s just like going into the womb . . .” he said with a tone of longing, as if wishing to return. I, on the other hand, lacked a nostalgic feeling of warmth and security in association with the womb, though I did feel comforted at the thought of being surrounded with blankets on a cold, harsh day. One at time, we climbed the wooden ladder to the vent’s entrance. The closer we approached, the wetter the air. It was just like a cave. We crouched down and climbed inside, where a couple small wooden benches lie. There was a smaller chamber, from which the heat flowed through. Keola climbed into that passageway, threw down his towel, and lied down, whiIe I sat closer to the entrance. Water dripped from the nodules in cave, as if the rock itself were perspiring. Keola sighed in relief. I closed my eyes as the heat enveloped my body and penetrated through the pores of my skin. My nasal pasages loosened and the imaginary rubber band encomapssing my brain sagged. In inhaled deeply, and let the burning heat filter in to the walls of every cell within. Exhaling, I felt my whole body rise in temperature as I assimilated what felt like dragon’s breathe into my system.


All of a sudden, I was reminded of the Barton Creek Cave in Belize, the passageway to the underworld, the silent void. The heat continued to move through the chamber, past me, and out the vent.”It breathes,” said Keola, shifting his body, heavy with relaxation. Soon, he crawled out of the chamber, and out the exit from which the sunlight shone brilliantly. I followed after, and as soon as I stepped out -- like a baby who has pushed with all its might through the birth canal, exhausted and hot with prolonged effort -- I felt drained of energy. It was then that I began to understand the metaphor for steam vent as womb. In absorbing all of that heat and pushing toxins out of my system through my pores, I had undergone an ordeal, and it helped me to imagine what it must have felt like physically to push oneself out of a small opening. We climbed back up the ladder, and I took a rest on the rim of the crater. Not only was there a breeze up there, but the sun itself was recharging me, to the point where I was no longer “out of it.” The rays of the sun rippled through me. I was outside, decompressed, sunkissed, in peace without strain.
Later, we went to Kehena, the black sand beach. It was a Sunday, so there was a drum circle in the middle of the populated shore. Here I felt I had found the pulse of Pahoa. The ocean was choppier than what I was used to out in South Kona. The challenge was getting out past where the waves were breaking, which were falling pretty hard. I watched as Keola jumped into the water, diving under the surf. After observing a couple others entering (one being a girl who got smashed in the stomach by a breaking wave), I walked over to the water’s edge to contemplate doing it myself. I stood there, as the ocean swelled, bringer in a large set. I squatted down, reluctant. The drum beats, a consistent rhythm, rose from behind me, daring (granted, these waves were no mavericks, they were about six feet maybe). My adrenaline met with the the music, and all of a sudden, emboldened, I stood and jogged into the ocean, and under an incoming wave. It zoomed past my head, and I rose to the surface. Just as I did in Honomalino back in December, I situated myself in the places where waves were just beginning to break. As the drums reached a crescendo, I pushed off the ground and rose as if in a beam of light, and then, fell gently backwards as a wave pushed me closer to shore. Theyr would come, one anfter the other, and at times, I would be pushed so far back that I would have to run to catch the next one approaching, otingr risk get pummeled. One wave broke so hard and fast that my body was caught in ints turbulence and I was tossed, turned and jostled under the water. But my feet would find the ground just before it began to recede, and I could stand right up.
After about an hour and a half or so, I decided it was time to come out of the water. It was not exactly something I was looking forward to, as it is even harder then getting in. You have to fight against the receding water that doesn’t want to let go of you, that pulls at your shins as if it is a giant child desperately holding on because they don’t want you to leave. I faced the incoming water, trying to “read” the ocean. It was all about timing. I couldn’t make the attempt in the middle of a large set or else I would make an embarassment out of myself. It’s like you have to let the ocean tire itself out, and then get out during its rest period, when its like its taking a deep breathe in anticipation of the next procession of waves. At that point, I let a small set move me into the shallower area. It took at least three of them to push me in close enough that I could begin to run onto the shore. Exhausted, I walked slowly through the throng of Kehena congregates and made my way to the drum circle, where I intended to ground myself. After about ten minutes of sitting and being with the music, a man came up to me and told me to pick up a drum. “You look like you have more of a sense of rhythm than any of these guys out here.” “Yeah, I wish I had a drum . . .” I told him. “Well I have a drum for you right here,” he replied, motioning for me to come. He brought me to one that was sitting on a flat block of lava rock. It was about a foot and a half in diameter, and was accompanied by two small wooden mallots. I thanked the man, explaining that the bassier the drum the better, as far as I was concerned. I picked up one of the wooden beating sticks and listened to the music surrounding me, focusing on picking up where the 1,2,3 4 beat lied. When I found it, I did a soft 1-2, 1-2, 1-2, and slowly raised the intensity of my strokes as I became more confident, until I was heard loud and clear but not overbearing. I considered it my initiation into Puna.
From the steam vents, to the pounding water, to the drums, Puna is that "rootsy" side of Hawaii, where one comes to be saturated in the elements. You leave it feeling well conditioned, a once tangled mess that has combed itself out, physiologically more clear, high on life. There's another side to Puna too, involving what I call the Pahoa parasites -- people that kind of cling on to you and don't want to let go. I'll leave that for another chapter.

Waipi'o Valley and the End of the World

In the drive north of the island from Kona, heading towards Waipi'o Valley, there is at a certain point a plethora of Jackaranda trees along the side of the road, in full bloom, glowing a neon purple that is out of this world. Radiant and electric, surely pyschedelic. Under an overcast sky, like the period before one begins to cry, there is a softness, and a feeling that there is something coming, which will eventually pass (the rains).
In Waipi’o Valley itself, at the bottom (You have to hike down a steep hill to get to its base -- about a mile maybe) there is a waterfall that tumbles over itself down the cliff to meet the ocean. The boulders of the cliffside that it runs down are bare, and I imagine that many Hawaiians of the past have bathed naked at its base, in bliss. It looks like a towering, ancient stone wall. On either side of it, the contours of the rocks are hidden by vegetation. There is a mist that flies from the rushing water. Standing beside it, as it gushes down boulders that lead to the ocean, you are slowly saturated by the spray. While I was there, a gusty wind was present, and it almost seemed to be emanating from the wall of water itself. It was like something you’d feel in a storm, with a fine rain falling sideways.
I faced the cliffside, (which was a sharp drop from the top, maybe 10-12 stories high) and watched the water fall. There was a part of it gushing over the cliff’s edge especially fast, with no rocks in its way to punctuate its fall. Like it dould not wait to meet the ocean, it was as if the waterfall was crying gutterally, in joy of reuinion, with a million monks clapping ecstatically in the background. I looked behind me, at the waves that rolled in horizontally, thier own cry a deep resonant roar , coming to meet the waterfall at a point of convergence. Where I stood was a the boulder blown shore, an interface between a river making its final yet never ending return to the sea.
The other day I went cliff jumping off “The End of the World” which is at the end of Ali’i Drive in North Kona. Being there reminded me a little of a scene from the Japanese movie “Dreams,” which I saw as a child. In it there is a scene of a people that have survived after the world has ended, wandering across desolate land for miles in bewildered abandon, only to eventually encounter the wide expanse of the sea,. There, an old man tells the lost ones that the rest of their culture/civilation has fallen into it, knowing no where else to go or what to do. Down into a mysterious and dark abyss, into the next world. That film made me feel a lonely emptiness that moved me to cling to my mother as if I would never see her again. At the End of the World here in Kona, the only sounds we heard were those of our feet dragging across the gravel as we approached the cliff’s edge, with the hiss of waves in the background. To get to the jump-off point, we had to climb down the jagged, textured wall lined with shelves, without scraping our legs. One shelf was about thirty feet high. Probably the highest point I have ever considered jumping off of in my life. People had done it many times before, so I wasn’t worried. Just instinctually hesistant. I jumped, with my fingers holding my nose plugged, into the water. It took my breathe away. The same way it feels when you fall in dreams, it was almost unbearable. The sound it made going under, like a distant drum roll, thousands at once, was almost celebratory.
Because of the force of impact, my hand couldn’t stay attached to my closed nostrils, so I had to blow out my nose as I was underwater, making my way to the top. Eyes open ever so slightly, I glimpsed the bubbles from exhalation rising to the surface and the sunlight beaming through the water. The water was like a cushion that had caught my fall, and through the laws of physics, was handing me back up to the land. When my head broke the surface of the water, I was met with my companions faces looking down from where they stood/sat on the shelves, their expressions congratulatory.

The Art of Landscaping

In addition to the work I do here on the farm, I landscape on an organic coffee and mac nut plantation in the Honaunau area, about six or seven miles away. It mainly involves pulling vines from the tops and bases of coffee trees, sometimes with the aid of machetes, and dragging the coffee trees that have been cut down during the trimming process, to the edge of the grassy/rocky road that runs through the property, and stacking them in piles. Luckily, there is a canopy of spiky leafed macadamia nut trees that provide shade while I'm working. It gets pretty hot out there, in part because much of the ground there is lava rock, which traps heat due to its dark color. It's a job that I appreciate doing. I am beautifying the land, spending time out in nature, and getting good exercise. Like Harvy, Lama (short for Malama Lama, which means to "care for," like a caretaker), my foreman, never really looks over my shoulder, just kind of does his own thing, offering suggestions every once in a while, and ultimately marvels at the finished product. He always supplies me/us with fresh lemon water and banana/orange/ginger/goatmilk/hempseed smoothies and encourages me to take breaks when I sees that I am working hard. We are situated on the slope of Mauna Loa, surrounded by beautiful views of distant forest/jungle, laced with transparent white from the foggy haze that rests upon volcano. When I hear the neighbor's roosters crowing and the chickens clucking, I am nostalgically reminded of the Belizean countryside. The dogs barking form the other side of the lava rock wall when I am near is kind of annoying though.
I also enjoy the opporunity to landscape at Sun Bear (which is not very often). There are aggressive weeds that grow at the top of “A2,” which is the section just above the packhouse, on the far left of the farm. Since we were low on starts for planting, Melinda (who is Harvy’s wife and works one day out of the week), instructed Keola and I to take a couple knives and cut them down. The leaves were light green and fuzzy like the skin of a peach. I cut close to the base of the weeds and tossed them behind me, proceeding to pull up the vines that were spreading across the soil at their base. As I continued to cut, I noticed there was another plant, growing underneath the foliage, like Sideshow Bob hair (except it wasn’t curly). I asked Keola if he knew what it was, and he said it was medicinal -- comfrey. It can be used to treat bee stings (You can take a leaf of the plant, chew it in your mouth to release the juice, and then apply it to the affected area. It will draw out the poison). Intrigued that this plant had a use, I decided to leave them there.
At one point Keola, said: “Wow, look at this snail! It’s too big to even get back in its shell!” I looked over, and he was holding the largest one l think I’ve ever seen -- its dewy, purple body glistening in the sunlight, alert with its antenas stretched out to either side. “If I was starving, I would totally eat this,” he said, opening his mouth and lifting it towards it. Of course he didn’t take a bite, and instead returned it to its home.
The last five or ten minutes I spent uncovering the four comfrey plants, I realized that landscaping truly is an art form. The same way that a muralist must stand back from time to time to make sure that their work as a whole is balanced, in landscaping you must make changes where necessary -- touch up, perfect. In the end, the comfrey had breathing room, with the vines and weeds rolled down the slope like a blanket pulled down to the foot of its bed. Soon after, Ollie came by and completed the job by throwing the weeds onto the perimeter of the property where they were out of the way.

Exploring the Ancient Place of Refuge

Yesterday I went to the Place (or City) of Refuge, located off of Highway 11 a few miles down the road. It is a national park that contains an ancient mausoleum that was created for Hawaiian royalty, along with hand carved tikis that stand like protectors of the sanctuary, with demonic faces meant to deter evil spirits. It used to be an actual place of refuge, or asylum, for those wishing to escape the law in foreign countries. Even law breakers here on the island could escape/retreat to the City of Refuge to be purfied by the Kahunas. The one here in Honaunau is just one of several on the Big Island. The deal was that,
if one could cross the shark infested Pacific ocean from their homeland to the City of Refuge, they would simply be granted amnesty by their respective government.
To get to it, you must walk/bike/drive down a scenic route that has spectacular views of Kealakekua Bay (except for where the views are blocked by breadfruit, avocado, mango and various other kinds of trees). In the distance, you can see the slope of Mauna Loa (the volcano). At the end of the day, depending on the weather conditions, the ocean often has a hint of, pink, or lavender where the sun hits it, and from a distance, looks placid and serene. I sometimes look out toward the horizon and try to imagine the distance between here and the next continent. I can only imagine that it is a comfortable one.
You can walk into the park about a mile until you reach its border, by either going along lava rock next to the water, across the coarse sand that gets stuck under your sandals and causes discomfort, or along a lava rock trail that was created in the 19th century by colonists. Once you get past the picnic area with its barbeques and benches and into the natural reserve, it becomes quiet and desolate. Looking South, you can see the clouds patiently making their way down the Kealia Hills. If this is what refugees encountered when they first arrived, it must have felt like true freedom. Of not knowing what to do with oneself in a silent land, except experience peace, or perhaps lonliness. At least initially. The message over the loud speakers in the visitors center informed me that the necesssary purification process that refugees went was not pleasant.
The other day I brought my bathing suit and snorkel gear and searched for a place to creep into the water. On most of the coastal lava rock, the water ceaselessly attempts to overcome the natural barrier. Like a person hoisting himself onto a high ledge, it ultimately fails with each attempt -- sometimes lingering for a moment, but never quite being able to rest at the top in comfort. Sometimes the water succeeds in temporarily covering the surface of a section of lava rock, and for a moment, looks like an elevated mound of water. But always, it falls back into the sea, releasing waterfalls that sound like rapids, or like an extended exhalation of relief from strain.

I found a relatively mellow spot, took off my sandals, and carefully walked across the slippery rock until I reached the edge, where I couldn’t see my feet because there were so many bubbles. When I jumped in, it was like being in a different world. It contrast to the coarse, jet black lava rock, grainy sand, and dry hillside on land, the water is an asure blue, cool, shocking at first, and there is color and activity everwhere. You don't actually have to swim to "swim with the fishes" (as they call it), because the waves showing onto the rocks creates a push and pull movement in the water. At certain points, all fish, sea turtles, and plant matter move in unison, and it's best just to relax. Looking towards the rocks where the waves were headed, I would, from time to time, see a blast of bubbles in the water as they hit. To get an idea of what that might have looked like, think of a sheet of heavy wood being dropped flat onto a bed of dust in the night, with light reflecting off of all of the particles as they fly in all directions.
As you walk back, just as when you walk in, there are palm trees scattered along the coast. It is a pleasing site to see, as they differ in a fundamental way from those you see in California: they are not hand picked and arranged in a rigid way, and do not seem out of place. They actually look natural (because they are).
I like to go here at least a couple days out of the week -- if not there, then so some other beach along City of Refuge Road. I'll write more about those later.