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.
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.
posted by Kaela at 10:00 PM
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