Chronicles of Kaela: Travels in the Tropics (and Beyond)

The Indian Epic Concludes

2008-03-18T21:54:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-10T21:53:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-08T21:53:00.000-08:00

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

2008-03-04T21:50:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-26T21:48:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-19T21:35:00.000-08:00

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

2006-09-03T22:00:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-14T13:58:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-02T18:13:00.000-07:00

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

2006-03-29T15:52:00.000-08:00

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.

Time to Pursue New Interests

2006-03-01T20:04:00.000-08:00

Every day in Santa Cruz includes a walk somewhere, whether it is along West Cliff (with the waves crashing below me), Pogonip (a national park about a mile and a half away), or among the redwoods at the UC Santa Cruz campus. That's one of the main reasons I came back here: I wanted to re-immerse myself in the natural abundance that SC has to offer. As long as I get myself out there, I feel mostly accomplished for the day. But not completely. I have become interested in new things, which I have begun taking the time to develop.
One: the steel strung guitar. Ben has one in his room, and I like it better than the nylon string one that I received for Hannukah a few years ago, which I have played for about 1 hour in totality. The steel strung guitar has a better resonance -- deeper, more bluesy, kind of. I just put my finger on different frets, on different strings, and sees what sounds good -- I don't know if they are established chords (or whatever), but I just pick away at them and hum in a tone that matches, alter my finger placing to something else
that sounds pretty, go back to the original position, and in this way, create a tune. It feels good, to finally pick up something that I have only admired for the past few years. I want to find a travel size so I can bring one to Hawaii to play in my free time. Honestly, I like it better than the uke.
Two: Tea. The real, dank tea. There is a shop right next to the house I am staying at, called Chaikhana. It's a quaint little shop, almost like a gallery. Not only does it sell tea, but teaware, some of which are antique. Ben has such a large collection of it, that he strains in holding himself back from purchasing more each time he enters the shop (it's not exactly cheap stuff, especially when your job barely pays you a living wage) (I have included a picture of him refraining from buying a teapot that he's eyeing).
Chaikhana has exotic teas from all around the world (mainly the East). I'm not into just any tea though. It's Puerh (sp?) that has gotten my attention. If I remember correctly, Puerh is a tea from China that is fermented in caves, for a period that ranges from about a few weeks to a few decades (the longer the better, in my opinion) in piles, sometimes in the peel of citrus fruit. You can find them as loose tea, in bricks, and probably other forms that I am not yet aware of. They have a powerful effect on the mind and body, and are incredibly "earthy." Very grounding and calming. Some don't taste so great, but I don't care. If I ever feel flustered from trying to accomplish too much, or worn out, I just sip some Puerh and feel restored. It is great for the stomach, and promotes good digestion (which is the foundation of general, overall health). Ben always pours me several mini cups full (at least) each night as we converse over his countertop in the kitchen.
Three: teaching myself Spanish. At the moment, I am checking out Pablo Neruda books from the library, which include English translations. I'll read his poems in Spanish on the left side of the book, sometimes out loud, and try to translate them for myself before looking to the right side, to the English version. I am getting better at it, though sometimes I am way off, as a lot of what he has to say isn't exactly commonplace. Ben has also lent me a book on the different tenses, which is what I most need to focus on the moment (past and future tense are my main weaknesses).
Everything is a choice. I have many options when deciding what to do with my time. I'm finding the balance between both taking it easy and being productive/constructive. Things are going so smooth for me, that I have to spend time watching reality television to make up for the lack of drama in my life.

Surviving the Cold

2006-02-21T16:01:00.000-08:00

The heater is not working in Ben's house, so when we congregate in the living room to watch the winter Olympics (figure skating is our favorite), we wear sweatshits, jackets, and blankets, with our hands stuffed into our pockets and our heads hunched into our shoulders. A few nights ago, after Ben and I returned from our exhausting activities (he worked and I took a hike into Pogonip, which is a state park just a mile and a half away), we filled a styrofam cooler full of hot water, put it next to the side of his bed, sat down and put our feet in. Think of the splinters you see in ice cubes. That is a good illustration of how our feet felt upon first contact. The contrast between the temperature of the room and the heat of the water was so sharp that it hurt and our feet screamed in a mixture of pain and delight. Ben said: "Kaela, just keep your feet in there, it will feel REALLY good in a minute, I promise." And it did. We just sat back and relaxed. I highly recommend it.

Some Aspects of Santa Cruz

2006-02-15T14:31:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was Valentine's day, and neither me, nor my friend Ilana had a date (doesn't matter to me, but she dearly misses her loved one who remains in belize). So, we decided to be eachother's. After she picked me up from my friend Ben's house (where I have been staying), we went to her house in the redwoods where a Valentine's party was taking place. It was the epitome of an SC gathering. It consisted mostly of artists in their late 20s, sipping tea and apple cider, passing around fresh baked cookies, eating vegetarian food, and beating a pinata shaped like a human heart (wrapped in duct tape, which was symbolic of the constraints society has placed upon the creative expression of human emotion). It was full of pieces of paper with wishes written upon them by all the guests, as wells as organic chocolate, fruit leather, and bags of mint tea. It was shaped more like a punching bag, and after five people took their turns swinging with only a dent in the right ventricle, it was proclaimed a testament to the indestructability of the human heart. Finally though, someone swung it off of the string it was hanging on, upon which a girl just picked it up and ripped it open, showering its contents all over the spotless beige colored carpet. Ohaos ensued amidst hoots and hollers.
One value I find most prevalent here (in SC) is the importance of staying child-like, of being able to have fun and enjoy oneself by being intellectually silly and spontaneous, and being entertained by others' own displays of randomness.
While staying here in Santa Cruz, I have been spending the night on my friend Ben's floor (which is surprisingly comfortable). Ben is one of the nicest people I know here, and is a fervent tea addict from Texas. Though he doesn't look fervent in the picture below, it might surprise you to know that he drinks approximately 7-9 pots of tea a day out of tiny cups. We used to work at the same office (for the company written about in the previous post), and when we would get bored, he would start speaking in either a Texas, Austrialian, Polish, New York, German, or Mickey Mouse accent and usually I could not contain myself (you can tell by the picture taken with the masks in the background that he is very worldly). He lives close to the Felix Kulpa art gallery, which I think is worth writing about. It is run by my friend Robbie, who used to host an open mic at a local coffeehouse, until it was taken over by a brewing company, (which eliminated all of the local art work displayed on and around its interior). Most of the art work at the Felix Kulpa gallery is constructed out of found objects, like the guitars lined on the wall in the picture below (Robbie made them). One friday out of each month, they play "pyro-drums," which are contraptions that spit out fire when you "play" them with a stick. The result is a bursting bassy sound accompanied by a torch like flame that can reach heights of up to ten feet or so. They are quite a spectacle to observe, and usually a small crowd gathers in the court yard to witness the show. Other unique inventions shown at the gallery include a steel barbeque shaped like an armadillo (you lift the top half of its body to reveal the grill inside its belly), 2.5' by 3' wooden gears mounted on the wall like paintings, and motorcycles made out of old parts.

2006-02-12T13:27:00.000-08:00

At the "Dog Beach" (the only place in Santa Cruz I know of where dogs are legally allowed to roam free).

2006-02-12T13:25:00.000-08:00

Sunset at West Cliff in Santa Cruz

Later On, Belize

2006-01-24T12:04:00.000-08:00

If you ever decide to come to San Ignacio, I can tell you this:
Be succinct with your words: know what you want to say and mean it, because here, most things are taken lightly and no one wants to be overloaded with anything, especially too much information. This one has taken me some time, and I am still working on it.
Don't be too shy to look at anyone directly. People think "no way" about it and you can get comfortable with the townspeople. They notice. Most are aware and observant about their surroundings, and that is one thing I most respect of what I've found here: people whose eyes are open and unafraid. Where I live in the U.S., and where I've been to in Europe, people generally don't acknowledge passing strangers with interest, and that makes me feel alienated, or like an "alien" in the true sense of the word.
Let go of your worries. If it shows on your face that something is on your mind, you are thinking too hard. Life is simple: relax and enjoy when you're not working (or even when you're working) . . . at least that is the mind state that I have most encountered: Don't dwell on anything.
This land is sacred. Subtle, but powerful enough that with a keen sense of perception, you can feel a resonance of a high, yet grounded vibration that both awakens the "higher" mind and gives one a sense of connection to the Earth. The Mayans built their structures and monuments in accordance with
their knowledge of the stars. So, as you stand on their ground, you are uplifted and attuned with what they would call the "heavens." Of something universal. And of course, tapping into anything universal will give you a sense of connection to everything around you. This is only the beginning. The next time I come to Belize, I intend to take more of journey into the mind. The greater mind.
I've done a lot of things: went to the Mayan monuments of Cahal Pech, Xunantunich, and Tikal, visited the villages of Bullet Tree, Esperanza, Santa Familia, Benque, three different places called Santa Elena where I was fed bollos, corncob wine (only a sip), rice and beans, fry jacks, went into the Maya Mountains where I stood among a herd of calm white cows with draping sags of skin under their necks, floppy ears, horns and cowbells, took trips to the island of Flores and Guatemala, San Pedro and Caye Caulker where I got my hair "plat" (braided in cornrows) for the first time and was cleansed in the salt water of the ocean for hours, learned to use a machete to "chop" the ground, learned how to mix cement with a shovel and water, observed the thatching of a roof and lived under one, played soccer with the Belizean boys and blocked enough goals to let my side win, chased children around Smith's farm and got out of breathe, and then let them come into my room and brush my hair, play my uke, watch the television and sit all over me, became a "godsister" to Steven, had a local boyfriend (Teddy –local villagers are asking if we’re getting married . . . yeah, right) -- was offered at least seven places to stay for when I return. . . granted, I did see many sad puppies and stray dogs on every block and around every corner, observed a lot of "tough love" among the families here, and a good deal of unfaithfulness between husbands and wives/boyfriends and girlfriends, heard a lot of bad dancehall music, beard witness to the destruction of the environment -- the burning of trash, the pollution of the rivers, the clearing of forest -- saw that the vast majority of children and teenagers are NOT being enriched with arts education to express themselves . . .the list goes on.
But, one of my intentions in coming here was to find the heart of Belize and share in its beat. I didn't know exactly what I meant by that at the time, just that it sounded good -- and it was fulfilled. Here, I have encountered "one love" -- one heart. It's not just some Rasta term spearheaded by Bob Marley . . . it is the love generated by family, by being surrounded by nature (the most BEAUTIFUL I have EVER seen), by being proud of one's inheritance, by feeling safe . . . I don't know what it is EXACTLY that makes people heart's open so wide here, but love was offered to me freely. I did not just visit Belize, or tour it, I lived here, was a part of it, and built my love for it.

Fresh Medicine, Iguana Eggs and Monkeys

2006-01-14T12:02:00.000-08:00

Since I last wrote, I have gone on many adventures: I saw Aktun Tunich Muknal Cave, which is the most spectacular cave in Belize, and a site of human sacrifice to the gods of the underworld (the site became most active during a time of turmoil for the Mayans that archaeologists find somewhat mytifying. For some reason, they were trying to appease the Gods in order to save their way of life -- I think). We had to wade through water that ranged from ankle deep to chest high for about a mile into the cave, where we climbed into a "dry chamber" and had to remove our shoes in order not to disturb the texture of the cave floor. There lied clay pottery and human remains (bones), which many of the people on the trip found eerie. Me on the other hand, am kind of hard to spook. I have somehow learned to dismiss most of my fears, which may or may not be a good thing . . .
Recently I made a new friend, Teddy, a knowledgeable young "man of the jungle." He is a native Belizean who is a licensed tour guide and has taken it upon himself to introduce me to a local herbalist, to lead me side by side through the scenic terrain, and has given me my first cup of "bitters" (a tea comprised of local herbs/vines/barks meant to cleanse and build the blood, purge the digestive system of harmful bacteria and parasites, and immune the body from pathogens in general) -- free of charge. The first day that I hung out with him, he took me to a medicine man, Humberto --a healthy old clay-like Mayan man -- in a place called Bullet Tree Falls. Humberto has a "medicine trail" that he leads people through to educate them about the medicinal properties of various plants, trees, and vines. I was very fortunate to have met him, because at that time, my feet were severely bitten up and swollen from ant and mosquito bites. I could not walk down the street without people wincing at that sight of them (that's when I met Teddy). Humberto showed me the Poly Redhead plant, and picked a few handfuls of the leaves, which he proceeded to crush into a paste using two stones -- one large and flat, the other small and round. After I watched him do it for a few minutes, he handed me the small stone and told me to try. The trick is to roll the stone down the length of the plant (out towards the stems) while pressing hard, to release the juice. After about fifteen minutes, I had about a cup of the pulverized plant, which I rubbed over all exposed and affected areas of my body. Basically, I painted myself green from head to toe, while Teddy watched in amusement, pleased that I was educating myself about the secrets of the jungle. I immediately felt the effects. Not only was it soothing, but it was energizing as well. I wanted to get up and move my body, to release stagnant energy from my system. This made Humberto chuckle to himself a little bit. This was FRESH medicine, medicine with LIFE FORCE, rich in oxygen. This experience reinforced all my trust in the plant kingdom. Humberto left me with a bag big enough to last me a few days, and I continued to apply it until the swelling drastically decreased. I am still using it (there's actually a big plant growing at Smith's Farm where I live), and am almost completely healed.
The next day, we went with a small group to an organic farm in secluded, highland jungle, home to howler and spider monkeys, jaguars, tapirs, and a diverse variety of birds including the tucan. Here, I had my first taste of iguana eggs. I have never tasted anything SO DELICIOUS as iguana eggs!!! They are small and dense, completely yellow in the middle, and have a sharp taste like cheddar. We spent a couple nights there in thatched roof cabins, burning fires in the night to keep warm, and taking short hikes into the bush where Sabala (the guy who owns the farm) educated us about the flora and fauna.
After our return from the jungle, Teddy and I, along with a couple girls from the East coast of the U.S. that Teddy agreed to guide through the country (because he is fluent in Spanish), crossed the Guatemalan border to reach Tikal, one of the most impressive Mayan cities in Central America. There were a lot of tourists there. To be honest, I didn't really start enjoying myself until we started walking the trail to "Temple V," a path that tour guides often avoid due to its long length and isolation from the rest of the park. It is not uncommon for people to get robbed or mugged. Unfortunately, we weren't carrying any machetes. Here, for the first time (thanks to Teddy's keen eye) I saw my first spider and howler monkeys. When we first spotted the spider monkeys, they were hanging out at the top of some tall trees. Teddy made some crazy monkey sounds, which galvanized them to race across one of the extended branches, making the whole tree stir and causing a shower of leaves. This greatly scared one of the girls, Kim, who almost took off running when I dropped my water bottle (she thought it was a monkey coming to chase after her). Soon after, we came to the howlers, who were a bit more tranquil. We saw a mother with two or three babies, climbing near the top of the canopy (they generally stay high ion the trees, especially when it's cold out). After reaching Temple V, we were met with an old Mayan man asked me: "Piensas mucho, porque que?" (You think a lot, why?") And I just said: "Si, yo sabe, piensa mucho, todos las dias, todos los veces." (I don't even know if I said that right -- I said: "Yes, I know, I think a lot, everyday, all the time.") (Everyday it seems, someone notices how pensive I am and tells me I need not worry about anything. That I should just enjoy myself.)
The drive back home was amazing, as usual. I have never so much enjoyed the scenery of any place. In both Guatemala and Belize, there are rolling hillsides, blanketed in dense forest and shrubbery, a continual green disturbed only by the areas of the land which have been clearcut or slashed and burned (which, sadly, is not uncommon. Many people own pasture land).
The best way I can think of to describe the land is that it's like a young child, somewhat out of control, beautiful and exciting in its spontaneity and lack of order. Even when people plant their own monocultures, like corn, the rows are usuallly not perfectly straight, as we are so accustomed to with the practices of multi-national corporations. Things here are loose, the rules are not so stringent. As the sun went down, I fell asleep and remained so until our return back to the island of Flores.
Back in San Ignacio, I am continually meeting people who want to "show me around," who want to invite me to their village and have me meet their families, who want to introduce me to areas of the land I have not yet seen. My time here will soon come to an end, and here I know I have a third home (California the first, Hawaii the second). If I ever want to live here, I know exactly who will build my house (the guys who I helped build the bathroom and septic tank with), where I will buy land (Steven told me he would love to have me be part of a type of cooperative he wants to create), who I will study under when I want to learn the medicine of the bush (either Mr. Pollo, a local bush doctor who has a certification program, or Sabala if I want to do it less formally and in less structured of a way). Not that I will necessarily be LIVING here anytime soon on a permanent basis, but I know that if I decide to, there are plenty of people and places ready to accomodate me.
Next stop in early February: Santa Cruz, California. I'm not looking forward to the rain, but it's time to see the good friends who I have missed for some time now. I need to touch base. After a few weeks there, I am probably going to return to Hawaii to resume my days of enjoyable hard (and not so hard) work as I bask in an abundance of organic, whole food that I have OH SO GREATLY missed. I was in a solid groove when I left and want to continue it in some way, shape, or form. As far as I know, the farm I was staying at is no more, because while I was there, the owner was busted for growing medicinal marijuana, which the Bishop of State has no tolerance for. So that's one of my next adventures -- starting over in Hawaii-land.

Making Myself At Home

2005-12-30T11:58:00.000-08:00

I have so much freedom, I don’t know what to do with it all. A common phrase around here is “no worry ‘bout nothin’.” I am often told to “free up,” and “relax myself.” So I have been taking my time to play soccer with the local boys (who call me Miss Kaela), spending time on the porch on the hammock, playing my ukelele (I am beginning to elaborate on the simple tunes I taught myself and might put words to the music soon), taking naps, and visiting some of the most amazing archaeological sites on the planet.
About soccer: there's a field about a half mile from Smith’s Family Farm where I’m staying (it’s actually not a farm so much as a villa of cabanas with fluffy, scavenging chickens bobbing around, friendly families and their playful children, a couple scraggly horses, some clotheslines, all situated among a well manicured, tropical garden with well swept concrete walkways and dirt pathways). At about five o’clock, about twelve guys on average, most of them around my age, convene and get in a straight line, divide themselves into two teams by having each boy step to left or right, one by one down the line, and then start playing until dark. Tedron, a Rasta kid close to my age, who is the nephew of the guy who owns the family farm where I stay, got me to come down and play defense. Just like old times (I used to play for years when I was younger), when the ball would come my way I’d boot it as hard as I could as far away as possible. The most fun was yesterday when I played goalie and I dropkicked the ball as hard as I could to the other side of the field, each time it came my way. The final score was 4-2 (our side won). It was fun to get the guys going by showing off my skill – yes, I admit it. I can be a showoff but I do my best to remain humble. They are not used to seeing girls out there, though Ilana sometimes plays as well. I now have the reputation of being an all star on the field. Life is easy.
Today I took a tour with a native Belizean guide to the Barton Creek Cave. It is/was considered by the Mayans to be the passageway to the underworld. They buried their dead there, and it was thought that their soul would leave their body after three days, move into the void and reemerge as either as either a jaguar or a monkey – who according to David (the guide), you never see “fussing and fighting.” (The Mayans didn’t enjoy being subservient to royalty, so they wished to be reborn as powerful animals). At a couple points in the cave, we turned off our flashlights and moved along in the pitch black darkness in our canoe, with only the sounds of the droplets hitting the water, resonating throughout the empty space. The air was so still, the silence so pervasive. Never before has my mind been so clear of thoughts without the aid of meditation. We turned off the flashlights once more as we moved out of the cave after our one mile journey, so that we could use our imagination to experience what it was like to come back from the dead.
Later, Tedron and I walked down the road to a close-by village. To get to it, we had to walk across a buoyant wooden bridge over the river, When we got to other side, we were met with a field of lightning bugs, gracefully flickering on and off as the sky darkened above us. At one point during our walk back, we came to an area of the road where the crickets were especially loud. Slowly, the noise of a rattle emerged from the already melodic natural sounds, and we heard a group of Belizeans singing church songs in Spanish – it was almost like a unique version of gospel music. They were singing in celebration.
I'm getting better at understanding creole, though when I first arrived here, there was lots of smiling and nodding and saying "Mm-hm, okay . . ." (Creole is a form of broken English, sort of like the Belizean version of pidgin (sp?)) But, since all of Steven's friends speak it, I have lots of opportunities to get used to the language, and at this point, I am able to participate in conversation. They all get a kick out of it when I end my sentences with "Ya check?" or "No, true?" They look to the ground and nod their heads as if they're thinking "Now you're getting it . . ." So, I'm not living the life of an average tourist, as you may have surmised. Yesterday, I helped Steven and a few of his friends mix concrete on the ground in preparation for the underground septic tank they were building in Steven's mother's backyard. At first, they were hesitant to even let me help. Like, they just sort of laughed when I asked them to give me a shovel. But I persisted, and one of the guys, Chino, finally said "Here, take this one." Then he took a bucket of water and poured it over the pile of cement (they didn't have a mechanized mixer, of course) and showed me how to shovel in from the edges. After a few minutes, one of the other dreads showed me how to further break up clumpy cement by using a chopping motion. As beads of sweat rolled down my face and my whole body started to perspire, they all seemed to become more friendly towards me. Instead of treating me with skepticism, they started to enjoy teaching me the trade. Now, I no longer have to ask for a shovel. When I come by (Steven’s house is on the way to town) they just hand me one with huge grins on their faces.
I know a lot of what I write sounds pretty idyllic, but there are things here that concern me, I must admit. First of all, none of the cars here seem to get smog checks, and I am constantly inhaling exhaust fumes when walking along the side of the road. Also, there are pretty apparent divisions among the men and women. There seems to be a good amount of wives who spend most of their time at home while their husbands hang out on the street hailing young girls and/or sipping beer (Belikin is the main brand). Most children live in broken homes and domestic abuse is common. They still use corporal punishment in the educational system, and based on the descriptions that Tedron has offered me about being whacked in the hand by a two by four for not doing his homework, their schools sound more like military camps. The health care system is poor and inadequate -- they'll write drug prescriptions for illnesses they can't identify, and facilities are limited in space. But, people here are happy. Really happy. I have seen virtually no deeply depressed individuals. All you have to do is smile at a person (no matter what age or gender) to see how open hearted they are. The children almost always return it more beautifully and genuinely than I -- their faces light up. All in all the warm heartedness of the people here is a good climate in which to remain an optimist. Attitudinally, they're doing better here than most busy (and not so busy) people in the states.

Belize: Papayas, Eels, and Corn Rows

2005-12-18T11:56:00.000-08:00

I'm still here in Belize and have decided that I am going to take up residence for the month of January in the beautiful small town of San Ignacio, located in the country next to the Guatemalan border. It's one of the ideal locations to stay in if you want to see what this area of the country has to offer -- the Mayan monuments (like Cahal Pech and Xunantunich), the caves, if you want to float down the Mopan River on an inner tube. And I think this town is a great place to stay in general. Not only does it have cheap internet access and phone use, a farmer's market EVERYDAY a half mile up the road where I can buy, like five pounds of Papayas for only a couple bucks, but almost everyone smiles at me in passing. People here are happy and mellow. I can have my own furnished and serviced cabin, in a small little village among the locals (3/4 mile from town), utilities included for $150.00 US. Honestly, most of my days here so far have been spent lounging around with my friend Ilana and her Belizean man Steven in her cabana in between eating Ital food, going to the soccer field with all of the Belizean boys who have been playing the sport their whole lives, and strolling around town. I like to take it REALLY easy sometimes. That's one reason why I am going to spend another month here -- to get to know the place better. Right now I'm just sinking into it, and learning how to understand creole.
We spent a few days in San Pedro (an island among the cayes) and did some amazing snorkeling. We got a private tour (the three of us), a half day for $35.00 US. I held a shark. At first it resisted, but once I started rubbing its white belly, it became a little more subdued. It just kind of laid back onto my other hand (it was sandwiched in between the both of them) which was holding its sandpaper like brown back, and hesitantly enjoyed. Then it squirmed away. I never thought of sharks as cute until that day. There were also sting rays. One of the tour guides from another boat picked one up from the ocean floor and lifted it up to the surface of the water, and put it on his head for all to see. Then a few of the surrounding people who were also on tours pet it. At one point, our guide took me to a part of the reef where a green, grinch like eel was hiding. He started to approach it, but as he got closer, the eel angrily emerged from its hole, threatening to attack. My heart got a chill of a fear, but luckily, my guide backed away soon enough for the eel to be satisfied and retreat back to its home. We also encountered a school of huge silver colored fish, probably weighing about forty pounds, with huge, thick lips and yellow tails. They swam past my head and I'm surprised they didn't ram me.
Later in the day, Steven and Ilana took me to get my hair braided in corn rows by a mother and daughter who live on the island. It took about a couple hours. We conversed the entire time, mostly about how hard it was to find a good man in Belize (she was telling Ilana how lucky she was to find Steven, who is extraordinarily sweet, intelligent and trustworthy) and she invited me to stay in her home in a small village with her family for a couple months in April/May. She told me I wouldn't need to worry about paying money for a hotel or food -- that I would be taken care of, and could have my own room. I told her I'd give her a call next year if/when I was ready to come, upon which her 15 year old daughter clapped her hands and said I was going to be her big sister. A part of me thinks the mother wants to set me up with her 23 year old son, who according to her is one of the "good ones" -- intelligent and very artistic, but who has no interest in Belizean women --who only wants a "special girl he can trust." Well, I don't know if that's going to happen, but I think I may just take up her offer.

Challenging the Rip Tide at Black Sand Beach

2005-12-10T11:49:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I went to a beach I had never been to before, with Dave (who works on the farm with me), on the back of his motorcycle. It was situated at the bottom of a winding road, through a relatively recent lava flow. From the top, it looked almost like an abandoned industrial area, and surprisingly, houses are selling there for about $500,000 a piece. Only a year or so ago (I think), most were going for $30,000. That's how fast prices are skyrocketing over here (though they've pretty much capped). Anyway, it was called Miloli'i, also known as the Last Fishing Village. It's populated my locals mostly, many who seem to be in touch with the "old ways," and who don't like to to see too many haoles (white people). Once we reached the parking lot, we walked for about fifteen minutes along a mostly rock trail, lined with wooden handrails made from surrounding trees. Before we came to the strip of black sand, the trail opened up to a point where there were no trees on the right hand side of us -- just tall waves approaching us with increasing momentum as they crashed violently onto the boulders before us. It was intimidating, like the rock wall was a mediator keeping the ocean from mercilessly attacking us. With each crash, it sounded as if an avalanche was being released -- the ground practically shook. There was something special about the whole scene, as I was in the midst of an ethereal beauty that seems to exist on a different plane than what I'm used to in California. It is effervescent here. The palm trees glowed with an orange hue against the backdrop of the mist topped mountain, and we made our way to the sandy shore. There, the waves fell onto the shore, stretching themselves out in exhaustion before the rip tide possessively pulled them back, the ocean collecting itself to hurl itself once more onto the compacted jet black sand. In the distance, plumes of white froth were rising thirty feet out of the air as larger waves were beat against the cliff side. After another set crashed and receded, I stripped to my bathing suit, ran and jumped into the water. I tried to situate myself in the place where most of the waves just begin to break, so I could achieve the greatest height possible as I rose with them, but the current was so strong that I was pulled into the ocean where there was no ground beneath my feet to push off of. I dismissed the short pang of anxiety of getting out without being pummeled, and just submitted to the water, letting the waves move through me, pushing and pulling me gently. They rose about three feet above my head before I naturally bobbed up to meet the crest, and then moved past.
In one moment, as a gigantic wall of water was heading right for me, I was reminded of a couple of dreams I've had lately, of unpredictable oceans delivering catastrophic tidal waves. In these dreams, instead of being on the shore, trying to run out of harm's way (as most of my other past dreams have involved), I have actually BEEN IN the water, rising and falling in the deep end, not even thinking about how I'm going to get out. And here I was in waking reality, mostly confident and patient, only slightly apprehensive. When it came time for me to come out, the crest of a large wave crashed past my head and moved me into the pebbly shallow area. The rip tide pulled like a force of gravity, making it hard for me to even attempt to take a step forward. As I looked behind me to see if there were any large waves coming, the strong force subsided as a medium sized one headed my way, and I was able to RUN as fast as I could to where my clothes were lying. It felt like coming off of an exhilarating, breathtaking rollercoaster ride. I was glad I was safe.
And now, my tide (whoops, I meant time, but tide works) has come, and I am being whisked away to Belize (Central America) to see one of my best friends of all time (Ilana). She has just finished her field study teaching permaculture to kids, and has a few week vacation. I am going to stay in her humble home in the country (in San Ignacio) and see if I can live just as simple and natural of a lifestyle as I am here. It's a one way ticket, leaving tonight. From there, who knows where I'll go. Maybe Costa Rica? I am FREE.
At Ke-ei beach a couple days ago, facing the mountain, I asked the island if I could come back to live and work again, and all I felt was the same opening in my chest that happens with each sunset, the influx of mana rising and moving through me, a source of energy that is limitless. It will rise and rise, making me stronger and stronger as long as I LET it. This will always be a place of power for me, I can always come back.
So, friends of Santa Cruz, I don't know when you'll see me again, because this is where it's at! I am going to travel the world, coming back to Hawaii to make money so I may go off again. I don't know for how long I'll do this, but for now that's the plan. Santa Cruz -- I love it. I will miss the redwoods, West Cliff, the farmer's market on Wednesdays with all that cheap, high quality organic produce, and all of the truly wonderful people I know. But it's just too expensive for me right now, and I want something new. I plan on seeing you all again though when I visit. And I will definitely keep sending the updates and hopefully some pictures soon too. You'll hear from me. Just because I am geographically distant doesn't mean I won't keep you close . . .

Here in Honaunau: Kei-ei and KCOF 102.5

2005-10-21T11:47:00.001-07:00

It seems I have landed on the most beautiful area of the island. Everyday, I explore something completely unique, special, and powerful. Yesterday, it was Ke-ei (pronounced Kay-ay), which is near the water several miles down the
road. It's a little like Westcliff in Santa Cruz, in that it is miles of cliff side you can walk the length of, in serenity. However, it’s beach is only a small stretch of white sand, and the rest is lava rock. When I first saw and walked on lava rock, I found it very, how should I say. . . unaccomodating? The sun heats it up during the day (it's jet black), and burns all bare feet that attempt
to tread across it. It does not give under your body weight in any way, therefore you would NOT want to fall on your face on it, because it's coarseand super solid. You would look pretty bad. However, my opinion and experience of it has changed since I have started traveling to Ke-ei everyday to see the sunset. I now run across it practically, challenging
myself to best coordinate my footing, my reflexes. Around every turn, there is something to see. The rock closest to the water takes the form of angular blocks that have been beaten smooth by the waves and tides. It is amazing. There are areas that look they were constructed by giant human hands, strategically, for human enjoyment. For example, there is a natural bridge that separates two holes from one another, like the center of a figure "8," the water rising and falling on either side of it (the bridge is not attached to the earth -- that is how water can reach the second hole) and you can walk in between them. There are naturally constructed beginner and intermediate courses. I alternate between both of them. You can either walk or jump from flat block to flat block, or you can test yourself and use your toes to jump through the more irregularly shaped,
sloped, and sometimes jagged rocks. One thing I like best about the place is that it is usually desolate. Pam and I are often among the only ones there (except on Saturdays and Sundays, when the luaus are held). As I see the sky change
color and shift shadow during the sun's set, I sometimes sing to myself as loud as I can (from my belly, from deep inside), not caring how far I project my voice. I stand there as receptive as if I were receiving a healing or clearing, open, knowing that I need not focus on anything except quieting my mind enough that I can feel the power of what is before and all around me. And sure enough, there is always an influx of something that just seems to make my cells reverberate with exhilaration.
The other day, I snorkeled in the water at the white sand beach, in the waves! I came upon three or four sea turtles, moving with the current. As the waves broke over my head (not directly, I was submerged somewhat), I was
surrounded by an explosion of bubbles, gliding up the width of my body, past my ears, turning into a thin froth at the surface of the water. At one point I was pushed onto some slimy rocks and carried along them pretty rudely for eight or nine feet before I found my way back into the water with a couple mild scrapes. When I finally came out I had a big smile on my face.
I have begun to read my poetry (slam poetry) over the air at the local radio station. I am getting together some poets from around the area to come to the Songwriter’s Showcase on Sunday’s and have them interspersed between the musician's sets. The station is KCOF, 102.5, in Honaunau. I did it last Sunday when there were about twenty, maybe twenty five people at the station. I was so grateful to have been introduced to this subculture of artists, and am prepared to be a part of it.
When the last set of the night was over, performed by a most talented young guy close to my age, I gave him my thanks and appreciation. I told him of my idea for a show and he said that his girlfriend (who had been playing the djembe beside him and sang back-up during the set) was an amazing writer. I went and told her of my purpose and she asked me, "if I wouldn't mind," to read some of my own poetry to her. I recited "Pomegranate Heart," which I wrote less than a couple years ago. When I was done, I looked at her and found that her boyfriend had come up from behind her and had his arms wrapped around her, with his head resting on one of her shoulders. Both of them had been giving me their full attention, and were slowly rocking side to side with tears in their eyes. She told me she would love to be a part of my idea, and gave me her number and e-mail. She also said that she had friends that she is sure would be interested. So it seems I am off to a good start. By the way, here is the poem entitled “Pomegranate Heart”:

My heart is a pomegranate.
Layers and layers hold together seeds
Which promise to bear fruit.
Peel the white membranes
From the beads of my abundance
And you will only find more.

Only time will tell
When I am ready to fall to the ground,
Prostrate before your feet,
Demonstrating to you the depth of my desire
To experience your love.

I wait and anticipate
The time that I may be accepted and assimilated
Into the cells of your essence,
So I may share with you my flesh and blood
Of water and sun.

But the time is not yet ripe
For my sweetness to be relinquished.
For now, it is enough for me
To look into your eyes
And see the signs
Of new directions.

Getting into the Hawaiian Spirit

2005-10-13T11:45:00.000-07:00

Hawaii. I was told before I came that the Big Island was being developed with corporate interest in mind, but I did not imagine that Western values and practices would be so instilled in the local/Hawaiian people: namely, asshole-ness. Also, a certain kind of mindset prevails: . . . hostile anger, boredom, resignation. Alcoholism catalyzes the downward spiral of a people that feel painfully disconnected from their cultural essence. I thought that there would be a resistance movement here that would take the form of people who retained the "old ways," without scratches on their shoulders . . . a people untouched, who observe what is happening (Americanization), but who do not internalize it. Perhaps there is, but for the most part, the myth of the exotic, erotic Hawaiian has been dispelled from my mind. I knew that the portrayals of native Hawaiians in their leis and hoola skirts donned by tourist companies and travel agencies were a bit phony, but I thought they were imitations of something still in existence: a rich and flourishing culture. But that culture has for the most part been decimated, and from what I can tell, most people are just struggling, grudgingly, to survive. It's very expensive to live here. Property values are going up, and people are actually being displaced in the local government's attempt to bring more affluent gringos into town.
Okay, I’m not ready to write a thesis, so I will tell you about the horses two that live on the other side of the belly high lava stone wall that lines the farms property. Most of the day they spend grazing on an overabundance of succulent vegetation. In the afternoon, I find them standing side by side next to one another, head to tail, enjoying one another's company. I observed them watching me as I drank water meditatively in the outdoor kitchen. I decided to climb over the stone wall and approach them, but I was pretty timid about it. I didn't know if these horses had a freaky childhood or what, if they would try to whack me on the side of my head with their robust jaws, or if they would let me pet them without resistance. So for a moment, I just stood before them and bowed my head a bit. The horse with its head facing me nudged the one with it's butt towards me, and it turned around so they were both looking at me curiously. The younger looking one took a step forward as I raised my hand to touch its head. It landed on its crown and I could tell immediately that this horse was in need of attention, of touch. I caressed its jaw and smoothed my palm underneath its neck, as its eyelids became heavy with satisfaction. I didn't want to make the other horse jealous so I ran my fingers through its mane, which was a lot like healthy human hair. As I did that, the other one reached its head underneath the arc of its companions neck and touched my arm with the tip of its mouth, so we were all in physical contact. These creatures are massive and muscular, and barely utilize their own strength (they are very leisurely). I now visit them whenever I can. Just yesterday, as I stood flossing my teeth near their hang out spot, they took time off from their noshing to trot over towards me , with wide bright eyes and horse smiles on their faces. I have learned how to speak to them. Besides communing in silence, they like to be whispered to (they are alarmed by normal voice projection).
There are other creatures that live on the farm. At night, toads hop out from the bases of the banana trees and live their nocturnal life. I don't worry about stepping on them because their reflexes are so fast, they just jump out of the way. There's also this crazy blue and yellow macaw parrot, O’lili, that chews holes near the edges of the plastic roof of my cabin and squawks "Stop it!" and "How are you? How are you? *Squawk!* How are you?" When it gets on my nerves and I can't stand it anymore, I leave the farm for the day. It's a bit rambunctious. For example, it tried to tip over a bucket on one of the dog’s heads the other day while it was sniffing under the table that the parrot was standing on. Toi, who was standing nearby, just laughed.
At the moment, I work with a few middle aged fellows and I like them because they’re educated (except for the one guy Dan who recently cut off his index finger while he was sawing styrofoam), friendly, appreciative, happy to be living the simple life. And they always thank me for my work. Pretty soon Dave is going to take me for a ride on the back of his motorcycle.
It was a great morning when I went to work for Sun Bear Produce six miles down the road, situated higher up on the mountain -- a place that receives more rainfall and is about twice as big. For four hours in the morning, I harvested baby lettuce among mostly young workers against a backdrop of paradise. All of the kids (between the ages of 22 and 60, actually) were happy to be there, and totally WILLING to work. Most of them smiled whenever I looked at them, glowed with a satisfaction derived from living a balanced life. They were interested in who I was, and each was a "character." Harvy (the farm manager) as far as I can tell, is a person of integrity. He hires people based on personality and how in need they are of a job. And he pays them well ($11/hour). He doesn't have a problem talking to you like a boss -- like telling you what you need to improve on (the first batch of lettuce I picked was kind of dirty) and giving orders on what needs to be done. All in all, he seems to be a good balance between authority figure and sincere friend, and it shows in the quality of work that is performed on the farm. It's a beautiful, well maintained place. I think I'll be going there about a once every week or two, hopefully more in the near future.
Now, the sunsets: Each one is different. Near the City of Refuge, Pam and I sat on the coarse lava rock and watched as the sun transformed from a brilliant yellow sun to a subtle yet pervasive pinkish red. Its light was soft enough that you could stare straight at it without damaging your eyes. There were a few strips of clouds in the foreground, standing before its awesome luminescence. Their position allowed for a most spectacular illusion: as the sun sunk behind one of them, a semi circle was created in the sky that slowly shrunk into "oblivion" behind the cloud. The whole sun appeared once again before disappearing behind yet another cloud form. Finally, it emerged from beneath the last cloud, slowly, steadily, gently, as though the sky were giving birth. It emerged without a sound, and all onlookers were dazzled by the spectacle. The water reflected is light, creating what looked like a pathway from me to the horizion were the sun was situated. Something inside of me opened up -- my lungs parted themselves like two curtains, my heart became more prominent, my chest expanded into what felt like a wide inner grin. There was something about seeing the sun do this. I mean, throughout the day, it will not let you look at it without blinding you. It's like you constantly have to bow your head to it, respect it, like a high and mighty emperor that remains seated above you. But now I was eye to eye with it, and I did not need to cower. There was no fear of getting burnt. I was at its level, and it was energizing me without overwhelming my mortal senses. As it finally disappeared below the horizon, the dogs on the beach started barking and Pam and I clapped our hands.
Yes, Hawaii. The "spirit" is still here. But many people are becoming too busy to stop and pay attention. That is why I came out here. To STOP. I am still chasing my tail a bit, haven't fully unwound, but I am slowing down.

Building "Mana" and Experiencing "Aloha"

2005-10-02T11:43:00.000-07:00

I moved across the street to the one acre farm that has walkways lined with banana trees, and rows of lettuce, spinach, collard greens, chard, kale, cilantro, basil and parsley – Evie’s Farm. The Dragonfly simply did not work out. Without going into detail, suffice it to say that Barbara is yet another “imposter,” big time, and I felt I was being exploited. Now, I work three hours a day, five days a weeks, from 6:00 to 9:00 in the morning (instead of the 30+/week that I was previously doing). Then I get the rest of the day off. I also get to eat all of the fresh produce that is grown on the farm that I want (four kinds of bananas – finger bananas, apple bananas, ice cream bananas and blue field) and have a small cabin room with three open but screened windows. There is no electricity except for a lone lightbulb in the kitchen, so at night, my windowsill is lined with candles.
I just read a book on Hawaiian cultural and Kahuna values and learned a new concept: "mana." It is the power that comes from one's personal excellence. For example, in contrast to Western work ethics, in which an employee is motivated by the desire to make money, in traditional Hawaiian culture, one strives for excellence in order to attain sincere personal admiration from their fellow employees and employer. Mana. It resonates with me. This morning, I weeded an entire row of kale (60 feet or so), to prepare it for the next plantation. It took me three and a half hours, and I worked non-stop (except for a starfruit break), as hard as I could (taking time to stretch). I'm not making money, but this farm is now my home, the people I worked with companions sharing this land, and I want to both show my appreciation and feel that I deserve to be here. I felt so accomplished when Toi (the farm manager) looked at my work with amazement and told me I was "the bomb." I have now committed to working hard each and every day . . . (instead of dragging my feet, which I tend to do at places I don't want to be). Okay, maybe I'm just saying this because I HAVE money at the moment, but sincere admiration feels so much more substantial to me than a stamped check. For me, it brings happiness, and a definite feeling of harmony -- something you can actually feel. I value exchanging these things more than I do green printed paper over a counter.
Yesterday afternoon (approaching evening) I took a walk up the road and was struck at one particular point by a unique sunset (they are different in quality over here -- maybe because there is less pollution over the wide expanse of the Pacific ocean). I took a deep breathe in order to let myself experience awe to the fullest extent, and then turned around to see a local guy sitting on a ledge above me across the road. "Beautiful, sunset, huh?" he said. After crossing the road to exchange words with him for a few minutes, he walked down the slope to meet me, took my hand, and touched the side of his face to mine. That is aloha. ("Alo" means "face," and "ha," to breathe. Literally, to breathe on the face.) We walked back down the road together (I decided I wanted to go to Two Step, by the City of Refuge) and he told me he would lend me a bike to use (EXACTLY what I need!) Today, I ran into him again. He offered me a sip of his Capri Sun but I said "No thanks, I need protein." So he went to his house (which his family has lived on and shared for three generations), and brought me back down a sandwich, an apple, a glass of water, and a frozen fillet of Ahi fish that he said would defrost by the day's end!!! He wasn't trying to flirt with me (I don't think) -- he was sharing aloha (For those of you fearing for my safety or sanity . . .what can I say? I don't want to live in fear).
(By the way, I just opened up my wallet and out came a fortune from Panda Express that I saved a while ago. It says: "Health and happiness are in your destiny." I think my mom gave that to me).

Uncovering the Dragonfly Ranch

2005-09-25T11:41:00.000-07:00

My work partner, Pam, and I, did some exploring in the back of the property today and found a TON of potential. There is a garden with an overabundance of weeds. Pineapple plants poke out of them resiliently, along with rows of chard, kale, and collard greens, and edible wild flowers. Further up, there is a trail with some banana trees as canopy and abandoned structures built on either side. I heard that his place used to be a brothel. It had quite a reputation in the 70s. If what I heard is true, I imagine these used to be servicing rooms. There were about three or four of them. We thought part of it could be transformed into a "staff hang out" place. Most likely, we'll speak it over with Barbara after she comes back from the Health Expo she went to today -- some cheesy convention with people channeling creative energy for positive manifestation, courses on how to paint with your emotions, and $50 group therapy sessions. Ah, maybe it would have been fun. This world IS a spectacle, after all. All those imposters in Santa Cruz have made me quite cynical though, as oriented as I am towards alternative health. It might have been amusing if I just stood back and watched. As the sun went down, Pam and I started weeding between the pineapple patch on the corner of the garden, happy that we would be able to make Barbara pleased. Barbara is the character who runs the place. She has three little matching dogs that she speaks to in a childish voice, touching her fingertips to their snouts. One of them likes to hump a brown teddy bear that Barbara gives her, constantly, before she tries to viciously tear it to pieces with her little jaws. Barbara thinks it’s hilarious, while her guests for the most part just kind of let their jaw drop as they look the other way.
As the sun slid below the horizon line, after finishing weeding the patch of pineapple, Pam and I optimistically resolved that we would work our way inwards and transform this garden into something accessible, and to admire. Ah, the good feeling of being productive. Despite being the messy, passive person that I am, I am building a good work ethic. When I am appreciated, when people are happy with the work that I'm doing . . . I'm just plain satisfied.
About the people I work with: Pam is a 41 year old woman from South Florida who's family is going through the New Orleans crisis. She holds the Bed and Breakfast together. Without her, I would crumble in my ability to fulfill my duties. Then there's Randy, a 50 year old man who smoked pot for twelve years straight and is now out of money (he spend it all on weed). Totally happy to be here and to be of service in exchange for a place to stay. When he was pruning the banana trees today, he yanked on a leaf so hard that he fell backward and down a small slope, as Pam screamed with her hands to her mouth. I looked on with an amused expression as he got up and dusted himself and his ego off. Refraining from an attitude of: "Who are these people and what have I gotten myself into?" I found that a sense of humor is a key to letting things go and surpassing judgment. Everyone's weird, and a little off.
I hope to swim with dolphins tomorrow morning. Don't be too jealous of me though, as I am getting bitten UP over here and have resorted to putting bug spray (i.e. pesticide) all over my body. I think I am going to find a less toxic solution.

I Have Arrived in a Tropical Paradise

2005-09-21T09:33:00.000-07:00

Approaching Maui after traveling thousands of miles over blue, blue, blue, blue, (i.e. lots of water) I started feeling a lush feeling in my lower tummy and was glad that I was finally in Hawaii. I stayed in Maui for only about an hour and a half before embarking on my transition flight to the Big Island. Alo-HA. First thing I saw coming in, aside from the malachite colored water, was an expansive bed of black lava rock. This was where the plane landed. There were some palm trees scattered along a shore to the distant left, but for the most part, plant matter was sparse on this area of the island. My new co-worker Pam picked me up at the airport and drove me about forty miles to the Dragonfly Ranch, the place where I am doing my volunteer work. There are plants here I have never seen before, growing on the side of the road like flourishing gardens. Many wild flowers and huge leaves, sometimes dappled with dew from the sporadic rainfall. Everywhere. The air was a pleasing temperature -- it hugged my skin, my whole body and infused my lungs. I guess all air does this but in Santa Cruz you can't feel it as much. I feel the energy of this place more pervasively each day. But generally, I feel it coming from below me. Its power is not only in all the plants and trees and in the views, but a great deal of it is coming from within the earth. That's why there's all these volcanoes here! The energy here is so conducive to molten hot explosions! Or the other way around. Whatever. I know I am alienating a few of you not-so-oriented-towards-that-hippie-kind-of-way-of-experiencing-things but anyway. I arrived at the Drangonfly Ranch and was struck how in the jungle this place really is . . . beautiful. Lusciously overgrown and unkempt. Like my hair. It’s also rustic. If you see the pictures of it at dragonflyranch.com, you'll see a clean, well maintained place. Well, it turns out those pictures were taken about thirty years ago and the place is a bit more run down now. There is organized clutter everywhere you look. Like, if you look at two or three square feet, you will see a space complete unto itself. But there is an overabundance of complete unto itself places that there is little room left for actual empty mind space. Like, think of being so surrounded by works of art that you are just kind of confronted with SOMETHING everywhere you turn. It's reminds me a little bit of living in the Felix Kulpa art gallery. This woman (Barbara, who run the place) apparently does not like to get rid of anything. And some of it smells. She has all kinds of books, from Hawaii travel guides, to those on investing your values into your own business, to all things relating to the New Age, as well as the Koran and the Holy Bible.
Yesterday, after a hard day's work cleaning rooms, doing laundry, tidying the kitchen repeatedly, and vacuuming termite poop, I went snorkeling in the most pristine water I have ever glided my body through. It was like swimming through an aquarium. After I got past the shallow area were there was only sand and rocks, I came upon some objects on the seafloor that looked like brains. I soon realized that this was CORAL! I swam a little bit further with my rubber flippers and soon came upon a few yellow fish. The only place I have seen these have been confined to small tanks with plastic trees and faux flora. The further out I swam, the more life I came across: Bluefin Jack, Saddle Wrasse, Trumpet Fish, Hawaiian White Spotted Fish, Yellow Tang, Sea Urchins, and a Sea Turtle. I kept swimming, further and further, until I reached a steep slope. All of a sudden, the sea floor reached into the shadowy depths of the ocean and transformed into an underwater valley. I became hyperaware of the darth vader like sound of my breath moving in and out of my snorkel. Then I got motion sick and had to turn back.
That night I went to a Buddhist meditation circle with some friendly Hawaiian locals who were truly consumed by the Aloha spirit. We chanted for about an hour, an intonation that had a vibration meant to synchronize one with their own Buddha nature. How did I feel after that, you may be wondering? So tired. We drove home and I went to bed. I still have jet lag. Then I had a dream about swimming with a gigantic manta ray.
It seems appropriate to conclude this letter now by saying that you are all in my thoughts . . . glimpses of faces with joyous grins, the recollection of my own belly laughter, evenings by candlelight with a cup of tea being introspective among close friends, comfortable in silence . . .
Much love,
-Kaela