Our first day on the road was quite an adventure. It felt like a cross between a cartoon and a bad comedy. We navigated out of Sydney, after more than a few wrong turns, and made it almost 30 miles out (to the start of Highway 1), when Doo Doo Brown decided she’d had enough of the 110 km speed limit. How did we know that she couldn’t take it? Well, the first sign was the white smoke pouring out of the exhaust pipe, the second clue was the temperature indicator as it quickly climbed to the “H” (which it later surpassed). The final clue was the steam coming from under the hood.
Pete calmly pulled over onto the generous shoulder, and we stopped the car. After popping the hood open, reading the manual, and considering calling my dad at 3:00 a.m. Eastern Time, we formed a plan. Once the engine had cooled, we checked the reservoir and the radiator for fluid levels. It turned out that both were nearly empty. Luckily we’d filled our water bottles before leaving Sydney, so we had enough water to cool it down so that we could drive it to the next exit.
Pete drove with the hazard lights on, creeping at 20-30 km up a hill to the exit, which was only 1 km from where we’d pulled over. This caused the whole fanfare to start up again, and we pulled over at the first opportunity, just outside of a row of houses off the main street. When we removed the radiator cap this time, there was a lot of hissing and groaning.
Doo Doo was not happy. But for some reason we didn’t panic, and as Pete pointed out to me, it did indeed feel like we were in some strange cartoon. How absurd to be on the side of some road in the middle of Australia with a broken down ’83 Falcon. Just looking at the car makes me laugh, though it also brings back breakdown nightmares from my teenage years of driving an ’81 Volvo.
Peter has already grown very attached to her, and seems to be living out many a Mad Max fantasy from his childhood. So with a newfound infatuation in his heart, and visions of animated radiator caps blowing sky-high in his cartoon imagination, Pete set out for a store in search of more water to feed our thirsty beast. But it only took a few steps because, as it turned out, someone who lived in one of the houses was pulling into his driveway, and once Pete approached him, he proffered a full watering can.
In yet another strange twist, this man (who never gave his name) turned out to be D. Brown’s guardian angel. Not only had he been an engine mechanic on a ship for 15 years, but he was also the proud owner of a ’93 Ford Falcon and had taken classes in fixing their engines. He took over, pouring water and chemical mixtures into the reservoir and radiator, and offering us advice (and meandering stories) as he did so. We offered him $20, but he told us that it would be better spent getting our rusty radiator drained and cleaned out.
The sun had set (it sets around 5:00 here), so we drove off with a refreshed car into the night, finally pulling over to sleep in a rest area. Not the most glamorous place to be, but when your car has a bed in it, one place is just about as good as the next.
On day 2 the car held up nicely, and continues to do so—though we’re still checking the fluids regularly and are going to take her in for a mechanical check-up sometime in the next week.
Yesterday we finally got out of the suburban landscapes and into the countryside. Heading up Highway 1 we encountered rolling hills, lakes, ocean vistas, and farms. At the suggestion of our guidebook and camping guide, we drove to a remote campground on the coast near an outcropping known as Seal Rocks (known for its seal population and surfing, though we didn’t encounter any seals). There were only two other vehicles at the campground, and despite the fact that it was a fee-site, part of Myall National Park, there was no one to collect our money.
We walked through a thicket and down a few sand dunes, and there, near a sweeping expanse of the finest sand, were the crashing waves of the Pacific. It felt like there was nobody around for millions of miles, and Pete took off in a sprint to capture the setting sun with his camera. The water was cold, the air was fresh and still, and it felt like we couldn’t breathe enough of it in. Later that night, with the guidance of a full moon, we walked out to platform on the sand dunes and admired the chilly scenery.
Since we haven’t figured out the whole cell phone usage thing, both of our phones are dead because we don’t have a car charger, and the internet is pretty scarce, I can’t promise the most consistent communication.
Our short-term plan (for the remainder of the week), is to continue climbing up the coast on Highway 1 toward Byron Bay. The highlight of the coast is sure to be swimming and snorkeling along the Great Barrier Reef, though we will probably do that once we arrive in Cairns, the farthest major city on the east coast, which is a major hub for most boat trips out to the reef.
As you go farther north, the climate here becomes subtropical, and the crops seem similar to those of Hawaii. We have the WWOOF (willing workers on organic farms) book for Australia, with a listing of over 1,600 farms, and we hope to stay on a few for a week here and there. The average farm-stay here is about a week, since it caters to young people who are traveling through, and it could also give us an opportunity to make money off the books.
No worries, mate.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Vroom Vroom
G’day mates, we’re finally in Sydney, and in case you weren’t sure, we’re 15 hours ahead of Eastern Time. The flight from Honolulu was 10 hours, and went as smoothly as possible. It’s almost spring here, and the weather is absolutely gorgeous. Not Hawaii-gorgeous, but slightly crisp, very sunny, 65-degree-daysgorgeous.
Our hostel, Kanga House, is one of the oldest hostels in Sydney, and is situated in Kings Cross, the self-touted “backpackers” neighborhood. True to its reputation, the streets are filled with young travelers, internet cafes, hostels, and travel agencies—not to mention a handful of cheap bars and restaurants.
The Australian dollar is weaker than the U.S. dollar, with roughly a 1.3% exchange rate. However, after the conversion, the prices here are pretty comparable to New York City prices. In fact, Sydney seems to be a slightly European version of NYC, at least so far.
Yesterday was our first full day here and we’ve already accomplished more than we thought we could. In the morning we managed to order coffee, which you think would be simple, but in fact, it went a little something like this:
Pete (to man behind the cash register at a café): “Two coffees please.”
Man: “Flat white?” (Only imagine that he said it with such a thick Aussie accent that it sounded like he said “what what?”)
Pete: “Ummm…what?”
Man: “Flat white?” (Imagine the same as above, but this time with a slightly peevish attitude.)
Woman (intervening): “A flat white.”
Me: “A flat what?” (I still can’t navigate the accent and continue to interpret “white” as “what.”)
Woman: “No, a flat white. [I understand…finally.] It’s strong coffee with milk. If you want something weaker, we have lattes.”
Me: “Oh, ok. Yeah, something strong, then.”
Woman: “So two flat whites?”
Me and Pete: “Yeah.”
Apparently Aussies don’t drink coffee coffee. Maybe you have to go to Starbucks for that. Now that would be ironic…going to Starbucks for something simple. I guess I’ll stick to the flat whites, which, once demystified, turned out to be cappuccinos. Go figure.
We walked around Kings Cross after that, in search of the Backpackers Car Market, which we’d read about on the internet and also in our Lonely Planet guidebook. Because Australia is so full of young travelers, and it’s such a large country to see efficiently by train or plane, the preferred “backpacker” method is purchasing a car. The car market is located in the basement of a large parking garage, and is run by an extremely helpful and friendly agency that charges buyers nothing, and sellers only $60 per week to park as they attempt to sell their vehicles.
Upon entering we were greeted by lots of depressed-looking young couples who’d been trying to sell their vehicles for at least a few days. It turns out that the average sell takes about a week, which isn’t too bad. But you're still in a basement of a parking garage.
After some looking around, talking to couples, and checking out all of the vehicles, we found our match. She’s a 1983 Ford Falcon, in a lovely shade of poo brown. If you’ve never seen a Falcon, just imagine a hearse that’s gotten a 1970’s makeover. It has less than 150,000 kilometers on it, which was half as many as most of the other cars that were half its age. We purchased it from a young German couple who’d been driving it all around Australia for the past five months. They’d purchased it at the car market as well, and had found it to be an awesome car—so awesome in fact, that they considered taking it back to Germany with them. The only problem they’d had was wit a fuel pump, which they had replaced. They had a clean inspection and an oil change in the last week and the car is registered until next July.
Now we just have to get the registration in our names, which can be done with a quick trip to the Australian DMV (or whatever they call it here), and get property insurance (which is cheap and easy to find). Don’t worry, Mom, personal injury insurance is included in the registration.
I managed to talk them down $500, and they included a bunch of maps, books on free campsites, a tent, a sleeping bag, a camp stove, and various other camping items. The car is much bigger than the modern Falcons, and has a full-size mattress in the back, which is on a raised platform (plenty of pictures to come…this thing is a photogenic beast). Under the platform is lots of room for storage. According to the couples we spoke to, working on farms while traveling around in your car seems to be the main way that people “backpack” around Australia. We were told that at any given free car-camping parks there are dozens of young people all doing the same thing.
Today we're venturing to the DMV and then we’re heading up the east coast (on the left-hand side of the road). I see many great adventures in our future, and the future of our lovely new three-seater beauty.
Our hostel, Kanga House, is one of the oldest hostels in Sydney, and is situated in Kings Cross, the self-touted “backpackers” neighborhood. True to its reputation, the streets are filled with young travelers, internet cafes, hostels, and travel agencies—not to mention a handful of cheap bars and restaurants.
The Australian dollar is weaker than the U.S. dollar, with roughly a 1.3% exchange rate. However, after the conversion, the prices here are pretty comparable to New York City prices. In fact, Sydney seems to be a slightly European version of NYC, at least so far.
Yesterday was our first full day here and we’ve already accomplished more than we thought we could. In the morning we managed to order coffee, which you think would be simple, but in fact, it went a little something like this:
Pete (to man behind the cash register at a café): “Two coffees please.”
Man: “Flat white?” (Only imagine that he said it with such a thick Aussie accent that it sounded like he said “what what?”)
Pete: “Ummm…what?”
Man: “Flat white?” (Imagine the same as above, but this time with a slightly peevish attitude.)
Woman (intervening): “A flat white.”
Me: “A flat what?” (I still can’t navigate the accent and continue to interpret “white” as “what.”)
Woman: “No, a flat white. [I understand…finally.] It’s strong coffee with milk. If you want something weaker, we have lattes.”
Me: “Oh, ok. Yeah, something strong, then.”
Woman: “So two flat whites?”
Me and Pete: “Yeah.”
Apparently Aussies don’t drink coffee coffee. Maybe you have to go to Starbucks for that. Now that would be ironic…going to Starbucks for something simple. I guess I’ll stick to the flat whites, which, once demystified, turned out to be cappuccinos. Go figure.
We walked around Kings Cross after that, in search of the Backpackers Car Market, which we’d read about on the internet and also in our Lonely Planet guidebook. Because Australia is so full of young travelers, and it’s such a large country to see efficiently by train or plane, the preferred “backpacker” method is purchasing a car. The car market is located in the basement of a large parking garage, and is run by an extremely helpful and friendly agency that charges buyers nothing, and sellers only $60 per week to park as they attempt to sell their vehicles.
Upon entering we were greeted by lots of depressed-looking young couples who’d been trying to sell their vehicles for at least a few days. It turns out that the average sell takes about a week, which isn’t too bad. But you're still in a basement of a parking garage.
After some looking around, talking to couples, and checking out all of the vehicles, we found our match. She’s a 1983 Ford Falcon, in a lovely shade of poo brown. If you’ve never seen a Falcon, just imagine a hearse that’s gotten a 1970’s makeover. It has less than 150,000 kilometers on it, which was half as many as most of the other cars that were half its age. We purchased it from a young German couple who’d been driving it all around Australia for the past five months. They’d purchased it at the car market as well, and had found it to be an awesome car—so awesome in fact, that they considered taking it back to Germany with them. The only problem they’d had was wit a fuel pump, which they had replaced. They had a clean inspection and an oil change in the last week and the car is registered until next July.
Now we just have to get the registration in our names, which can be done with a quick trip to the Australian DMV (or whatever they call it here), and get property insurance (which is cheap and easy to find). Don’t worry, Mom, personal injury insurance is included in the registration.
I managed to talk them down $500, and they included a bunch of maps, books on free campsites, a tent, a sleeping bag, a camp stove, and various other camping items. The car is much bigger than the modern Falcons, and has a full-size mattress in the back, which is on a raised platform (plenty of pictures to come…this thing is a photogenic beast). Under the platform is lots of room for storage. According to the couples we spoke to, working on farms while traveling around in your car seems to be the main way that people “backpack” around Australia. We were told that at any given free car-camping parks there are dozens of young people all doing the same thing.
Today we're venturing to the DMV and then we’re heading up the east coast (on the left-hand side of the road). I see many great adventures in our future, and the future of our lovely new three-seater beauty.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Cannonball Tree
The Foster Botanical Garden has some of the weirdest trees I've ever seen. This one, the Cannonball Tree, a native of Guiana, is maybe the weirdest. Micaela described it as "a party in a tree."
A sign at it's base read: "Caution, watch out for falling cannon balls." Maybe the stench of it's rotting fruit was the tree's way of saying the same thing.
A sign at it's base read: "Caution, watch out for falling cannon balls." Maybe the stench of it's rotting fruit was the tree's way of saying the same thing.
Kapu
I wish there were more to say about Honolulu, but so far nothing too noteworthy is going on. Thanks to Iris, I got my passport yesterday, which was pretty big news. I’ll be boxing some kangaroos in just a matter of days.
Oahu has a really great bus service (called “The Bus”) that goes all over the island. We got 4-day unlimited ride tickets, and decided to check out Chinatown and Foster Botanical Garden yesterday. Chinatown was pretty standard as far as Chinatowns go. While walking through the market we saw a severed pig’s head. I had to look, but it made me weak in the knees. We ended up eating Indian food for lunch, and I think the pig face had a hand in that decision.
The garden turned out to be mostly trees, some of which were really unusual, including the Double Coconut tree, which has the largest seeds in the world, some weighing up to 50 pounds. According to the information we read about it, the fruit requires 10 years to ripen, and before the trees were discovered it was believed that the large nuts seen floating in the ocean came from a mysterious underwater tree. Sailors gave the tree the name of “Coco de Mer,” (Coco of the Sea).
The rest of the day was pretty much like the last three: beach reading, swimming, and eating. The biggest thing to happen to us, aside from the passport fiasco, was Pete’s second pair of flip-flops breaking. I think we’re both getting antsy to move on.
One pervasive aspect of Hawaii that we’ve noticed from the beginning, is the conflict between the native islander and the invading outsider. The ubiquitous “kapu,” “no trespassing” and “beware of dog” signs, the large gates that seem to surround every other house, the warnings in guidebooks that certain beaches are “for locals” or that we might feel uncomfortable in certain less-populated areas, they all contribute to a general atmosphere of unwelcome. Sure there’s the “aloha” spirit that everyone talks about, and we certainly encountered that while hitchhiking and in more tourist-heavy areas, but has been spotty, at best.
I can’t blame Hawaiians for these feelings. After being “discovered” by people like Captain Cook, being banned from practicing their own religions, forced into Christianity, then later annexed by the United States in 1959 when a distinct culture had been flourishing for thousands of years, it’s no wonder Hawaiians are suspicious of outsiders. Yet in a state where the economy relies so heavily on tourism, the pride of the natives is a much more complex subject.
On Saturday, I’m sure Pele will be smiling, as two more mainlanders depart from her paradise. But we'll have the last laugh, with two of her shiny rocks safely tucked into our backpacks.
Oahu has a really great bus service (called “The Bus”) that goes all over the island. We got 4-day unlimited ride tickets, and decided to check out Chinatown and Foster Botanical Garden yesterday. Chinatown was pretty standard as far as Chinatowns go. While walking through the market we saw a severed pig’s head. I had to look, but it made me weak in the knees. We ended up eating Indian food for lunch, and I think the pig face had a hand in that decision.
The garden turned out to be mostly trees, some of which were really unusual, including the Double Coconut tree, which has the largest seeds in the world, some weighing up to 50 pounds. According to the information we read about it, the fruit requires 10 years to ripen, and before the trees were discovered it was believed that the large nuts seen floating in the ocean came from a mysterious underwater tree. Sailors gave the tree the name of “Coco de Mer,” (Coco of the Sea).
The rest of the day was pretty much like the last three: beach reading, swimming, and eating. The biggest thing to happen to us, aside from the passport fiasco, was Pete’s second pair of flip-flops breaking. I think we’re both getting antsy to move on.
One pervasive aspect of Hawaii that we’ve noticed from the beginning, is the conflict between the native islander and the invading outsider. The ubiquitous “kapu,” “no trespassing” and “beware of dog” signs, the large gates that seem to surround every other house, the warnings in guidebooks that certain beaches are “for locals” or that we might feel uncomfortable in certain less-populated areas, they all contribute to a general atmosphere of unwelcome. Sure there’s the “aloha” spirit that everyone talks about, and we certainly encountered that while hitchhiking and in more tourist-heavy areas, but has been spotty, at best.
I can’t blame Hawaiians for these feelings. After being “discovered” by people like Captain Cook, being banned from practicing their own religions, forced into Christianity, then later annexed by the United States in 1959 when a distinct culture had been flourishing for thousands of years, it’s no wonder Hawaiians are suspicious of outsiders. Yet in a state where the economy relies so heavily on tourism, the pride of the natives is a much more complex subject.
On Saturday, I’m sure Pele will be smiling, as two more mainlanders depart from her paradise. But we'll have the last laugh, with two of her shiny rocks safely tucked into our backpacks.
Balcony
This is what we see from our "ocean-view" balcony. If you crane your neck out, you can view a little more ocean to the right. The other exciting part of our ocean-view balcony is the view of "Diamond Head". That's the crater (rock-looking thing) on the left. The view the hotel doesn't advertise is the view of our balcony that everyone in the pool area has. ...It's still pretty hard to complain.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Pololu Valley
We learned our lesson at Waipio, so we admired Pololu Valley from the safety of the lookout, a couple feet from where we parked the car.
Waipio Beach
It was relatively easy walking down, but torture walking back up from Waipio Valley. If we'd waited a half-hour longer, there wouldn't have been any shade on the way back and I think we would have died.
Akaka Falls
It was hard to get out of the air-conditioned car, but we managed to tolerate the heat just long enough to see the 800-foot Akaka Falls.
Expect the Unexpected
I guess we’ve been neglecting our blog. It’s a little more difficult to update when you’re traveling and don’t have a reliable internet connection. Peter's going to post some pictures from our trip through the northern valleys of the Big Island, but first things first.
Last Thursday night while sitting in a hostel in Kona, Pete and I debated what to do next. We hadn’t heard back from the three farms we’d e-mailed and called, and we weren't even sure we wanted to pursue staying in Hawaii. After talking in circles for a few hours, everyone’s favorite hypothetical question arose: If you could do whatever you wanted to, what would you do next? We both answered: Go to Australia!
To our surprise, tickets to Sydney for that Saturday were half the price of what we expected to find if we flew out of Honolulu—and tickets to Honolulu were only $25 on Friday. After some clicking around online, we had all of the tickets and two almost-instant visas. The next morning we packed our bags for Australia, getting rid of some of the heavier things we’d acquired.
On Saturday morning we left our hotel near the Honolulu airport and made our way to the gate. There was some confusion with my visa, and one of the airline employees made a required phone call to try and figure out what it might be. But nobody could figure out why my visa had indicated for them to make this phone call, so they let me pass through. Phew. Only ten minutes after I’d arrived at the gate, several employees drove up in a van and told me that I wouldn’t be able to board the plane because my passport was apparently invalid. I had some explaining to do.
Five months ago, back in Brooklyn, I’d applied for a passport, having forgotten that I already had one, since the one I had was quite old and had never been used. Weeks went by, then months, and still no passport. Then in July, while packing up my belongings, I came across my old passport, which was still valid. Great, I thought, I’ll just call and cancel my request for a new one. But it wasn’t that simple. Due to the massive influx of requests created by new passport laws requiring everyone traveling to the Caribbean and Canada to be in possession of a passport, the office was inundated by paperwork and phone calls. The automated passport hotline said to call back another time, and then hung up without apologies. I tried, and tried, and tried. And then I gave up.
The day before I decide to travel to Australia, the passport office, in some sick twist of fate, decides to FINALLY issue me a new passport, per my request FIVE months ago. Mind you, it was supposed to take 8 weeks to process the request. The new passport therefore invalidates the one I’m carrying, and while it’s stuck somewhere in the mail system, I’m stuck in Honolulu, awaiting its arrival, and hoping that it’s sometime before our rescheduled flight on Saturday. Everyone cross your fingers.
After I did some crying and pleading, and loudly cursing our government in front of everyone else who actually was flying to Sydney, Peter helped me to see the light. An unplanned week relaxing on Waikiki Beach isn’t exactly awful, we hadn’t made plans in Australia yet, and the airline didn’t charge us to change our flight. It was my right to fly regardless of the passport mishap, but it almost definitely would have gotten me deported at the Sydney airport (at my own expense), and the airline would have incurred a $10,000 fine. Instead we’re taking the week to catch up on reading, sleeping, and beach-bumming. This is the first time that I feel like I’ve been on vacation in years. And while being a stereotypical tourist in an over-hyped tropical paradise isn’t really how I prefer to do things, I can’t exactly complain either. So it goes.
Last Thursday night while sitting in a hostel in Kona, Pete and I debated what to do next. We hadn’t heard back from the three farms we’d e-mailed and called, and we weren't even sure we wanted to pursue staying in Hawaii. After talking in circles for a few hours, everyone’s favorite hypothetical question arose: If you could do whatever you wanted to, what would you do next? We both answered: Go to Australia!
To our surprise, tickets to Sydney for that Saturday were half the price of what we expected to find if we flew out of Honolulu—and tickets to Honolulu were only $25 on Friday. After some clicking around online, we had all of the tickets and two almost-instant visas. The next morning we packed our bags for Australia, getting rid of some of the heavier things we’d acquired.
On Saturday morning we left our hotel near the Honolulu airport and made our way to the gate. There was some confusion with my visa, and one of the airline employees made a required phone call to try and figure out what it might be. But nobody could figure out why my visa had indicated for them to make this phone call, so they let me pass through. Phew. Only ten minutes after I’d arrived at the gate, several employees drove up in a van and told me that I wouldn’t be able to board the plane because my passport was apparently invalid. I had some explaining to do.
Five months ago, back in Brooklyn, I’d applied for a passport, having forgotten that I already had one, since the one I had was quite old and had never been used. Weeks went by, then months, and still no passport. Then in July, while packing up my belongings, I came across my old passport, which was still valid. Great, I thought, I’ll just call and cancel my request for a new one. But it wasn’t that simple. Due to the massive influx of requests created by new passport laws requiring everyone traveling to the Caribbean and Canada to be in possession of a passport, the office was inundated by paperwork and phone calls. The automated passport hotline said to call back another time, and then hung up without apologies. I tried, and tried, and tried. And then I gave up.
The day before I decide to travel to Australia, the passport office, in some sick twist of fate, decides to FINALLY issue me a new passport, per my request FIVE months ago. Mind you, it was supposed to take 8 weeks to process the request. The new passport therefore invalidates the one I’m carrying, and while it’s stuck somewhere in the mail system, I’m stuck in Honolulu, awaiting its arrival, and hoping that it’s sometime before our rescheduled flight on Saturday. Everyone cross your fingers.
After I did some crying and pleading, and loudly cursing our government in front of everyone else who actually was flying to Sydney, Peter helped me to see the light. An unplanned week relaxing on Waikiki Beach isn’t exactly awful, we hadn’t made plans in Australia yet, and the airline didn’t charge us to change our flight. It was my right to fly regardless of the passport mishap, but it almost definitely would have gotten me deported at the Sydney airport (at my own expense), and the airline would have incurred a $10,000 fine. Instead we’re taking the week to catch up on reading, sleeping, and beach-bumming. This is the first time that I feel like I’ve been on vacation in years. And while being a stereotypical tourist in an over-hyped tropical paradise isn’t really how I prefer to do things, I can’t exactly complain either. So it goes.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Hurricane Flossie Upstaged by Minor Earthquake
Some of you may have been worried about how we weathered Hurricane Flossie, and assuming you’ve heard the news, not much happened. Some rain, some wind, and that’s about it.
On our way to Kona on Tuesday, we stopped at South Point, the southernmost point on the island, where Polynesians landed when they first arrived. The Hawaiians call this place Ka Lae, and it is considered a sacred spot (heiau, in Hawaiian). You can still see holes in the rocks where ancient Hawaiians moored their canoes, allowing them to float out into the ocean and catch fish while still tethered to the land, preventing them from getting swept away in the turbulent water.
We couldn’t believe that they hadn’t blocked access since they’d closed all public beaches and campsites due to the impending doom of Hurricane Flossie. When we got there, we were greeted by huge swells that were crashing against the cliffs. Here’s a video of the drama. You might want to turn off your sound since the wind was really loud.
There was a local CBS affiliate filming in front of the surf so that they could add to the hype being broadcast across the country. You can see a guy holding a microphone and another holding a camera if you look closely at the video.
Later that night, back at our hostel in Volcano Village (which was really just a large home owned by a Japanese family), we awoke to an earthquake around 2:00 a.m. At first I thought it was just Pete shaking the bed, but it only took a moment for me to realize what was happening, and for Pete to get out the word, “earthquake.” It was a magnitude 4.4, and its epicenter was just 7 miles from Volcano. There had been another one the previous night, a 5.3 that was 15 miles from where we were staying, but we didn’t feel it since we were driving at the time. After the adrenaline wore off, we fell back to sleep.
This morning we were hoping to drive along Chain of Craters Road inside Volcanoes National Park, and then hike the Kilauea Iki Trail. We thought that Pele was smiling down on us when we got to the entrance and there was a sign saying to drive through. Great, we thought, we get to go in for free! But in fact, Pele was up to her old tricks again—not only were all of the roads closed within the park, but it was so rainy and foggy that we couldn’t see anything even if we’d hiked around. We added “lava” to the list of things we’re apparently not meant to see alongside “dolphins” and “whales.”
On our way to Kona on Tuesday, we stopped at South Point, the southernmost point on the island, where Polynesians landed when they first arrived. The Hawaiians call this place Ka Lae, and it is considered a sacred spot (heiau, in Hawaiian). You can still see holes in the rocks where ancient Hawaiians moored their canoes, allowing them to float out into the ocean and catch fish while still tethered to the land, preventing them from getting swept away in the turbulent water.
We couldn’t believe that they hadn’t blocked access since they’d closed all public beaches and campsites due to the impending doom of Hurricane Flossie. When we got there, we were greeted by huge swells that were crashing against the cliffs. Here’s a video of the drama. You might want to turn off your sound since the wind was really loud.
There was a local CBS affiliate filming in front of the surf so that they could add to the hype being broadcast across the country. You can see a guy holding a microphone and another holding a camera if you look closely at the video.
Later that night, back at our hostel in Volcano Village (which was really just a large home owned by a Japanese family), we awoke to an earthquake around 2:00 a.m. At first I thought it was just Pete shaking the bed, but it only took a moment for me to realize what was happening, and for Pete to get out the word, “earthquake.” It was a magnitude 4.4, and its epicenter was just 7 miles from Volcano. There had been another one the previous night, a 5.3 that was 15 miles from where we were staying, but we didn’t feel it since we were driving at the time. After the adrenaline wore off, we fell back to sleep.
This morning we were hoping to drive along Chain of Craters Road inside Volcanoes National Park, and then hike the Kilauea Iki Trail. We thought that Pele was smiling down on us when we got to the entrance and there was a sign saying to drive through. Great, we thought, we get to go in for free! But in fact, Pele was up to her old tricks again—not only were all of the roads closed within the park, but it was so rainy and foggy that we couldn’t see anything even if we’d hiked around. We added “lava” to the list of things we’re apparently not meant to see alongside “dolphins” and “whales.”
On Top of the World
We left Konacopia on Friday, hitchhiking our way to the airport so that we could pick up a rental car. I know it sounds rather unadventurous to do something as mundane as rent a car, but if you want to see all of the Big Island, it would take weeks to hitchhike through some of these places given the out-of-the-way nature of it all. It turned out to be a really great decision.
On Friday night we made our way to Waimea, a fairly bustling town a few hours north of Captain Cook. It’s nestled between the hills of the ranchland that comprises much of the interior of north Hawaii. There were rainbows everywhere, cattle grazing in sprawling fields that led down to the cliff-lined coast, and the larger-than-life presence of Mauna Kea.
In just 20 minutes we could drive to the coast, so the next morning we found Hapuna Beach, one of the most popular beaches on the island—and for good reason. It’s long stretch of golden sand continued into the ocean, making it ideal for swimming. Our guide book pointed out that Conde Nast Traveler named Hapuna one of the top ten best beaches in the world. We got there early enough so that we were happy to leave by the time the crowd started to settle in. However, even the most crowded beaches here really aren’t that bad.
From Hapuna we drove north, rounding the tip of the island and continuing over to Hilo, the “big” city on the east side. There’s a road that goes from Hilo to Kailua-Kona that’s known as the Saddle Road. It crosses through the center of the island, where Mauna Kea rises over 14,000 feet, and eventually winds its way to back to Waimea. Taking the Saddle Road, we drove the 30ish miles to the base of Mauna Kea, where we changed into long pants and sweatshirts.
The visitors’ center for the mountain is at 9,000 feet, and when we arrived around 6:00 p.m., it was 56 degrees (it dropped to 42 degrees at the summit). They stop every car at the visitors’ center and require you to acclimatize to the thinner air. They also warn you that they recommend that only four-wheel-drive vehicles drive the eight-mile road to the summit. I was very reluctant given that we are driving a Chevy Cobalt, but Pete convinced me it would be fine.
It turned out that the mostly dirt road was steep and windy, but I’d been on worse roads in Vermont…in the snow. Pete managed the drive easily, and we were at the top just in time to see the sunset. It was indescribably amazing, so I won’t attempt to describe it. As you can see, we were above the clouds.
Once or twice per month, weather permitting, there is a stargazing night where local astronomers and astronomy students bring high-powered telescopes to the visitors’ center and allow people to view the night sky. In fact, Mauna Kea is one of the best stargazing places in the world, and for that reason there is a very large research observatory located on the summit, which is not open to the public. Not only did we happen to stumble onto one of these stargazing nights when the sky was amazingly clear, but it was also a new moon (no light pollution from the moonlight interfered with stargazing), and it was a meteor shower.
I’ve never seen so many stars (with my naked eye) ever before in my life. Not even half as many, even in the fresh air of Vermont on the clearest night. With the telescopes (one of which was so big we had to climb a ladder to look into the eyepiece) we saw galaxies, nebula, and star clusters.
The sting of the cold air, the stars, the clouds, the sunset, the lack of oxygen going to my brain, all contributed to an intense feeling of peace, and a sense that it is the experiences such as this that I’m after—the ones that remind you in the same moment that you’re both very alive and yet just the tiniest fragment of the tiniest fragment of what’s out there. It was an affirmation of all of the reasons that brought me to Hawaii in the first place. It was one of the best Saturday nights of my life.
On Friday night we made our way to Waimea, a fairly bustling town a few hours north of Captain Cook. It’s nestled between the hills of the ranchland that comprises much of the interior of north Hawaii. There were rainbows everywhere, cattle grazing in sprawling fields that led down to the cliff-lined coast, and the larger-than-life presence of Mauna Kea.
In just 20 minutes we could drive to the coast, so the next morning we found Hapuna Beach, one of the most popular beaches on the island—and for good reason. It’s long stretch of golden sand continued into the ocean, making it ideal for swimming. Our guide book pointed out that Conde Nast Traveler named Hapuna one of the top ten best beaches in the world. We got there early enough so that we were happy to leave by the time the crowd started to settle in. However, even the most crowded beaches here really aren’t that bad.
From Hapuna we drove north, rounding the tip of the island and continuing over to Hilo, the “big” city on the east side. There’s a road that goes from Hilo to Kailua-Kona that’s known as the Saddle Road. It crosses through the center of the island, where Mauna Kea rises over 14,000 feet, and eventually winds its way to back to Waimea. Taking the Saddle Road, we drove the 30ish miles to the base of Mauna Kea, where we changed into long pants and sweatshirts.
The visitors’ center for the mountain is at 9,000 feet, and when we arrived around 6:00 p.m., it was 56 degrees (it dropped to 42 degrees at the summit). They stop every car at the visitors’ center and require you to acclimatize to the thinner air. They also warn you that they recommend that only four-wheel-drive vehicles drive the eight-mile road to the summit. I was very reluctant given that we are driving a Chevy Cobalt, but Pete convinced me it would be fine.
It turned out that the mostly dirt road was steep and windy, but I’d been on worse roads in Vermont…in the snow. Pete managed the drive easily, and we were at the top just in time to see the sunset. It was indescribably amazing, so I won’t attempt to describe it. As you can see, we were above the clouds.
Once or twice per month, weather permitting, there is a stargazing night where local astronomers and astronomy students bring high-powered telescopes to the visitors’ center and allow people to view the night sky. In fact, Mauna Kea is one of the best stargazing places in the world, and for that reason there is a very large research observatory located on the summit, which is not open to the public. Not only did we happen to stumble onto one of these stargazing nights when the sky was amazingly clear, but it was also a new moon (no light pollution from the moonlight interfered with stargazing), and it was a meteor shower.
I’ve never seen so many stars (with my naked eye) ever before in my life. Not even half as many, even in the fresh air of Vermont on the clearest night. With the telescopes (one of which was so big we had to climb a ladder to look into the eyepiece) we saw galaxies, nebula, and star clusters.
The sting of the cold air, the stars, the clouds, the sunset, the lack of oxygen going to my brain, all contributed to an intense feeling of peace, and a sense that it is the experiences such as this that I’m after—the ones that remind you in the same moment that you’re both very alive and yet just the tiniest fragment of the tiniest fragment of what’s out there. It was an affirmation of all of the reasons that brought me to Hawaii in the first place. It was one of the best Saturday nights of my life.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
On the Road
I wanted to post a quick update. We're in the parking lot of a shopping center in Waimea using wireless internet--yes, it's a glamorous life. In the last few days we've been to the top of 14,000-foot Mauna Kea (the largest mountain on earth if you include the 15,000 feet of it that's underwater), we've hiked into a valley and gotten tossed by large waves, and today we're exploring the northernmost tip of the island. We'll post pictures and stories as soon as we have more time.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
The Bigger Island
Yesterday was the hitchhike to end all hitchhikes. I hope. We got restless. We hitched out to the airport and rented a car. We're leaving Konacopia today to drive around the Big Island for the next week. Email will be spotty, blog entries and cell reception will be spottier. But don't worry, we'll come out of this alive. I promise.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Fishy Tales
I’m sorry to say that we didn’t see any dolphins on Monday morning. But as a reward for our early walk to the beach, we had the snorkeling nearly all to ourselves. There was one other couple in the water, but we were grateful for them because they pulled over to ask us directions to the beach and then offered us a ride when we told them that’s where we were headed. Again, it was just at the stretch of road that feels endless, when you start wondering to yourself, “Why did I think it would be shorter this time?” And voila—we had a ride.
The ocean was placid and cool, the sun hadn’t broken through the low-lying clouds yet, and it was one of the most peaceful snorkeling experiences I’ve had so far. That is, until a two-foot-long Ulua (Blue Jack fish) started chasing me. At first I thought I was imagining it, but I soon realized that despite my swimming in circles (around Peter), the Ulua continued to chase me. He nearly touched my flipper several times, and after a fewl minutes of paddling and screaming through my snorkel, I’d had enough, and swam to shore. Luckily Peter was there as my witness. Apparently these fish are notorious for following swimmers around…not out of curiosity, but because he was hunting me as prey. Here's Pete's short video of the Ulua:
Yesterday was one of the better days we’ve had here. I worked cutting down bamboo and stripping off the branches and leaves so that we could use it to set up supports for some of the low-hanging coffee trees. When their branches become heavy with coffee berries, they start bowing toward the ground. We also fertilized a large section of the trees, and then Pete raked a bunch of gravelly fill that Steve had dumped onto the driveway. It was a needed improvement.
The afternoon, though rainy, was pleasant. We hung out with Martin and Fran for a while after work, and we reveled in the lack of mosquitoes. Pete knocked down some delicious star fruit and we all shared a papaya. Fran informed us that Blackie, the black kitten, had been taken the previous evening by “a bunch of horrid fat children who were screaming.” The mother cat howled and hissed at the loss, and we were all feeling the absence, but it’s a better form of population control on the farm than drowning them (Steve’s alluded-to previous method). I’m sure the kids renamed him something stupid, like Pele.
Steve and Elizabeth had mentioned last week that they wanted to treat us all to a few hours in the hot tub at a local spa. So yesterday Elizabeth called to arrange for us four volunteers to have an evening in an open-air hot tub. The appointment was at 7:30, but we left a little early (using Steve’s truck) to go have dinner at Teshima, a sushi restaurant in town that’s been run by the same family for generations. In fact, the 100-year-old matriarch of the family can still be spotted around the restaurant. We saw her ourselves, but that was the first night that we arrived, when Steve and Elizabeth took us all out for dinner.
The food and the company were wonderful, and the hot tub was awesome. We were led through a garden pathway lit by torches, up to a secluded redwood tub. The tub itself was set above the ground with stairs leading up to a platform. It was surrounded by a low rock wall and topped with a semi-open hut, and a roof that opened up into the night sky. We saw the stars and felt a light rain while we relaxed and splashed around. You can only spend so much time in 102-degree water, but we wanted to savor the fact that we had a vehicle, so we all loaded into the truck and drove to Keahou, just 15 minutes away. We got food at the grocery store and then went to the Sheraton, where, according to Martin and Fran, there was a hotel bar that overlooked the bay and had bright lights shining into the water to attract the manta rays. We leaned over the railing and watched the giant, floppy creatures as they fed from the plankton that skims the water’s surface. It was well worth the trip, and we managed to get home a little after 10. No one was the wiser.
The ocean was placid and cool, the sun hadn’t broken through the low-lying clouds yet, and it was one of the most peaceful snorkeling experiences I’ve had so far. That is, until a two-foot-long Ulua (Blue Jack fish) started chasing me. At first I thought I was imagining it, but I soon realized that despite my swimming in circles (around Peter), the Ulua continued to chase me. He nearly touched my flipper several times, and after a fewl minutes of paddling and screaming through my snorkel, I’d had enough, and swam to shore. Luckily Peter was there as my witness. Apparently these fish are notorious for following swimmers around…not out of curiosity, but because he was hunting me as prey. Here's Pete's short video of the Ulua:
Yesterday was one of the better days we’ve had here. I worked cutting down bamboo and stripping off the branches and leaves so that we could use it to set up supports for some of the low-hanging coffee trees. When their branches become heavy with coffee berries, they start bowing toward the ground. We also fertilized a large section of the trees, and then Pete raked a bunch of gravelly fill that Steve had dumped onto the driveway. It was a needed improvement.
The afternoon, though rainy, was pleasant. We hung out with Martin and Fran for a while after work, and we reveled in the lack of mosquitoes. Pete knocked down some delicious star fruit and we all shared a papaya. Fran informed us that Blackie, the black kitten, had been taken the previous evening by “a bunch of horrid fat children who were screaming.” The mother cat howled and hissed at the loss, and we were all feeling the absence, but it’s a better form of population control on the farm than drowning them (Steve’s alluded-to previous method). I’m sure the kids renamed him something stupid, like Pele.
Steve and Elizabeth had mentioned last week that they wanted to treat us all to a few hours in the hot tub at a local spa. So yesterday Elizabeth called to arrange for us four volunteers to have an evening in an open-air hot tub. The appointment was at 7:30, but we left a little early (using Steve’s truck) to go have dinner at Teshima, a sushi restaurant in town that’s been run by the same family for generations. In fact, the 100-year-old matriarch of the family can still be spotted around the restaurant. We saw her ourselves, but that was the first night that we arrived, when Steve and Elizabeth took us all out for dinner.
The food and the company were wonderful, and the hot tub was awesome. We were led through a garden pathway lit by torches, up to a secluded redwood tub. The tub itself was set above the ground with stairs leading up to a platform. It was surrounded by a low rock wall and topped with a semi-open hut, and a roof that opened up into the night sky. We saw the stars and felt a light rain while we relaxed and splashed around. You can only spend so much time in 102-degree water, but we wanted to savor the fact that we had a vehicle, so we all loaded into the truck and drove to Keahou, just 15 minutes away. We got food at the grocery store and then went to the Sheraton, where, according to Martin and Fran, there was a hotel bar that overlooked the bay and had bright lights shining into the water to attract the manta rays. We leaned over the railing and watched the giant, floppy creatures as they fed from the plankton that skims the water’s surface. It was well worth the trip, and we managed to get home a little after 10. No one was the wiser.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.
I’m becoming obsessed with the kittens. We bought them treats at the store in order to train them to love us, and so far it seems to be working. Luring them out from under the garage has gotten to be pretty easy, especially when Alani’s not around. Apparently Mama cat got her name because she’s had kittens before, but last time Alani killed them all.
Here’s a short video that Pete took with my camera of two of the kittens playing. I’ve named them Blackie and Junior, Jr. I think you’ll be able to tell which is which:
Tomorrow morning we’re getting up early (5:00) to walk down to Honounou and see the dolphins. Apparently if you go early enough and if you’re near deep water, it’s common to see dolphins. We’d hoped to see them while kayaking Kealakekua Bay, but so far no luck.
In addition to the animals on the farm, the fruit trees are also reproducing. Just the other day we discovered a star fruit tree that we didn’t know existed, and this morning we picked three stalks of bananas (about 12 “bunches,” or hands, as they’re called), and four ripe pineapples (one of which we ate). We also had a delicious mango on our break, which Pete declared, “Possibly the best mango I’ve ever had.” And, true to his word, he has managed to integrate avocados into every meal we’ve had since he began hording them a few days ago. No complaints here.
Abundance takes all forms here; unfortunately they’re not all welcomed. Take the mosquitoes, for example. We’ve been hearing them in our sleep, smacking them on each other’s arms across the table, and scratching like crazed maniacs. Another common nuisance is the weeds. Actually, it’s less the weeds themselves, and more the rate at which they grow. Once an area of grass is weed-whacked, it grows about a foot per week, particularly when it’s rainy. If you think I’m exaggerating, you should try weed-whacking around here. Sometimes it must seem so futile—you go on a three-week vacation and come home to find that your house has been swallowed by a sea of green grass.
Here’s a short video that Pete took with my camera of two of the kittens playing. I’ve named them Blackie and Junior, Jr. I think you’ll be able to tell which is which:
Tomorrow morning we’re getting up early (5:00) to walk down to Honounou and see the dolphins. Apparently if you go early enough and if you’re near deep water, it’s common to see dolphins. We’d hoped to see them while kayaking Kealakekua Bay, but so far no luck.
In addition to the animals on the farm, the fruit trees are also reproducing. Just the other day we discovered a star fruit tree that we didn’t know existed, and this morning we picked three stalks of bananas (about 12 “bunches,” or hands, as they’re called), and four ripe pineapples (one of which we ate). We also had a delicious mango on our break, which Pete declared, “Possibly the best mango I’ve ever had.” And, true to his word, he has managed to integrate avocados into every meal we’ve had since he began hording them a few days ago. No complaints here.
Abundance takes all forms here; unfortunately they’re not all welcomed. Take the mosquitoes, for example. We’ve been hearing them in our sleep, smacking them on each other’s arms across the table, and scratching like crazed maniacs. Another common nuisance is the weeds. Actually, it’s less the weeds themselves, and more the rate at which they grow. Once an area of grass is weed-whacked, it grows about a foot per week, particularly when it’s rainy. If you think I’m exaggerating, you should try weed-whacking around here. Sometimes it must seem so futile—you go on a three-week vacation and come home to find that your house has been swallowed by a sea of green grass.
Learning to Flit
And then one morning there was no more peeping from the coffee tree. The adult male cardinal was hopping around excitedly on coffee branches close by and it soon became obvious what was going on. The young cardinals, or at least one of them, had feathers, and flying lessons had begun. The ugly little guy mostly just hung on to branches while his father squawked and fluttered. I wouldn't call it flying, but he did manage to flit from tree to tree.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Spider
Insects and spiders are not as overwhelming in Hawaii as one might expect. There are a lot of mosquitoes and cockroaches and other run of the mill bugs, but nothing outrageous. These spiders are fairly common in the banana trees. The first time Micaela spotted one she told me it's legs spread as wide as her fingers. When I investigated, it was only three inches at the most. Their shiny gold markings and nifty zig-zag designs in their webs make these spiders attractive and not intimidating. It also helps that they stay put in their webs and don't come into our screen house.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Avocados
Avocado season is almost here. The tree by our screen house is full of huge, nearly ripe avocados. Every time we get a good rain or some decent wind, we wake up to a new pile of freshly-fallen fruit. At first it was just one or two good-looking avocados and a bunch of rotten, cracked, mushed, or gnawed-at ones. Our first week we waited patiently for our two rock-hard avos to ripen but they never did completely. We got a couple of slivers onto our morning bagels with cream cheese but that was it. Now we have seven that are within a day or two of being perfect. Last night I found one that was ready to eat so we saved it for this morning. Our bagels were piled high with creamy green flesh.
Jade
The jade flowers were something I noticed as soon as we got to the farm. I figured I'd have time to get a good picture of them so I never bothered until today when I noticed they were starting to drop off. They're unlike any flower I've seen before.
Don't Ask and Ye Shall Receive
An interesting aspect of life on the Big Island is that the weather is so wonderful that you barely notice it. Aside from the rain, of course. We almost never look at the forecast because we know it’s going to be 83 or 84 degrees during the day, with a chance of rain in the afternoon/evening, and a low between 70 and 75 degrees. The only time it gets unbearably hot is when there are no clouds, which is almost never. Yesterday morning, however, it was nearly cloudless, so we packed up our snorkel gear and headed down to Honounou.
The walk to Honounou is between 4 and 5 miles, and is downhill almost the entire way. We figured it would be an easy walk so we didn’t even hitchhike. We’d both gotten so sick of hitching rides that on Thursday evening (after staying on the farm all week), we walked the 4 miles into Captain Cook for groceries, and dinner at Senior Billy's. It was a pleasant evening and we had such a nice walk there, that we walked back home in the dark with a sense that we’d somehow triumphed over the motor vehicle.
Back to yesterday: Pete’s flip-flops were wearing so thin that he started getting blisters from the heat of the pavement. My temperature was rising quickly. And even though we weren’t on the proper side of the road to be hitchhiking, a nice young woman (a tourist from Florida), stopped and asked if we wanted a ride. She was bored and out for a drive and, “sick of hanging out with old people.” She dropped us off at the beach, where we snorkeled and relaxed in the shade.
Maybe you recall the first time we went to Honounou—you know, the time where we tried to hitchhike home and nobody stopped for us so we walked the whole way back. Well, with Pete’s feet being sore, and us having a few more hitchhiking skills under our belts, we decided to stick out our thumbs at the entrance to the beach. Unfortunately, in 20 minutes we only saw 6 or 7 cars, each one full of Mom, Dad, and the kids. But then, off in the distance, a red pickup truck was puttering down the road. Steve has a red pickup…could it be? Yes, it was! He’d been at the beach, too, and was heading home to cover the coffee beans before the afternoon rain came in.
We’d been having such good luck with cars with so little effort that it couldn’t get much better. Until this morning. Deborah, who rents the other yurt on the farm, was walking by the tent with a (belated) birthday card that came in the mail for me this morning. When she asked what we were doing today, I said we weren’t doing much since Pete’s blisters were healing. Being the kind soul that she is, she offered her car and the suggestion of a destination: Ho’okena Beach, less than 10 miles away. The price: “Please pick me up a dozen eggs at the grocery store.” An hour later we were on the road.
Ho’okena is a really small town on the South Kona coast. Deborah warned us that it is somewhat of a locals’ beach, so to leave as soon as anyone gave us any crap. After following a long, winding road (that phrase seems to come up a lot around here…), we realized that we’d driven right up to the shoreline. The beach was alive with families and young vacationers, but far from crowded, and not nearly as "local" as some of the other beaches we've been to (Ke'ei and Manini). The best part was the sand—real, actual sand all along the shore, even on the ocean floor. For the first time since the waves of Waikiki, we were able to just swim without the fear of jagged lava rocks or coral. And because we had the car for another couple of hours, we went and had lunch in Kainaliu, just one town north of Kealakekua. The car and the eggs were delivered without incident, and we returned sated by the sun and the sand.
The walk to Honounou is between 4 and 5 miles, and is downhill almost the entire way. We figured it would be an easy walk so we didn’t even hitchhike. We’d both gotten so sick of hitching rides that on Thursday evening (after staying on the farm all week), we walked the 4 miles into Captain Cook for groceries, and dinner at Senior Billy's. It was a pleasant evening and we had such a nice walk there, that we walked back home in the dark with a sense that we’d somehow triumphed over the motor vehicle.
Back to yesterday: Pete’s flip-flops were wearing so thin that he started getting blisters from the heat of the pavement. My temperature was rising quickly. And even though we weren’t on the proper side of the road to be hitchhiking, a nice young woman (a tourist from Florida), stopped and asked if we wanted a ride. She was bored and out for a drive and, “sick of hanging out with old people.” She dropped us off at the beach, where we snorkeled and relaxed in the shade.
Maybe you recall the first time we went to Honounou—you know, the time where we tried to hitchhike home and nobody stopped for us so we walked the whole way back. Well, with Pete’s feet being sore, and us having a few more hitchhiking skills under our belts, we decided to stick out our thumbs at the entrance to the beach. Unfortunately, in 20 minutes we only saw 6 or 7 cars, each one full of Mom, Dad, and the kids. But then, off in the distance, a red pickup truck was puttering down the road. Steve has a red pickup…could it be? Yes, it was! He’d been at the beach, too, and was heading home to cover the coffee beans before the afternoon rain came in.
We’d been having such good luck with cars with so little effort that it couldn’t get much better. Until this morning. Deborah, who rents the other yurt on the farm, was walking by the tent with a (belated) birthday card that came in the mail for me this morning. When she asked what we were doing today, I said we weren’t doing much since Pete’s blisters were healing. Being the kind soul that she is, she offered her car and the suggestion of a destination: Ho’okena Beach, less than 10 miles away. The price: “Please pick me up a dozen eggs at the grocery store.” An hour later we were on the road.
Ho’okena is a really small town on the South Kona coast. Deborah warned us that it is somewhat of a locals’ beach, so to leave as soon as anyone gave us any crap. After following a long, winding road (that phrase seems to come up a lot around here…), we realized that we’d driven right up to the shoreline. The beach was alive with families and young vacationers, but far from crowded, and not nearly as "local" as some of the other beaches we've been to (Ke'ei and Manini). The best part was the sand—real, actual sand all along the shore, even on the ocean floor. For the first time since the waves of Waikiki, we were able to just swim without the fear of jagged lava rocks or coral. And because we had the car for another couple of hours, we went and had lunch in Kainaliu, just one town north of Kealakekua. The car and the eggs were delivered without incident, and we returned sated by the sun and the sand.
Yellow Trumpetfish
We went snorkeling again yesterday. The water was clear and calm. This yellow trumpetfish was there to greet me as soon as I stuck my face under the surface.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Caldera
Apparently I've been slacking on the photos. Here's one you've been waiting for of the caldera with the crater in the background. The green in the foreground is the rain forest we hiked through to get down to the caldera floor. From there we hiked across the caldera to the crater and back.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
You Helped Make This Coffee
We live among the coffee trees, we’ve watched the cherries turn a bright red, and just when we were beginning to think it was a myth, a large family of Mexicans plucked the ripened goodies from their homes, and the coffee mill was switched on.
(Photo to come...Pete is lagging behind because he's been doing some paid weed-whacking on the side.)
The family has been picking Konacopia’s coffee for the last five years now, and are extremely efficient—the six of them, including an 8-year-old girl and a boy no older than 12 (there are also two older boys who now work in construction), picked over 800 pounds of coffee in a day and a half. This was the first harvest, but because not all of the coffee is ripe, they continue to harvest every 2-3 weeks until October or November. Farms at higher elevations have a later harvest, which often goes into February.
After we’d gone around and collected all of the full coffee sacks using the tractor, we weighed each one (the average full bag weighed 85 pounds), and then poured the cherries into a tub at the bottom of the mill. The pickers are paid 65 cents per pound, so I guess this is where our “free” labor comes in handy.
When the mill is switched on, we pull up on a vertical piece of wood, which opens a “door” at the bottom of the tub, causing the cherries to flow out into a chamber. In this chamber there is a vertical conveyer belt containing perpendicular slats that scoop up the cherries from underneath, and carry them to a horizontal conveyor belt at the top of the mill. Here they are sent into a bin and hosed with water, and out pops a bean while the hull of the cherry is sent down a chute that leads to the ground. The beans sit in the tub overnight to allow them to ferment. The next the morning, they move into the “shaker,” a screened conveyor that shakes any last beans out of the remaining cherries, and then deposits the beans into a large bucket.
This is where our work really begins. We scoop the beans out of the larger bucket using five-gallon buckets, and dump them out onto the drying roof. The drying roof is a large (I would estimate 15’ by 40’), flat rooftop covered in blue tarps and then fiberglass screen, where we pile the beans up and then rake them out (almost like a Zen rock garden) so that they form a thin layer. Then, in our bare feet, we navigate through the rows of beans, checking for any “unripe” (white) beans, green berries, leaves, or “other” items that are lurking within. These rejects we simply toss onto the ground. The next cup of Kona coffee you drink may contain beans that I stepped on with my stinky feet, or touched with my bare hands.
What’s most interesting to me is the process of careful growing, hand-picking, sorting, pulping, drying, and roasting. I like knowing that one of the girls who picked the beans offered us some of her Chex Mix as a snack; that if you stand below the mill while the cherries are flowing through, you’ll get hit in the head with no less than three flying strays; that the broom that Pete used to sweep up any loose beans was bought at a hardware store down the street and he was the first person to use it because the old broom was broken; that all of these details are going to be somewhere within this coffee, later packaged, sent to stores, purchased, and dripped into your cup. And you could go back almost infinitely—who planted the trees? fertilized them? What were they doing the day the trees started to grow? What was the weather? What did their hands look like? When I think of this infinite process, I can see how everything overlaps somehow, making the world a web of interdependent people, places,…and coffee.
Hawaii is truly a land of origins. To be part of the production of something, whether it’s a product that someone else will later eat, or a piece of fruit that I myself will consume, is a humbling experience. Not to mention that the island itself is continuously growing through the eruptions of its two active volcanoes. Sometimes I think it wouldn’t surprise me if a dinosaur trotted past us.
(Photo to come...Pete is lagging behind because he's been doing some paid weed-whacking on the side.)
The family has been picking Konacopia’s coffee for the last five years now, and are extremely efficient—the six of them, including an 8-year-old girl and a boy no older than 12 (there are also two older boys who now work in construction), picked over 800 pounds of coffee in a day and a half. This was the first harvest, but because not all of the coffee is ripe, they continue to harvest every 2-3 weeks until October or November. Farms at higher elevations have a later harvest, which often goes into February.
After we’d gone around and collected all of the full coffee sacks using the tractor, we weighed each one (the average full bag weighed 85 pounds), and then poured the cherries into a tub at the bottom of the mill. The pickers are paid 65 cents per pound, so I guess this is where our “free” labor comes in handy.
When the mill is switched on, we pull up on a vertical piece of wood, which opens a “door” at the bottom of the tub, causing the cherries to flow out into a chamber. In this chamber there is a vertical conveyer belt containing perpendicular slats that scoop up the cherries from underneath, and carry them to a horizontal conveyor belt at the top of the mill. Here they are sent into a bin and hosed with water, and out pops a bean while the hull of the cherry is sent down a chute that leads to the ground. The beans sit in the tub overnight to allow them to ferment. The next the morning, they move into the “shaker,” a screened conveyor that shakes any last beans out of the remaining cherries, and then deposits the beans into a large bucket.
This is where our work really begins. We scoop the beans out of the larger bucket using five-gallon buckets, and dump them out onto the drying roof. The drying roof is a large (I would estimate 15’ by 40’), flat rooftop covered in blue tarps and then fiberglass screen, where we pile the beans up and then rake them out (almost like a Zen rock garden) so that they form a thin layer. Then, in our bare feet, we navigate through the rows of beans, checking for any “unripe” (white) beans, green berries, leaves, or “other” items that are lurking within. These rejects we simply toss onto the ground. The next cup of Kona coffee you drink may contain beans that I stepped on with my stinky feet, or touched with my bare hands.
What’s most interesting to me is the process of careful growing, hand-picking, sorting, pulping, drying, and roasting. I like knowing that one of the girls who picked the beans offered us some of her Chex Mix as a snack; that if you stand below the mill while the cherries are flowing through, you’ll get hit in the head with no less than three flying strays; that the broom that Pete used to sweep up any loose beans was bought at a hardware store down the street and he was the first person to use it because the old broom was broken; that all of these details are going to be somewhere within this coffee, later packaged, sent to stores, purchased, and dripped into your cup. And you could go back almost infinitely—who planted the trees? fertilized them? What were they doing the day the trees started to grow? What was the weather? What did their hands look like? When I think of this infinite process, I can see how everything overlaps somehow, making the world a web of interdependent people, places,…and coffee.
Hawaii is truly a land of origins. To be part of the production of something, whether it’s a product that someone else will later eat, or a piece of fruit that I myself will consume, is a humbling experience. Not to mention that the island itself is continuously growing through the eruptions of its two active volcanoes. Sometimes I think it wouldn’t surprise me if a dinosaur trotted past us.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Female Cardinal
Guarding her chicks, which are not much bigger than coffee beans, Mrs. Cardinal gets pretty mean-looking. Sometimes I think she wishes she were thirty feet tall so she could peck me like a bug. Since she's not, all she does is flap around a lot and chirp like crazy whenever she thinks I want to eat her babies.
Cardinal Chicks
When the kitties mature they'll have something to hunt: these baby cardinals. That's right, Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal from next door have two hideous baby birds. They squeak really loudly when they're being fed, which is often.
Kitties
Remember Junior? Do these little guys look familiar? They turned up in the old chicken coop near our screen house. The mother is very protective and skittish when we approach the kitties, but she still manages to beg for food when we walk past, right after she's eaten. So far, no one has handled the kitties, but sightings are more and more frequent.
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