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01-22-10
I left Kailua-Kona on a clear day in mid January, cruising up highway 11 in my Toyota with a 9 foot surfboard strapped to the top like a kite in the breeze. I left barefooted, just like I try to leave every place when I depart, the dirt from the area is either sticking to me or it’s not, but I don’t want to carry it out on my shoes.
After some hiking in North Kohala I spent the night at the end of a dirt road on a beach called The Lighthouse. It wasn’t much of a beach, actually: like most of the coast here on the Big Island it consisted mostly of rocks and the surf was crashing hard against it. Not deterred by my own feelings of apprehension I grabbed my board and headed down to the rock line trying to find the right moment to glide in, but the waves got me before I could get them and dragged me and the board across 10 feet of rock, slicing my feet open pretty good in three different places. More determined than ever and paying no mind to my battered feet I thrust myself upon the next big wave and rode it out away from the rocks and over the first five footer that was coming in fast and threatening to send me back onto the shore. Finally I paused at the break and got my bearings with the shore and started hopping waves, only slowly learning how to time my stand-up so that I could slide down the face of the 10 footers. After getting pummeled a few times I remembered that I would need enough energy left to get myself back onto that rocky shoreline and headed into the shore, finding it was a lot easier to get out than to get in. Cold, adrenaline rocked, and tired I dragged myself and the board back up the cliffs and sat down to watch the four or five locals who were out kicking ass on the waves. I slept well that night—but only first after making sure to clean and disinfect my feet.
lovely feet,
golden browned and baked in jam
crust me over late at night
and remind me always who I am:
a man,
a man,
a barefoot man
in a barefoot land,
universe of God,
sweet all-pervasive.
The next day I rode down through Hilo on the east side of the island and did some shopping, still determined on going barefoot even if I had some nasty cuts on my feet. I wrapped them in surgical tape and ended up at the southern most hostel in the United States with a bunch of WWOOFers and some old hippy surfers, a pathological liar, and the smallest full-grown cat I have ever seen. Since this is Hawaii they were all smoking hash and passing around joints and we cooked up a huge mackerel dinner with rice and zucchini and set in for a night of good stories and strange hallucinations. The THC turn finally took over my mind and I started seeing paradise in every reflection of every light and decided it was time to head in before I started seeing people inside of people. Seeing people inside of people is the scariest perception I ever had, except for that one time in jail when I saw a deputy walk through the holding area wrapped in a towel carrying a scrub brush. That was by far the worst, but seeing people inside of people is pretty bad too.
After that I drove back to Kona and promptly lost my keys in the ocean while sitting on top of an sea wall daydreaming about my upcoming travels. I had to stay a night in a cab driver’s house cause all of the hostels were full and the locksmith came the next day and let me in. Still, I must have walked a good 6 miles on bare and cut feet before finally getting back in the car, making sure to clean them often with peroxide and rewrap my bandages. They’ve just about healed by now, but not before Pahoa.
Pahoa is this little town on the east side of the island that is like hippy-mecca central. When hippies talk about dying and going to heaven they must mean Pahoa. There’s something off about a whole town of expanded consciousness and liberal thinking, dreadlocks and vegan pizzas. I say that with a lot of respect and love, but it's pretty damn plastic to me. The farm I ended up at was called “Hedonisia” and I pitched a tent and commenced to trying to relocate my lost sense of direction. Not a very good place for that, I soon found out.
The first night I drank my first Guiness in almost two years and smoked a hit from a one-hitter some Alaskan kids had who were sleeping in the school bus on the property. School buses are mandatory in hippy-ville, if you didn’t know. I got to bed that night without too much damage and woke up the next day thinking “hm, let’s try that one again” and we commenced to getting torn up around 3 in the afternoon. It was a late night, full of drug runs and too much beer and I woke up the next day thankful for my years of sobriety and reminded once again about how important it is for me to stay sober on this trip around the world. I’m not saying that I won’t probably imbibe at some point, but I sure don’t want to make it a lifestyle, and if I did I would much prefer to just smoke weed and leave the alcohol alone.
After that party the last thing I wanted was another one and so my last night in Pahoa found me asleep early and up the next morning ready to get back to Kona. I had had enough hippies, enough expanded consciousness, enough tolerance and I don’t know what you would call it. For the most part I would call myself a liberal, but I'm not convinced Oz is the place for me.
Yo Oz,
I'm jonesin for a high
what'ch ya got in your pocket, brother
come and give my bowl a try.
And then we're trippin through the neighborhood
and everything is slick
got paradise in front of me
and babylon is shit.
except what'st that in the window there,
damn I wish I had me some cash.
Yo OZ you got a second bro,
to fix me with some stash?
Oz?
Oz?
OZ!!!
Damn, things just haven't been the same since Jerry died.
Back in Kona I still couldn’t get into a hostel. But maybe that’s not a bad thing because I did get on in one of the oldest hotels of the area. It was built in 1929 by some Japanese immigrants and still bears the family name: Manago. The Manago family are in their third generation of ownership except whereas the first generation had names something like Niko and Makio or something Japanese like that the current generation are named simply “Dwight and Mary”. It’s a gorgeous building, with a little restaurant and a small Japanese garden in the back, no TV’s in the rooms (probably my favorite part), and I dreamed I was getting attacked by Ninjas when I was walking down the hall. Today I was back at home down at Kealakekua Bay diving, and got some oranges from my former landlord’s daughter who also likes to go swimming down at the same spot.
Anyway, the whole point of the story is that back in Pahoa the ground is really soft and muddy because it rains all the time. The ocean is more aggressive, too, but that’s beside the point. The point is that I decided it would be a much better idea to walk around the muddy ground with flip-flops (or thongs) on rather then 1)drag the mud into the tent and more importantly 2) get my feet infected. There are some times when going senza scarpe you just have to choose for good hygiene and this was one of them.
Keep your feet clean. If you take dirt with you clean it off before you hit the next town.
To rhyme beside the sea of night
To take from wrong a bit of right
In speech and tongue that never lie
To stand alone, “tis I, tis I”.
“My love for you” is what I cry
“will never stop, will never die,”
To squeeze the chalised juice of sight
Then steal away into the night
And break away at dawn’s new day.
To rest upon a rose tilled way
Inside a mansion built for two
Just you and I, just me and you,
To stand at end of time and say,
“I walked the Way, and it was right.”
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