11:35 a.m. (Eastern Time) / 8:35 a.m. (Pacific Time) En Route To LAX
Well, in the immortal words of Whitesnake, here I go again . . . (on my own, no less). (Has it really been a year, already?! It seems like only yesterday that my hiking boots were wet with Alaskan snow!). I am presently on board Tower Air flight #21 en route to Hawaii via LAX, the official start of my South Pacific holiday, but as you'll soon learn, it wasn't easy getting to this point.
Let's back up a bit. First of all, you're probably wondering about my choice of airlines. Never heard of Tower Air, you say?-- well, neither had I, until the wonderfully patient Council Travel travel agent (Lillian Cordova) suggested it as an alternative to the literally "sky-high" prices of the major players. I must admit, I had my doubts at first, but their 10-year service record, combined with their rock-bottom rates ($300 round trip -- less than half the ticket fee of the competition), quickly won me over.
However, it didn't take long for me to learn the sorry truth to that old adage, "you get what you pay for" -- in fact it became apparent as soon as we arrived at the airport. Clearly, the airline made up for lower ticket prices by paying minimal overhead, because they were situated in a decidedly obscure section of the airport (an area I've since dubbed "the low rent district.") It took my father and I a good 20 minutes to find the location of the Tower Air terminal. Every time we tried to follow the big, fluorescent lime T's (would-be guide markers, though they were spaced too intermittently to be of much use), we either dead-ended or went in circles. I had a nightmarish vision of us continuing our aimless wandering around JFK, while my 747 went up with the early morning sun. Finally, though, we "followed the yellow-green T" all the way to the Tower of Oz.
This is where it starts to get interesting. I hugged Dear Old Dad & said Aloha (as you can see, I was already in a multicultural mood), strapped on my canvas "mobile home" and headed into the terminal:
. . .The first thing I saw was a meandering, sluggish, DMV-sized Check-In line.
. . .The first thing I heard was the lackluster voice (temporarily derailing my Wizard of Oz analogy) of the airline steward announcing General Boarding for flight #21 to Los Angeles.
. . . The first thing I thought was, Oh, Shit!
So now I'd made it to the Emerald City (see I'm right back on track again) only to have the Hot-Air Balloon start leaving without me. No! This can't be happening! I can't miss my flight! My vacation couldn't, wouldn't, SHOULDN'T start out like this -- and thankfully, it didn't, though it was a close call. You see, when I eventually made it to the head of the line, I threw my backpack on the conveyor belt, grabbed my boarding pass and raced up the stairs and through security (where the lace holders on my hiking boots set off the metal detector, causing a minor -- but still panic inducing -- delay). Finally, sweating and panting, I made it to the gate . . . only to be faced with another huge line! That same expressionless voice came on, this time announcing "final boarding." It was at about this time that I realized the terminal is aptly named, for I was quite sure it would be the death of me. But after a while, I calmed down and examined the situation logically: I figured if all these people were waiting to get on, there was little chance the plane was going anywhere anytime soon. (I mean, it seemed very unlikely that they would only let half the people board and then say, "sorry, the rest of you are too late -- go home." Even my luck wasn't that bad!)
So I waited with the scores of other would-be passengers. Corralled as we were in between zigzagging metal bars, you would have thought we were at Disney World waiting to board a popular attraction. Only, our final destination was a tad less exciting than Space Mountain (although, as it turned out, equally as bumpy). While on line, I passed the time by talking to Josh and Mark, two teachers from a Jewish Academy in NYC. Josh and I got on especially well, and we compared our teaching situations. He teaches over 120 7th & 8th graders (with an average class size of 25) every day -- I inwardly blushed before meekly mentioning my sole class of 15 kindergartners.
Eventually, the Disney flashback ended, and the line started moving. When I walked into the airplane, my mouth dropped open. The pilot was dressed like a bus driver and the plane itself looked like the inside of a NYC subway car, hanging metal loops and all. (Is this some kind of joke (?), I thought -- saving a few hundred dollars isn't worth risking my life in this thing!) A split second later, I realized that this wasn't the plane, but indeed, a shuttle bus -- our ground transportation to the actual aircraft (Phew!). I chided myself for my momentary lapse of reason (copyright 1987/Pink Floyd). How could I have thought this was the airplane?! (Obviously, I was more stressed out than I thought!)
Anywho, the bus scooted over to the plane and we began to board. I waited impatiently behind a man who left his baggage cart blocking the aisle, while he rifled through his pockets. A friendly Rastafarian and I quietly grumbled at how inconsiderate the man was, until he decided to give up his search and continue moving. I traveled no more than 6 feet before the quest for my seat was stymied by the very same man and his oversized cart. This time, my nerves frayed and my feet sore, I excused myself as I edged past him and finally made it to my seat (38 H), where I am presently writing this stirring drama.
The two seats next to me are occupied by a couple (Shawna & Scott), who are travel veterans themselves, having lived on both the East and West coasts, as well as places in between and beyond. They have lived in New York for the past few years and are presently heading to their old California stomping grounds for a quick vacation, before moving permanently to Philadelphia (coincidentally, just a couple of buildings down from where Jason lives on Chestnut Street). Scott will be attending U of P's Wharton Business School for his MBA. Shawna works for Merril Lynch and teaches Sunday School. They've both been to Hawaii (Scott lived there for several years), and they have given me some great ideas about what to see and do.
Having traveled via Tower Air before, Scott and Shawna knew all too well the extreme extent of their cost-cutting measures. In fact, they informed me and my grumbling belly about one final surprise -- there was no meal on this cross-country flight (!). But, they hastened to add, the airline did serve a "light snack." Two hours later, a stale croissant, a cup of raspberry yogurt and a kid-size apple juice arrived -- I wolfed it all down in record time and resigned myself to drinking saliva for the remaining 4 hours.
(My hand's starting to throb, so let's pick this up later. . .)
7:31 p.m. (Pacific Time) At LAX
The plane landed safely and promptly at 11:15 a.m. (Pacific/Local time). However, by the time I finally got my luggage, it was closer to 12:15! (Maybe they could only afford one baggage handler?) Anyway, I was now faced with a dilemma (not my first of the trip and most assuredly, not my last). My LAX to Hawaii flight didn't depart until 9:30 p.m, leaving me with the mother of all layovers. Hmmm . . . what to do, what to do? Scott and Shawna suggested locking up my bag, hopping on a taxi and lazing the day away at the beach. I had to admit it was a good plan -- unfortunately, I had to nix it do to overcast skies (I didn't want to risk getting caught in the rain). So, with nowhere to go, I had no choice but to stay.
My mind raced to think of some interesting and/or constructive way to fritter away nine full hours. I came up with nary a one . . . well, one -- I was starving and needed little prompting to seek nourishment. (I figured that would take at least 20 minutes.) First, I had to store my cumbersome backpack. I examined my options, and I'm proud to say that, hungry as I was, I turned my nose on the convenient, but pricey ($10) storage room and trekked across the terminal to the $1 lockers. I was truly psyched about my $9 savings, until I spent nearly that much on my airport lunch. Admittedly, it was not your typical airport lunch -- I had Japanese Udon soup (an incredibly tasty mix of noodles, pork, eggs, soy, onions and a spicy broth) and a pineapple.
After slurping down the last drop of soup and wiping my mouth with a scratchy napkin, I found I still had about 8 1/2 hours to kill. Thankfully, providence lent a hand and deposited Laszlo Szabo at my table. Laszlo is a high school student on a student exchange program from Hungary. We became fast friends as he told me all about his host family in Sacramento, his biological family in Hungary (who he hadn't seen in almost a year) and his love of karate & Mel Gibson movies. His English was very good, and we conversed easily. He compared Hungary and the United States in terms of their people (a lot friendlier here) and educational systems (a lot harder there). We talked for about an hour, and then I suggested we play some cards -- I taught him Rummy, Casino and various forms of poker (he already knew the basics of this latter game, and he kicked my American butt, winning all of my salt packets), but he was most interested in learning how to shuffle. (He was understandably impressed with my "bridge", so I offered to teach him -- he never quite got the hang of it, but I told him he'd master it with a little more practice.) In exchange (prid pro quo, like), Laszlo taught me a bit about Hungarian cards/games, including this interesting little tidbit: Hungarian cards have no aces, but rather, 4 "seasons". Eventually tiring of cards, we explored the airport store and took a stroll outside. After a much needed half-hour nap on a pair of benches, we exchanged addresses, checked our luggage and headed for our respective gates. Before we separated, I took Laszlo's picture (my first of the trip) and promised to send him a postcard.
That catches you up to speed and brings us here to gate 104, where I am presently writing this very sentence whilst anxiously awaiting Air New Zealand flight 51 to Honolulu (the capital of Hawaii, located on the island of Oahu). I'll continue this entry during the plane ride.
11:45 p.m. (Pacific Time) / 8:45 p.m. (Hawaii Time) En Route to Oahu
Well, I have to admit I was pleasantly surprised. Perhaps it was only in contrast to the dreadfulness of my recent Tower Air experience, but I have to say that my flight on Air New Zealand was one of the best of my well-traveled life! The flight attendants were courteous and helpful (not to mention sharply dressed in bowl hats and scarves), movie/radio headsets were free, and the meal was palatable and downright well-balanced (mixed salad, roll, cheese & crackers, pesto chicken with pasta and a vegetable medley, and, to top it all off, a slice of blueberry pie -- all washed down with my complimentary glass of white wine).
Moreover, I had some very nice neighbors. My two seatmates (or seat "mates"), Michael and Grant, were two 13-year-old baseball players from Queenstown, Australia. They had just represented their high school (and their country) at the international Firecracker Baseball Tournament in California. They were fun kids, and we passed an hour or so playing poker for (literally) peanuts [honey-roasted, to be exact].
I am going to try to get some sleep now. My red-eye flight isn't expected to arrive in Hawaii until 12:30 (Hawaii Time) in the morning, which is 3:30 a.m. Pacific Time and 6:30 a.m. (!) Eastern Time (considering I woke up this morning at 6:15 a.m., it doesn't take a mathematical genius to figure out that, when I land, I will have been traveling for over 24 hours -- hence, the need for rest).
Showing posts with label Oceania '94 (1): Hawaii/Fiji/NZ. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Oceania '94 (1): Hawaii/Fiji/NZ. Show all posts
Oceania: Day 2: 7-4-94: Oahu: Honolulu, Waikiki And The Polynesian Cultural Center
As it turned out, my quest for rest last night was rather futile, as there is a limit to how comfortable one can get in a semi-recumbent position -- I caught a fitful hour or so of pseudo-sleep, but it did little to relieve my exhaustion. When we finally arrived in Honolulu at 12:21 a.m. (nine minutes early - another Air New Zealand perk, apparently), I had spent a combined 12 hours in airplanes and nearly that long in LAX, and I was ready to drop dead. I quickly collected my luggage and made my bleary-eyed way to the airport "hotel" (conveniently located within the terminal itself), where I slapped down my credit card and collapsed on the bed. . .
To my surprise, I awoke at 7:30 a.m., a full hour earlier than planned. This gave me time to take a leisurely shower and read a bit in one of my guidebooks (the descriptions and maps provided a nice Oahu orientation -- I learned a little about my current location on the island, as well as the adjacent areas). At 8:30, I left the airport in search of the cheapest way to get to the Waikiki YHA Hostel, where I planned to dump my stuff before seeing the town. Passersby told me that (not surprisingly) the most inexpensive mode of transport was definitely the city bus (cost = $.85). Unfortunately, since it was a holiday (Happy 4th of July, by the way!), the bus was on a truncated schedule, running but once an hour. I didn't have a schedule, so I knew I might find myself with a long wait at the bus stop, but I decided to chance it.
While waiting for the bus, I met Rodney. While he himself had only moved to Hawaii 2 months ago, he was a walking (and talking) compendium of Hawaiian knowledge. He told me everything I'd ever need to know (and more) about where to go, what to see, and whom to meet. I also met two fellow backpackers from Nice, France. Like Jo and Colin (a friendly couple from Bath, England, whom I met in LAX after Laszlo and absentmindedly forgot to mention), Kathleen and Ragian were taking a year "holiday" around the world (They just quit their jobs and left -- boy, those Europeans sure know how to live life!)
The four of us chatted until the bus came, whereupon we settled back (as well as we could with backpacks, anyway) for our one-hour journey from Honolulu to Waikiki. During the jaunt, I met a family from Connecticut on vacation, as well as their extremely attractive Au Pair from Norway.
Upon arriving at the youth hostel, (around 10:00), I paid for 3 nights' lodging, gratefully learned there was no curfew, and "checked-in" to my room. Unfortunately, I didn't get to meet my roomies -- they were all out and about, it seemed (except one hard partier, who was still asleep). I proceeded to (quietly) drop off all my baggage and emptied out my knapsack of all but the travelling essentials. Then I went out in search of a place to eat my breakfast and plan my day.
I found a diner of sorts, where I splurged on a bowl of plain yogurt, granola and pineapple (I had to try my first fresh Hawaiian pineapple). I leafed through some tourist magazines that were laying around, and I found a place Scott and Shawna had mentioned -- The Polynesian Cultural Center. For roughly $70, I could spend the whole day there. The price included round-trip transportation, an Imax movie, admission to the cultural center, an authentic luau and "the world's most spectacular Polynesian revue": Mana! The Spirit of Our People. I was hooked. So be it!
I called up the PCC, and I was told that there was indeed still time to go today -- the bus would pick me up at the neighboring Hyatt at 11:40.
The bus ride itself was enjoyable and educational. The tour guide taught us all about Dole Pineapple, banana trees (there are over 70 varieties!) and the majestic vertical valleys carved into the lush mountains around us (the product of natural erosion, caused by millennia of wind and rain).
Finally, we arrived at our destination. I soon learned that the Polynesian Cultural Center is a showcase for the seven major groups of islands (Hawaii, Samoa, Tonga, Fiji, Tahiti, The Marquesas and New Zealand) which form the Polynesian Triangle, the center of Polynesian Culture. The PCC was, in fact, a microcosm of these Polynesian islands. All seven groups of islands are recreated in the cultural center, featuring genuine housing, tools, weapons, crafts, technology, language, songs, dances, music, customs and people. Most of the people "inhabiting" these islands are students from the local Brigham Young University (both the school and the PCC are funded by the Church For Jesus Christ Of The Latter Day Saints), and the majority of these individuals are actual natives of the islands they represent. The Polynesian students, combined with a handful of indigenous children and seniors, led an aura of authenticity to the cultural center.
-------Yummy Pig Head -- Save Me The Snout, Please!----------
After dinner, I had enough time before the "big show" to take a canoe tour through all seven islands. The two guides pushed us through the water with long poles (just like gondoliers). At each port, native representatives sang and danced for us. It was relaxing, educational and enjoyable, and the guides were quite humorous.
------------------------------------The Canoe Tour-----------------------------
Just as my canoe tour finished up, it was time for "Mana", the much anticipated finale of the day. Over 100 fully costumed Polynesians performed a full scale revue of their cultural heritage. There was singing and dancing galore, but my favorite part of the show can be summed up in one word: fire! For starters, three Samoans with large grass skirts sat on top of burning rugs, feigning terror in a clownish manner. Comically, yet skillfully, they pushed each other on top of the flames, eventually extinguishing them. But this was just a warm-up (no pun intended). The really hot stuff (pun intended) was yet to come. The very same Samoan who gave the coconut presentation earlier in the day came out next, and he wowed the crowd with the most amazing juggling I'd ever seen. He ate fire and juggled several flaming batons at once. He threw the fiery clubs higher and higher, climaxing with an incredible vertical toss some 60 feet up into the air. Amazing!
As I was heading back to the hostel on the bus, I was told by some fellow passengers that the show I had just seen was the most sensational Polynesian revue around. I was assured, in fact, that any others I might go on to see would be a let-down. I think I'll follow this advice and quit while I'm ahead. My one regret of the evening: no 4th of July fireworks (I'm a sucker for tradition, I guess).
To my surprise, I awoke at 7:30 a.m., a full hour earlier than planned. This gave me time to take a leisurely shower and read a bit in one of my guidebooks (the descriptions and maps provided a nice Oahu orientation -- I learned a little about my current location on the island, as well as the adjacent areas). At 8:30, I left the airport in search of the cheapest way to get to the Waikiki YHA Hostel, where I planned to dump my stuff before seeing the town. Passersby told me that (not surprisingly) the most inexpensive mode of transport was definitely the city bus (cost = $.85). Unfortunately, since it was a holiday (Happy 4th of July, by the way!), the bus was on a truncated schedule, running but once an hour. I didn't have a schedule, so I knew I might find myself with a long wait at the bus stop, but I decided to chance it.
While waiting for the bus, I met Rodney. While he himself had only moved to Hawaii 2 months ago, he was a walking (and talking) compendium of Hawaiian knowledge. He told me everything I'd ever need to know (and more) about where to go, what to see, and whom to meet. I also met two fellow backpackers from Nice, France. Like Jo and Colin (a friendly couple from Bath, England, whom I met in LAX after Laszlo and absentmindedly forgot to mention), Kathleen and Ragian were taking a year "holiday" around the world (They just quit their jobs and left -- boy, those Europeans sure know how to live life!)
The four of us chatted until the bus came, whereupon we settled back (as well as we could with backpacks, anyway) for our one-hour journey from Honolulu to Waikiki. During the jaunt, I met a family from Connecticut on vacation, as well as their extremely attractive Au Pair from Norway.
Upon arriving at the youth hostel, (around 10:00), I paid for 3 nights' lodging, gratefully learned there was no curfew, and "checked-in" to my room. Unfortunately, I didn't get to meet my roomies -- they were all out and about, it seemed (except one hard partier, who was still asleep). I proceeded to (quietly) drop off all my baggage and emptied out my knapsack of all but the travelling essentials. Then I went out in search of a place to eat my breakfast and plan my day.
I found a diner of sorts, where I splurged on a bowl of plain yogurt, granola and pineapple (I had to try my first fresh Hawaiian pineapple). I leafed through some tourist magazines that were laying around, and I found a place Scott and Shawna had mentioned -- The Polynesian Cultural Center. For roughly $70, I could spend the whole day there. The price included round-trip transportation, an Imax movie, admission to the cultural center, an authentic luau and "the world's most spectacular Polynesian revue": Mana! The Spirit of Our People. I was hooked. So be it!
I called up the PCC, and I was told that there was indeed still time to go today -- the bus would pick me up at the neighboring Hyatt at 11:40.
The bus ride itself was enjoyable and educational. The tour guide taught us all about Dole Pineapple, banana trees (there are over 70 varieties!) and the majestic vertical valleys carved into the lush mountains around us (the product of natural erosion, caused by millennia of wind and rain).
Finally, we arrived at our destination. I soon learned that the Polynesian Cultural Center is a showcase for the seven major groups of islands (Hawaii, Samoa, Tonga, Fiji, Tahiti, The Marquesas and New Zealand) which form the Polynesian Triangle, the center of Polynesian Culture. The PCC was, in fact, a microcosm of these Polynesian islands. All seven groups of islands are recreated in the cultural center, featuring genuine housing, tools, weapons, crafts, technology, language, songs, dances, music, customs and people. Most of the people "inhabiting" these islands are students from the local Brigham Young University (both the school and the PCC are funded by the Church For Jesus Christ Of The Latter Day Saints), and the majority of these individuals are actual natives of the islands they represent. The Polynesian students, combined with a handful of indigenous children and seniors, led an aura of authenticity to the cultural center.
-------------------A Native Of Tonga In Traditional Dress--------------
As I browsed through the seven island exhibits, I had the opportunity to see several live presentations. I saw Hula dancers in Hawaii (the ridiculous sight of the tourists' pathetic attempts to copy the natives cured me of any inclination I might personally have had to give it a try), drum beaters in Tonga (the only Kingdom left in Polynesia), face-painted storytellers in New Zealand, hip wiggling dancers in Tahiti and Fijian "Fire Walkers" (the performers took leisurely, barefoot strolls across white-hot rocks).
--------------------------------Fijian Fire Walkers-----------------------------
But of all the varied cultural presentations which I witnessed, Samoa was definitely my favorite. The Samoan representative was lively, funny, knowledgeable (he dispensed info in multiple languages, to boot) and very entertaining. He taught me that the most important resource in Samoa is the coconut. It's used for food, beverage, fuel, clothing, etc., and many of the Samoan myths and celebrations revolve around the coconut. He proceeded to scale a giant coconut tree bare-handed, husk and split a coconut (using nothing more than a small rock for assistance -- I couldn't believe it!) and share some coconut milk (as opposed to coconut juice, which he hilariously warned us was a powerful laxative) with the audience.
-------------------The Samoan Fetches A Coconut . . .----------------
--------------------------Bangs It With A Rock . . .---------------------------
-----------------------And Pours Out a Tropical Treat!--------------------
-----------------------------(Simple As That, Eh?!)-----------------------------
The final presentation I saw was a "canoe show", in which all seven of the Polynesian cultures took part. In turn, representatives from each island rowed by on a giant canoe, enacting a myth as they passed by.
Soon it was time for my first Hawaiian Luau (unless you count the vicarious one I shared with the Brady Bunch as a child) -- during this unlimited buffet, I feasted on baked pig (it was served with the head intact [albeit, sans apple-in-mouth]), poi (a purplish gooey substance made of crushed taro, which had the consistency and taste of wallpaper paste), baked taro (basically, purple sweet potatoes) and lots of fresh pineapple & other fruits. I swigged several glasses of guava juice to wash it all down. It was indeed a tasty feast, but I was rather disappointed that we sat at a picnic table rather than on the ground (like the aforementioned Brady's). While we dined, some adorable Polynesian children entertained us with native songs and dances.
Soon it was time for my first Hawaiian Luau (unless you count the vicarious one I shared with the Brady Bunch as a child) -- during this unlimited buffet, I feasted on baked pig (it was served with the head intact [albeit, sans apple-in-mouth]), poi (a purplish gooey substance made of crushed taro, which had the consistency and taste of wallpaper paste), baked taro (basically, purple sweet potatoes) and lots of fresh pineapple & other fruits. I swigged several glasses of guava juice to wash it all down. It was indeed a tasty feast, but I was rather disappointed that we sat at a picnic table rather than on the ground (like the aforementioned Brady's). While we dined, some adorable Polynesian children entertained us with native songs and dances.
-------Yummy Pig Head -- Save Me The Snout, Please!----------After dinner, I had enough time before the "big show" to take a canoe tour through all seven islands. The two guides pushed us through the water with long poles (just like gondoliers). At each port, native representatives sang and danced for us. It was relaxing, educational and enjoyable, and the guides were quite humorous.
------------------------------------The Canoe Tour-----------------------------
Just as my canoe tour finished up, it was time for "Mana", the much anticipated finale of the day. Over 100 fully costumed Polynesians performed a full scale revue of their cultural heritage. There was singing and dancing galore, but my favorite part of the show can be summed up in one word: fire! For starters, three Samoans with large grass skirts sat on top of burning rugs, feigning terror in a clownish manner. Comically, yet skillfully, they pushed each other on top of the flames, eventually extinguishing them. But this was just a warm-up (no pun intended). The really hot stuff (pun intended) was yet to come. The very same Samoan who gave the coconut presentation earlier in the day came out next, and he wowed the crowd with the most amazing juggling I'd ever seen. He ate fire and juggled several flaming batons at once. He threw the fiery clubs higher and higher, climaxing with an incredible vertical toss some 60 feet up into the air. Amazing!
As I was heading back to the hostel on the bus, I was told by some fellow passengers that the show I had just seen was the most sensational Polynesian revue around. I was assured, in fact, that any others I might go on to see would be a let-down. I think I'll follow this advice and quit while I'm ahead. My one regret of the evening: no 4th of July fireworks (I'm a sucker for tradition, I guess).
Oceania: Day 3: 7-5-94: Morning (And Mourning) In Pearl Harbor, Afternoon In Hanauma Bay And Night In The Twilight Zone
Is this truly only the third day of my trip? I am so jet-lagged that it feels like I've been awake for a week. As is becoming all too common on my so-called "vacations," I arose at an obscene hour (5:30 a.m.). "Is Chris Demented?!," you say -- no, just painfully practical. I chose today to visit Pearl Harbor and the Arizona Memorial, and I was warned that if I didn't get there early (i.e. before 8:00 a.m.), the wait would be excruciating. Since the ride was about an hour by public bus, I decided that it would be unwise to leave any later than 6:30.
The bus trip itself was long and uneventful, and we arrived at the memorial site around 7:15. There were already about 50 people on line (the first tour didn't even start until 8:00), so it was good that I decided to come early. I chatted with a man from San Diego and a couple of honeymooners from PA while we waited. At around 7:30, the doors opened.
It was even more amazing underneath -- warm, clean and teaming with life. Fish of all shapes, sizes and colors surrounded me. I took advantage of this "Kodak Moment" by trying out my new underwater camera. I soon realized how difficult it is to get within 3 feet of a swimming fish and keep it within my viewfinder long enough to snap a clear shot. I took over a dozen shots, but I'll be happy if just half come out.
After my snorkeling adventure, I laid out (and dried out) for about a half-hour, and then I made the trek back up the hill to the bus.
[Editor's note: I had been warned time and again about the intensity of the South Pacific sun, and I thought I did a pretty good job of playing it safe today (I applied #15 sunblock, wore a shirt whenever possible and only sunbathed for a short while). Nonetheless, as I found out later this evening, a small part of my back (obviously a part I couldn't reach with the lotion) was burnt to a crisp. If there is one part of a backpacker's body he doesn't want to burn, it is his back! Oh well, I will just have to get up the guts to ask a bikini-clad stranger to help me apply the sunblock next time, as my usual beach buddies aren't here to assist (Back home at Jones Beach, Jason, Joe, Sal or Steve would always help me if there were no ladies around, though admittedly, my dear friend Scott would sooner see me committed to a burn unit than put lotion on my back!)]
As I arrived back at the hostel and settled down in the TV room to write in this journal, I was faced with dim prospects for the evening. For the first time on my trip, I had no plan. I figured something would come to me . . . and wouldn't you know it, the very moment I was thinking this, something did -- or rather, someone did. You see, an attractive girl on the adjacent couch chose that very moment to introduce herself (her name was Nicole) and ask me if I had been to Pearl Harbor. I told her I had, and I revealed how deeply the memorial had affected me. Then, in a rare moment of boldness, I suggested to Nicole that she go to Pearl Harbor straight away in the morning, because I was hiking to Diamond Head in the afternoon and could use the company (my own morning being otherwise occupied with a Scuba diving trip). Blessedly, she was amenable to this, and I decided to press my luck one step further: I confessed my ignorance of Waikiki nightlife and casually (or at least, as casually as anyone on the verge of a panic attack could) asked her if she had any plans for the evening. Nicole said she had read about some cheap, popular night spot in her Hawaii on $45 a Day book, and was planning on heading over. She said I could join her, if I was interested. ( If I was interested?! Does a bear shit in the woods?!) I babbled something that must have assured her I was indeed interested, and, just like that, we agreed to go together.
The name of the place was House Without a Key -- the odd name should have been my first clue that the night was going to be unusual. When we arrived, instead of finding a hopping night spot filled with young people, good music and cheap cocktails, we were greeted with a dozen senior citizens, a geriatric band playing sleepy Hawaiian music and $7.50 drinks. Too embarrassed just to turn around and leave, Nicole and I felt compelled to at least stay for a drink. We both ordered Mai Tais, which were too strong and not as tasty as I would have liked. We munched on free chips and bread sticks until we could stand the "Wrinkled Don Ho Trio" no more. As we left "House Without a Clue", I ranked on Nicole mercilessly, jokingly imploring her to throw her guidebook in the trash.
By now the two of us were starving, so we searched for a cheap place to eat. We happened upon an establishment called Hamburger Mary's. Even though I avoid beef as a rule, the two-for-one burger deal was too good to resist. Nicole had the teriyaki burger, and I had the mushroom cheddar burger. It was a very tasty and satisfying meal for a grand total of $6.25 (less than half the cost of the gasoline cocktails at the other place).
The strange evening might have ended right there, had I not had the urge to pass water. As I searched for the bathroom, I stumbled upon an outdoor bar attached to (and in fact, part of) Hamburger Mary's. It had some atmosphere (Chinese lanterns projected a nice, Hawaiian mood) and it was a pleasant night, so Nicole and I decided to try it. We laughed at a sign declaring Tuesday "Leather and Jeans Night," shrugging it off it as some Hawaiian thing, and ordered a couple of pineapple rum drinks. Again, it was too strong, and I didn't enjoy it much, but it was nice conversing with Nicole. She told me she was a 21-year-old college student who had just completed a semester abroad in Australia (my curiosity was peaked right away, as I was on my way there myself). A native of Scotia, NY, and a student at St. Michael's College in Vermont, Nicole was heading back home on Thursday morning.
After we finished our drinks, the bartender suggested that we try The Hula Club across the street (attached back-to-back to this building, actually) and commented that the same crowd usually hops between the two clubs. There certainly wasn't much of a crowd there at Hamburger Mary's, so we thanked her and decided to take the advice.
As soon as we walked into Hula's, we knew we liked the place: it was another dimly lit outdoor club, but this one also had the added attractions of a dance floor, good music and more people. We commented on the dance floor when we came in, and the waiter said, "Oh yes . . . and you should know that this is a gay bar." Oh. Suddenly, some of the puzzling pieces of this odd night started to fall into place ("Leather and Jeans Night", "the same crowd", the up-'til-now unregistered fact that Nicole was the only woman in the Hula Club -- and possibly Hamburger Mary's, come to think of it). Boy, are we dense (!), I thought. Well, we went in and sat down, figuring it could be interesting. This time, we ordered a pair of Rum and Cokes, and we settled back to talk and crowd-watch. We commented on some of the clientele, creating some amusing bios, followed by a pretty heavy discussion on homophobia and racism.
We decided to try one more club before calling it a night. The bartender suggested Hula's sister club, The Wave, which he termed "the hottest straight club in town." Unfortunately, his directions were a little vague and we soon got disoriented (admittedly, the three rum drinks apiece that we had imbibed might have contributed to this). Thankfully, a friendly (if decidedly offbeat) local helped us along our way.
At first glance, The Wave looked awesome. A loud, happening multi-leveled club with two bars, a live alternative band, packed dance floor and young crowd. It was only after we'd ordered our drinks (frankly, I don't remember exactly what we had, though rum was certainly involved again) and settled in that we noticed the odd inhabitants. One incredibly drugged up and spaced out woman was flailing nonstop like a Whirling Dervish all over the dance floor, and there was a group of some scantily clad "ladies" eyeing us rather lasciviously from across the room, who bore an uncanny resemblance to prostitutes.
Nicole and I felt a bit uncomfortable, so we quickly drained our drinks and laughingly labeled Tuesday, July 5, 1994 the strangest night of our lives. Naturally, we vowed to go out again tomorrow night!
The bus trip itself was long and uneventful, and we arrived at the memorial site around 7:15. There were already about 50 people on line (the first tour didn't even start until 8:00), so it was good that I decided to come early. I chatted with a man from San Diego and a couple of honeymooners from PA while we waited. At around 7:30, the doors opened.
---The Landmark Sign Shows The Ship Before It Sank------------
The tour consisted of 3 parts. First, I took a self-guided walk through the Pearl Harbor Museum. The shocking photos and unnerving death statistics (over 2,400 seaman and civilians killed) shook me up. Despite my High School social studies WWII curriculum exposure, I don't think I truly realized how tragic (nor how momentous) December 7, 1941 really was (Indeed, George Bush and I shared similar memory retention as to this historic date). The second part of the tour added to my doleful mood. I watched a 45-minute documentary on the bombardment of Pearl Harbor. As the short film concluded, not a word was spoken -- the assembled tourists mutely filed out and onto the boat that would take us to the third and final part of the tour: the Arizona Memorial.
---------------------Approaching the Arizona Memorial----------------
----------------------------Entering The Memorial------------------------
The Arizona Memorial is a huge, white bridge-like structure which spans the sunken USS Arizona. Looking out at the rusty, barnacled remains of the gun turrets poking up through the Pacific, a pervasive chill overcame me as a horrible reality set in: below me was not just a ship, but a tomb -- a 2,000 ton steel sepulchre, buried in a watery grave. The eeriness I experienced as I looked down at the ship and then up at the seemingly endless wall of names, can only be compared to what I felt when I visited the Dachau Concentration Camp in Germany.
--------------------------------The Ship----------------------------------------
------------------------------------The Names-----------------------------------
At the conclusion of the tour, I hopped on the bus, stopped off at the hostel to pick up my snorkeling gear, hopped back on the bus and headed down to Hanauma Bay -- a destination on the Southeast side of the island, purported to be the premier snorkeling site on Oahu, if not all of Hawaii. I remember grumbling to myself that "it better be" while I stood (packed in like a sardine) for the entire one-hour bus journey.
I was not to be disappointed!
Hanauma Bay was a breathtaking, crystal blue, tropical paradise. I couldn't believe how clear the water was!
----------------------------------Hanauma Bay----------------------------------
It was even more amazing underneath -- warm, clean and teaming with life. Fish of all shapes, sizes and colors surrounded me. I took advantage of this "Kodak Moment" by trying out my new underwater camera. I soon realized how difficult it is to get within 3 feet of a swimming fish and keep it within my viewfinder long enough to snap a clear shot. I took over a dozen shots, but I'll be happy if just half come out.
-----------------------One Fish (Two Fish, Red Fish . . .)-----------------
After my snorkeling adventure, I laid out (and dried out) for about a half-hour, and then I made the trek back up the hill to the bus.
[Editor's note: I had been warned time and again about the intensity of the South Pacific sun, and I thought I did a pretty good job of playing it safe today (I applied #15 sunblock, wore a shirt whenever possible and only sunbathed for a short while). Nonetheless, as I found out later this evening, a small part of my back (obviously a part I couldn't reach with the lotion) was burnt to a crisp. If there is one part of a backpacker's body he doesn't want to burn, it is his back! Oh well, I will just have to get up the guts to ask a bikini-clad stranger to help me apply the sunblock next time, as my usual beach buddies aren't here to assist (Back home at Jones Beach, Jason, Joe, Sal or Steve would always help me if there were no ladies around, though admittedly, my dear friend Scott would sooner see me committed to a burn unit than put lotion on my back!)]
As I arrived back at the hostel and settled down in the TV room to write in this journal, I was faced with dim prospects for the evening. For the first time on my trip, I had no plan. I figured something would come to me . . . and wouldn't you know it, the very moment I was thinking this, something did -- or rather, someone did. You see, an attractive girl on the adjacent couch chose that very moment to introduce herself (her name was Nicole) and ask me if I had been to Pearl Harbor. I told her I had, and I revealed how deeply the memorial had affected me. Then, in a rare moment of boldness, I suggested to Nicole that she go to Pearl Harbor straight away in the morning, because I was hiking to Diamond Head in the afternoon and could use the company (my own morning being otherwise occupied with a Scuba diving trip). Blessedly, she was amenable to this, and I decided to press my luck one step further: I confessed my ignorance of Waikiki nightlife and casually (or at least, as casually as anyone on the verge of a panic attack could) asked her if she had any plans for the evening. Nicole said she had read about some cheap, popular night spot in her Hawaii on $45 a Day book, and was planning on heading over. She said I could join her, if I was interested. ( If I was interested?! Does a bear shit in the woods?!) I babbled something that must have assured her I was indeed interested, and, just like that, we agreed to go together.
The name of the place was House Without a Key -- the odd name should have been my first clue that the night was going to be unusual. When we arrived, instead of finding a hopping night spot filled with young people, good music and cheap cocktails, we were greeted with a dozen senior citizens, a geriatric band playing sleepy Hawaiian music and $7.50 drinks. Too embarrassed just to turn around and leave, Nicole and I felt compelled to at least stay for a drink. We both ordered Mai Tais, which were too strong and not as tasty as I would have liked. We munched on free chips and bread sticks until we could stand the "Wrinkled Don Ho Trio" no more. As we left "House Without a Clue", I ranked on Nicole mercilessly, jokingly imploring her to throw her guidebook in the trash.
By now the two of us were starving, so we searched for a cheap place to eat. We happened upon an establishment called Hamburger Mary's. Even though I avoid beef as a rule, the two-for-one burger deal was too good to resist. Nicole had the teriyaki burger, and I had the mushroom cheddar burger. It was a very tasty and satisfying meal for a grand total of $6.25 (less than half the cost of the gasoline cocktails at the other place).
The strange evening might have ended right there, had I not had the urge to pass water. As I searched for the bathroom, I stumbled upon an outdoor bar attached to (and in fact, part of) Hamburger Mary's. It had some atmosphere (Chinese lanterns projected a nice, Hawaiian mood) and it was a pleasant night, so Nicole and I decided to try it. We laughed at a sign declaring Tuesday "Leather and Jeans Night," shrugging it off it as some Hawaiian thing, and ordered a couple of pineapple rum drinks. Again, it was too strong, and I didn't enjoy it much, but it was nice conversing with Nicole. She told me she was a 21-year-old college student who had just completed a semester abroad in Australia (my curiosity was peaked right away, as I was on my way there myself). A native of Scotia, NY, and a student at St. Michael's College in Vermont, Nicole was heading back home on Thursday morning.
After we finished our drinks, the bartender suggested that we try The Hula Club across the street (attached back-to-back to this building, actually) and commented that the same crowd usually hops between the two clubs. There certainly wasn't much of a crowd there at Hamburger Mary's, so we thanked her and decided to take the advice.
As soon as we walked into Hula's, we knew we liked the place: it was another dimly lit outdoor club, but this one also had the added attractions of a dance floor, good music and more people. We commented on the dance floor when we came in, and the waiter said, "Oh yes . . . and you should know that this is a gay bar." Oh. Suddenly, some of the puzzling pieces of this odd night started to fall into place ("Leather and Jeans Night", "the same crowd", the up-'til-now unregistered fact that Nicole was the only woman in the Hula Club -- and possibly Hamburger Mary's, come to think of it). Boy, are we dense (!), I thought. Well, we went in and sat down, figuring it could be interesting. This time, we ordered a pair of Rum and Cokes, and we settled back to talk and crowd-watch. We commented on some of the clientele, creating some amusing bios, followed by a pretty heavy discussion on homophobia and racism.
We decided to try one more club before calling it a night. The bartender suggested Hula's sister club, The Wave, which he termed "the hottest straight club in town." Unfortunately, his directions were a little vague and we soon got disoriented (admittedly, the three rum drinks apiece that we had imbibed might have contributed to this). Thankfully, a friendly (if decidedly offbeat) local helped us along our way.
At first glance, The Wave looked awesome. A loud, happening multi-leveled club with two bars, a live alternative band, packed dance floor and young crowd. It was only after we'd ordered our drinks (frankly, I don't remember exactly what we had, though rum was certainly involved again) and settled in that we noticed the odd inhabitants. One incredibly drugged up and spaced out woman was flailing nonstop like a Whirling Dervish all over the dance floor, and there was a group of some scantily clad "ladies" eyeing us rather lasciviously from across the room, who bore an uncanny resemblance to prostitutes.
Nicole and I felt a bit uncomfortable, so we quickly drained our drinks and laughingly labeled Tuesday, July 5, 1994 the strangest night of our lives. Naturally, we vowed to go out again tomorrow night!
Oceania: Day 4: 7-6-94: SCUBA Diving, Diamond Head Hike And A Missed Opportunity
Another early morning -- ugghh!! Only 5 hours of sleep this time (and a multi-rum-cocktail hangover, to boot!). Considering I was going on two SCUBA dives today, many might consider last night's shenanigans a mistake, or at least ill-advised -- but no use crying over spilt milk! I got showered, dressed and psyched, and I met the SCUBA company's van outside the hostel at 7:15 a.m. Inside, I met Rich, a fellow SCUBA diver and Michael, our dive master -- both of whom seemed friendly enough.
When I arrived at the dive shop, I met Wendy, the fourth and final member of our dive team. She was a knockout -- an incredibly attractive and shapely girl from Tucson, who I instantly visualized in a wet suit. I picked up my jaw long enough to introduce myself. Fantasies aside, Wendy was also a very friendly person, and we hit it off immediately.
I paid my diving fee, signed away my life & first-born child, loaded my dive gear into the van and settled back for the ride to the docks. On the way to the dive boat, Mike gave us a brief briefing of the two dives. The first dive was a wreck dive: we would be diving down some 100 feet to explore the YO-257, a navy yard oiler built in the 1940's, which was intentionally sunk in 1989 in order to create an artificial reef. The second dive was an authentic reef dive: we would stay within 10-40 feet of the surface and swim with the fish and giant sea turtles. As Mike described the dives, my heart was pounding (whether more from excitement or fear I wasn't certain, though their was a considerable measure of both -- you must understand that these would be my first dives since I got certified only a month before, and my first real dives at all [in SCUBA school, I mostly dove in an indoor swimming pool, with the exception of one shallow dive in the dark and frigid Atlantic Ocean]). Wendy and Rich helped ease my apprehension by revealing their own -- indeed, in the end, I wound up consoling Wendy (she had been certified over a year before and hadn't dived since).
It was a beautiful day, with a bright, clear sky. We put our SCUBA units together and took the boat ride to the first dive spot. On the way, we slipped into our wet suits (Wendy looked just as fine as I had imagined). Mike went over a couple of last minute details (hand signals and the like), and we sat down and strapped on our gear.
Then it was time to take the plunge. I walked off the boat into the warm, choppy water. I was nervous, at first, but all trepidation was swept aside when I put my head underwater and looked at the ship 100 feet below -- then all I wanted to do was go for it! The four of us descended gradually along the dive line, equalizing our ears every step of the way, until we finally reached the wreck.
I barely had enough time to admire the beauty of the tropical fish swimming through the decrepit hull before a forty-foot submarine came over. Inside, dozens of tourists gawked and waved at our SCUBA group. As they did so, I was overcome by the strangest feeling -- something akin to being a fish in a bowl or a performer in an underwater circus act. In an impulsive moment -- partly to show off, and partly to complete my own metaphor, I did my best flip for the spectators, who clapped with delighted approval. I responded with my most dramatic bow, and I blew them a mock kiss as the submarine moved away.
When the show was over (or more correctly, the audience gone), we got down to the business of exploring the wreck. It was wondrous! We went in and out of windows and wells, stood on the deck and explored the dark interior. I saw fish, fish and more fish -- fish of every color, size and shape imaginable. I also saw giant starfish, a colossal crab and an imposing moray eel. Soon -- much sooner than I would have liked, actually -- it was time to make our ascent back to the surface.
Back on deck, we all agreed it had been an amazing experience. We shared a little snack as the boat departed for the second dive site. The ride was rough, and this, in combination with the blazing sun, made me quite nauseous -- thankfully, I didn't spew. As we worked ourselves up for dive #2, we were treated to the majestic sight of a large pod of dolphins swimming in unison about fifty feet off our port bow.
Soon we arrived, donned our gear once again and zipped into the water (all prior fears long forgotten). This dive was less than half as deep as the first, but it was just as enchanting. As if in a dream, I swooped across an endless underwater desert, punctuated here and there with outcrops of coral. These oases were home to a variety of beautiful fish (including a pair of deadly scorpion fish) and ugly moray eels -- their open-jawed, sharp-toothed scowls commanded we keep a respectful distance. But undoubtedly, the most fantastic reef denizens were the giant sea turtles. They were the underwater equivalent of puppy dogs, coming right up to us, begging to be petted and held. I caressed and played with them until it was (regrettably) once again time to return to the surface. Frolicking with the sea turtles was truly the capstone of my first South Pacific underwater adventure!
-----------------------The View From Atop Diamond Head---------------
When I arrived at the dive shop, I met Wendy, the fourth and final member of our dive team. She was a knockout -- an incredibly attractive and shapely girl from Tucson, who I instantly visualized in a wet suit. I picked up my jaw long enough to introduce myself. Fantasies aside, Wendy was also a very friendly person, and we hit it off immediately.
I paid my diving fee, signed away my life & first-born child, loaded my dive gear into the van and settled back for the ride to the docks. On the way to the dive boat, Mike gave us a brief briefing of the two dives. The first dive was a wreck dive: we would be diving down some 100 feet to explore the YO-257, a navy yard oiler built in the 1940's, which was intentionally sunk in 1989 in order to create an artificial reef. The second dive was an authentic reef dive: we would stay within 10-40 feet of the surface and swim with the fish and giant sea turtles. As Mike described the dives, my heart was pounding (whether more from excitement or fear I wasn't certain, though their was a considerable measure of both -- you must understand that these would be my first dives since I got certified only a month before, and my first real dives at all [in SCUBA school, I mostly dove in an indoor swimming pool, with the exception of one shallow dive in the dark and frigid Atlantic Ocean]). Wendy and Rich helped ease my apprehension by revealing their own -- indeed, in the end, I wound up consoling Wendy (she had been certified over a year before and hadn't dived since).
It was a beautiful day, with a bright, clear sky. We put our SCUBA units together and took the boat ride to the first dive spot. On the way, we slipped into our wet suits (Wendy looked just as fine as I had imagined). Mike went over a couple of last minute details (hand signals and the like), and we sat down and strapped on our gear.
-----------------------Suited Up And Ready To Dive-----------------------
Then it was time to take the plunge. I walked off the boat into the warm, choppy water. I was nervous, at first, but all trepidation was swept aside when I put my head underwater and looked at the ship 100 feet below -- then all I wanted to do was go for it! The four of us descended gradually along the dive line, equalizing our ears every step of the way, until we finally reached the wreck.
I barely had enough time to admire the beauty of the tropical fish swimming through the decrepit hull before a forty-foot submarine came over. Inside, dozens of tourists gawked and waved at our SCUBA group. As they did so, I was overcome by the strangest feeling -- something akin to being a fish in a bowl or a performer in an underwater circus act. In an impulsive moment -- partly to show off, and partly to complete my own metaphor, I did my best flip for the spectators, who clapped with delighted approval. I responded with my most dramatic bow, and I blew them a mock kiss as the submarine moved away.
When the show was over (or more correctly, the audience gone), we got down to the business of exploring the wreck. It was wondrous! We went in and out of windows and wells, stood on the deck and explored the dark interior. I saw fish, fish and more fish -- fish of every color, size and shape imaginable. I also saw giant starfish, a colossal crab and an imposing moray eel. Soon -- much sooner than I would have liked, actually -- it was time to make our ascent back to the surface.
Back on deck, we all agreed it had been an amazing experience. We shared a little snack as the boat departed for the second dive site. The ride was rough, and this, in combination with the blazing sun, made me quite nauseous -- thankfully, I didn't spew. As we worked ourselves up for dive #2, we were treated to the majestic sight of a large pod of dolphins swimming in unison about fifty feet off our port bow.
Soon we arrived, donned our gear once again and zipped into the water (all prior fears long forgotten). This dive was less than half as deep as the first, but it was just as enchanting. As if in a dream, I swooped across an endless underwater desert, punctuated here and there with outcrops of coral. These oases were home to a variety of beautiful fish (including a pair of deadly scorpion fish) and ugly moray eels -- their open-jawed, sharp-toothed scowls commanded we keep a respectful distance. But undoubtedly, the most fantastic reef denizens were the giant sea turtles. They were the underwater equivalent of puppy dogs, coming right up to us, begging to be petted and held. I caressed and played with them until it was (regrettably) once again time to return to the surface. Frolicking with the sea turtles was truly the capstone of my first South Pacific underwater adventure!
Arriving back at the hostel, I met Nicole in the TV lounge and excitedly told her of my dives. She had been to Pearl Harbor that morning, and had been as equally awed as I. Now it was time for the two of us to embark on our Diamond Head hike.
After a considerable wait at the bus stop, we took a relatively short ride to the base of Diamond Head. Diamond Head is a peak of significance, both geologically and historically. In truth, I forget its geological import, but I do know a bit of its history: human sacrifices were once conducted at the summit, and in more recent times, gun turrets were built up there (though they were never fired and have since been dismantled).
-------------------------That's Where We Are Headed!--------------------
It was a short, but interesting hike. We walked through a car tunnel, across a blazing hot sidewalk path, up a switchback slope, through another dimly lit tunnel, up a steep flight of steps, around a winding staircase (in complete darkness) and out one of the abandoned bunkers. After tackling another short set of stairs, we reached the apex, where we were afforded an impressive bird's-eye view of Oahu.
----------------------------Nicole And I At The Peak-------------------------
We took a deep breath of fresh air, snapped a few shots and headed back to the hostel.
Nicole and I took showers (separately, alas), changed and met at 4:00 in the television room to go out once again on the town. Although it was early, we knew we couldn't have a late night (we both had to get up at 6:00 a.m. to catch our respective flights), so it was just as well.
This night played out more in line with what we had expected the previous evening, although it, too, had it's share of weirdness. First we went to Ono Hawaiian for some inexpensive, authentic native cuisine. Nicole regretted never having been to a luau, so I suggested we try this. We had Lau Lau (pork wrapped in seaweed), dried beef, diced salmon with minced tomatoes and onions, another pork dish (its name eludes me), rice and poi (day-old poi, to be exact -- the waitress recommended it when I told her my first experience with this Hawaiian staple had been disappointing [that poi was downright insipid], assuring me that older poi tasted like yogurt). The waitress taught us the correct way to eat poi: you take an onion slice, dip it in Hawaiian sea salt, fork on a piece of meat, dip it in the poi, and viola'! She also recommended adding soy sauce or Hawaiian chile pepper water to add flavor. We tried all the above-mentioned suggestions, agreeing that the soy sauce combination tasted the best. Nicole didn't particularly care for seaweed, so she ate most of the meat (leaving me to eat all that slimy stuff!). For dessert, we had coconut pudding and the remainder of the poi mixed with sugar. The food had been delicious, and I got up and did an impromptu (and blessfully short) Hula for Nicole, in order to authenticate the "luau", before we left.
Our next stop was a place across town called Moose McGillicuddy's, a popular college bar right up our alley. We ordered daiquiris (she strawberry, I banana) and watched the crowd. Almost immediately, we spotted a man who looked just like O.J. Simpson . . . in a giant afro wig. (Considering "The Juice" is in a bit of a pinch at the moment and would probably welcome the opportunity to escape prison, don a disguise and flee to Hawaii, we found our discovery highly amusing). Nicole and I thoroughly enjoyed our first daiquiris, so we ordered two more. But the next batch was disgusting! I watered mine down and still couldn't stomach it. I finally realized that the bartender had goofed, concocting a margarita instead of a daiquiri -- and ever since a certain embarrassing New Year's Eve incident a few year's ago (and No, I won't provide the details!), I can't touch tequila. So I had the drink replaced and enjoyed my new one greatly.
Meanwhile, a local yokel kept trying to start a conversation with Nicole and I, and we kept trying to avoid one. But he was persistant (and quite drunk), so we eventually caved in. Before we finally escaped him (I think his name was Andy or Randy), he somehow managed to get our addresses and phone numbers. I fudged my number, but Nicole gave her real one, and she is now terrified that he'll actually call. After ditching Andy/Randy when he went to the bathroom, Nicole and I went to another bar called Lewer's Apex. It was memorable only for the free popcorn.
Finally, Nicole and I decided to go back to the hostel. I suggested we take the path along Waikiki Beach, outwardly claiming that I had never seen it (which was true enough) and inwardly hoping it would set a romantic mood -- a moonlit Hawaiian beach seemed the perfect setting to steal a kiss (if I could ever get up the guts to confess my attraction and make a move, that is). The walk was indeed perfect: we strolled along the coastline and sat on a rocky atoll watching the shimmering Pacific and listening to the waves gently break against the shore. Just as my courage was building up, a light rain began to fall -- which quickly turned into a gushing downpour. We sought shelter under the nearest palm tree (boy, did she look good soaked). We huddled together for protection, our faces thisclose, and then . . . nothing. I was immobilized by anxiety and indecision, and the moment passed. The rain let up, and we walked home.
We said our goodbyes at the entrance to the hostel (a somewhat awkward one as so much inside me remained unsaid), and then I pecked Nicole on the cheek. As she departed, I was crestfallen. Even though I was going to see her again tomorrow morning (Nicole and I were sharing a limo ride to the airport), I knew I'd blown my chance. Oh well, we'd exchanged addresses and she lives in New York, so who knows?
Oceania: Day 5: 7-7-94: Hawaii: A Hot Time In Hilo (Kilauea Volcano Adventure)
The 7th? What the Hell did I do on the 7th?! (Unfortunately, it is now the 9th, and I've fallen a tad behind in my journal writing) Oh yeah. Now I remember. I got up bright and early (surprise, surprise), packed everything up and met Nicole at the front desk, where we turned in our keys. The airport shuttle came right on time, and Nicole and I said "aloha" to Waikiki (and the ubiquitous ABC stores -- a 7-11 type chain of establishments that we had often frequented). We arrived at the airport without any fanfare, and Nicole and I said our final farewells. There was a brief moment of excitement when the back door of the van jammed (a bag fell onto the lock), trapping our luggage between the door and the mesh grating bolted to the rear seat, but we eventually got it open.
Entering the airport, I headed over to the Hawaiian Air counter, where I purchased a 5-day Inter-Island Airpass. Before I knew it, I was on a small plane traveling to Hilo, Hawaii ("The Big Island").
Upon my arrival in Hilo, I looked in my handy-dandy Lonely Planet guidebook for a relatively cheap place to stay. The first place mentioned in the book was Arnott's Lodge, so I gave it a shot. I called up the lodge and the manager told me there was indeed "room at the inn." Moreover, he made my day when he informed that there was no curfew, the cost was only $15 a night, the lodge provided free transportation to and from the airport and they sponsored different adventurous trips each day -- including today's planned journey to Kilauea, the only actively erupting volcano in all of Hawaii. Awesome! (Editor's Note: I later came to see what a truly golden find Arnott's Lodge was -- in fact, the facilities would prove to be so affordably comfortable and the expeditions so cool that my intended one-day stay turned into three.)
The van soon came to pick me up at the airport. I met one of the assistant managers (Alex), who was driving. He told me that Mr. Arnott was a millionaire from Australia (owner of Arnott's Biscuits) who set up the lodge to assist backpackers.
When I got to Arnott's, I met two other assistant managers (Cary and Tony). They helped me sign up for the trip to the Kilauea Volcano and introduced me to my fellow travelers: the group included Mr. and Mrs. Shaw (a couple of teachers [he from Britain, she from France] who met in England, fell in love and moved to Hong Kong); the Shaw's two children (Tom [16] and Emily [12]); and Marcus (a 19-year-old backpacker from Austria, who was planning to work in the states for a year). Tony informed us that he would be our tour guide.
We hopped in the van and sped off. . .
The day was simply incredible!
As soon as we arrived at the outskirts of the eruption perimeter, patches of igneous rock began cropping up amidst the grass and tropical plants passing by my window. Within minutes, the entire surrounding area morphed into a solid sheet of hardened lava -- a black desert: it was lifeless, barren and still (save for some scattered spouts of steam that were escaping the bowels of the Earth through surface cracks). As I stepped out of the vehicle and walked across the moon-like caldera, I felt as Neil Armstrong must have, exploring the lunar landscape for the first time. I collected some geological samples and took a fair number of photos (I think I got a really nice shot of a rainbow rising over the caldera).
I also got my first glimpse of one of Hawaii's famed black-sand beaches -- the contrast of the alabaster ocean foam crawling up the ebony seashore was visually arresting.
As we made our way down to the flow, Tony taught us a little about Hawaii's volcanoes. He said that all of the Hawaiian Islands are products of volcanoes, and Kilauea & Mauna Loa, historically two of the world's most active volcanoes, are still adding land to Hawaii.
It took us about a half hour to reach the lava flow site, and by the time we got there, I was chomping at the bit. Ropes, pylons and posted warning signs held back onlookers about a quarter mile from the action. This wasn't close enough for me. I told Marcus that I was going to try to get as close to the lava flow as I could, and he was eager to join me. From our position behind the ropes, I could see an orange glow spewing out billows of steam -- it seemed more like a combination of a bonfire and a geyser than a volcano. Every so often, the lava would shoot up, and then you would know what you were truly dealing with. I was informed that the clouds of hot steam were caused by the lava flowing directly into the ocean. Whatever the reason behind their progeniture, might I say they gave off quite an offensive sulfuric stench (Tony told us the steam was actually a mixture of several poisonous gases [lovely]). It was impressive to watch this act of creation from afar, but I still wanted more.
Marcus and I slipped past the crowd and started our volcanic adventure. At first, it was easy going, and I laughed at the craven fools who hid behind the ropes. But the landscape gradually changed, becoming increasingly hazardous (and wondrous) with each step. The hard, stable, aged lava rock gave way to more recent formations which were amazing to behold -- knotted, ophidian rivers, tall hills and deep valleys -- but relatively fragile and unpredictable (the analogy which came to mind was "thin ice"). Several times, without warning, the brittle lava rock crunched and broke away below my feet, causing my heart to skip a beat and my mind to seriously consider turning back, as all of the few other rope-ducking tourists had already done. (In truth, the danger was immense [hence the rope and warning signs]: if I happened to step on a patch of rock just a little more unstable than the rest, I could fall right through and get trapped in a deep crevice [or worse yet, a seething cauldron of molten lava] -- why, just a year ago, an unfortunate tourist had been killed when the entire beach front, newly formed by the lava, simply collapsed!) But then I'd look at the natural wonder coming closer into view, realize anew how this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and continue on, despite my misgivings.
Slowly, but surely, Marcus and I made our way closer to the mouth of the lava flow. We now faced a final decision: should we throw any remaining caution to the wind and climb down onto the black sand beach directly in the path of the molten stream, or should we head back, considering ourselves "close enough"? Need I say which we chose?!
As soon as we set foot on the beach, the first thing we noticed (not surprisingly) was how hot it was -- the air and sand conducted much of the estimated 1500-degree heat emanating from the lava. It was also rather difficult (not to mention, unpleasant) to breathe. But I soon forgot my discomfort as I stared at the lava flow, now only 20 feet away -- it was nothing short of awe-inspiring! I snapped a few photos and suggested that we go even closer. Marcus took a picture of me, and I of him, only 6 feet from the lava.
----------------------------Marcus At The Lava Flow-------------------------
And I ventured as close as 3 feet for a close up shot (my hands started burning as I bent down and leaned in to take the picture).
-------------------------------------Hot Stuff!--------------------------------------
The sand at this proximity was scorching hot, and I was worried that the rubber on the soles of my hiking boots might actually begin to melt. Moreover, the surf was coming in farther and stronger with each progressive wave, and there was a danger that the same process that created the black sand beach (the molten lava literally explodes into millions of tiny pieces when the water strikes it) could really ruin our day. So Marcus and I finally decided to head back, but not without taking a few longing glances over our baked shoulders.
Safely back behind the ropes, Marcus and I had an hour to converse and get to know each other better. His English was borderline and my Austrian non-existent, so it took a good deal of effort and time to communicate. But it was well worth it. We laughed and exchanged stories and tidbits well into the night, as the volcanic pyre glowed ahead of us, off in the distance.
Entering the airport, I headed over to the Hawaiian Air counter, where I purchased a 5-day Inter-Island Airpass. Before I knew it, I was on a small plane traveling to Hilo, Hawaii ("The Big Island").
Upon my arrival in Hilo, I looked in my handy-dandy Lonely Planet guidebook for a relatively cheap place to stay. The first place mentioned in the book was Arnott's Lodge, so I gave it a shot. I called up the lodge and the manager told me there was indeed "room at the inn." Moreover, he made my day when he informed that there was no curfew, the cost was only $15 a night, the lodge provided free transportation to and from the airport and they sponsored different adventurous trips each day -- including today's planned journey to Kilauea, the only actively erupting volcano in all of Hawaii. Awesome! (Editor's Note: I later came to see what a truly golden find Arnott's Lodge was -- in fact, the facilities would prove to be so affordably comfortable and the expeditions so cool that my intended one-day stay turned into three.)
The van soon came to pick me up at the airport. I met one of the assistant managers (Alex), who was driving. He told me that Mr. Arnott was a millionaire from Australia (owner of Arnott's Biscuits) who set up the lodge to assist backpackers.
When I got to Arnott's, I met two other assistant managers (Cary and Tony). They helped me sign up for the trip to the Kilauea Volcano and introduced me to my fellow travelers: the group included Mr. and Mrs. Shaw (a couple of teachers [he from Britain, she from France] who met in England, fell in love and moved to Hong Kong); the Shaw's two children (Tom [16] and Emily [12]); and Marcus (a 19-year-old backpacker from Austria, who was planning to work in the states for a year). Tony informed us that he would be our tour guide.
We hopped in the van and sped off. . .
The day was simply incredible!
As soon as we arrived at the outskirts of the eruption perimeter, patches of igneous rock began cropping up amidst the grass and tropical plants passing by my window. Within minutes, the entire surrounding area morphed into a solid sheet of hardened lava -- a black desert: it was lifeless, barren and still (save for some scattered spouts of steam that were escaping the bowels of the Earth through surface cracks). As I stepped out of the vehicle and walked across the moon-like caldera, I felt as Neil Armstrong must have, exploring the lunar landscape for the first time. I collected some geological samples and took a fair number of photos (I think I got a really nice shot of a rainbow rising over the caldera).
---------------------------------Caldera Photo Op-----------------------------
Next, it was off to the Thurston Lava Tube. A lava tube is formed when molten magma bores a tunnel up through the Earth and then drains away. The first part of the lava tube was illuminated so that tourists could explore the opening. We walked together as a group for 150 meters or so, until it became pitch black. At this point, Marcus and I (who had flashlights) asked Tony if we could explore a little deeper whilst he and the Shaw family returned to the entrance. He agreed, so we flicked on the flashlights and continued traveling until we hit a dead end, roughly 350 meters further down. (On the walk back, Marcus and I agreed the "extended tour" had been worth it -- with no one else around, surrounded by darkness and a palpable sense of danger [we noticed several piles of rubble from various cave-ins], we had felt like daring spelunkers discovering a new cavern.
We hopped back in the van and went to the small volcano museum, which sits above the Halemaumau Crater (which is actually a crater within a crater). We proceeded to drive down near Halemaumau, where we had a chance to hike to the rim and peer down its awesome depths.
------------------------------Halemaumau Crater------------------------------
I also got my first glimpse of one of Hawaii's famed black-sand beaches -- the contrast of the alabaster ocean foam crawling up the ebony seashore was visually arresting.
----------------------------------Black Sand Beach-----------------------------
As we made our way down to the flow, Tony taught us a little about Hawaii's volcanoes. He said that all of the Hawaiian Islands are products of volcanoes, and Kilauea & Mauna Loa, historically two of the world's most active volcanoes, are still adding land to Hawaii.
It took us about a half hour to reach the lava flow site, and by the time we got there, I was chomping at the bit. Ropes, pylons and posted warning signs held back onlookers about a quarter mile from the action. This wasn't close enough for me. I told Marcus that I was going to try to get as close to the lava flow as I could, and he was eager to join me. From our position behind the ropes, I could see an orange glow spewing out billows of steam -- it seemed more like a combination of a bonfire and a geyser than a volcano. Every so often, the lava would shoot up, and then you would know what you were truly dealing with. I was informed that the clouds of hot steam were caused by the lava flowing directly into the ocean. Whatever the reason behind their progeniture, might I say they gave off quite an offensive sulfuric stench (Tony told us the steam was actually a mixture of several poisonous gases [lovely]). It was impressive to watch this act of creation from afar, but I still wanted more.
Marcus and I slipped past the crowd and started our volcanic adventure. At first, it was easy going, and I laughed at the craven fools who hid behind the ropes. But the landscape gradually changed, becoming increasingly hazardous (and wondrous) with each step. The hard, stable, aged lava rock gave way to more recent formations which were amazing to behold -- knotted, ophidian rivers, tall hills and deep valleys -- but relatively fragile and unpredictable (the analogy which came to mind was "thin ice"). Several times, without warning, the brittle lava rock crunched and broke away below my feet, causing my heart to skip a beat and my mind to seriously consider turning back, as all of the few other rope-ducking tourists had already done. (In truth, the danger was immense [hence the rope and warning signs]: if I happened to step on a patch of rock just a little more unstable than the rest, I could fall right through and get trapped in a deep crevice [or worse yet, a seething cauldron of molten lava] -- why, just a year ago, an unfortunate tourist had been killed when the entire beach front, newly formed by the lava, simply collapsed!) But then I'd look at the natural wonder coming closer into view, realize anew how this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and continue on, despite my misgivings.
Slowly, but surely, Marcus and I made our way closer to the mouth of the lava flow. We now faced a final decision: should we throw any remaining caution to the wind and climb down onto the black sand beach directly in the path of the molten stream, or should we head back, considering ourselves "close enough"? Need I say which we chose?!
As soon as we set foot on the beach, the first thing we noticed (not surprisingly) was how hot it was -- the air and sand conducted much of the estimated 1500-degree heat emanating from the lava. It was also rather difficult (not to mention, unpleasant) to breathe. But I soon forgot my discomfort as I stared at the lava flow, now only 20 feet away -- it was nothing short of awe-inspiring! I snapped a few photos and suggested that we go even closer. Marcus took a picture of me, and I of him, only 6 feet from the lava.
----------------------------Marcus At The Lava Flow-------------------------
And I ventured as close as 3 feet for a close up shot (my hands started burning as I bent down and leaned in to take the picture).
-------------------------------------Hot Stuff!--------------------------------------
The sand at this proximity was scorching hot, and I was worried that the rubber on the soles of my hiking boots might actually begin to melt. Moreover, the surf was coming in farther and stronger with each progressive wave, and there was a danger that the same process that created the black sand beach (the molten lava literally explodes into millions of tiny pieces when the water strikes it) could really ruin our day. So Marcus and I finally decided to head back, but not without taking a few longing glances over our baked shoulders.
Safely back behind the ropes, Marcus and I had an hour to converse and get to know each other better. His English was borderline and my Austrian non-existent, so it took a good deal of effort and time to communicate. But it was well worth it. We laughed and exchanged stories and tidbits well into the night, as the volcanic pyre glowed ahead of us, off in the distance.
Oceania: Day 6: 7-8-94: Mauna Kea
Today I met two great fun-loving guys from Australia named Wayne ("Wy-an") and Murray. They are a week into a planned one-year "holiday" around the world. They'll be in Hawaii a few more days, and then they will fly to California and travel up the West Coast into Canada. They have work visas for Canada, so they hope to stay there about 6 months, earning money and having fun. Then they will be off to the East Coast, Europe and Africa. Not bad, say I.
I informed Wayne and Murray that I was going to spend the morning touring downtown Hilo, and I invited them to join me afterwards on the 3:00 p.m. tour of Mauna Kea. They said they would probably see me then.
A friendly couple, also staying at Arnott's Lodge, offered to drive me to town, and I gladly took them up on it. Arriving in downtown Hilo, I was surprised by how small and quaint it was. I browsed around its dozen shops and grabbed a noodle salad at a health food store. After lunch, it took barely an hour to see the whole of Hilo -- not very exciting, truth be told. With the time remaining to me, I walked to the bus station, arranged plans for my trip to Kauai on Sunday and wrote in my journal (feverishly trying to catch up!). At 2:30, the Arnott shuttle picked me up.
Back at the lodge, Wayne and Murray were waiting for me, raring to go to Mauna Kea. Tony and his friend Chris rounded out our small party. The five of us soon set off. Mauna Kea means "White Mountain," and it is aptly named. A dormant volcano rising over 33,000 feet from the ocean floor, Mauna Kea is technically the tallest mountain in the world (though some 19,000 feet of it is submerged under water), and its peak is covered with snow in the winter. It sits directly across from Mauna Loa, another dormant volcano, which actually rises a bit higher into the atmosphere than Mauna Kea, but doesn't run as deep into the sea.
I informed Wayne and Murray that I was going to spend the morning touring downtown Hilo, and I invited them to join me afterwards on the 3:00 p.m. tour of Mauna Kea. They said they would probably see me then.
A friendly couple, also staying at Arnott's Lodge, offered to drive me to town, and I gladly took them up on it. Arriving in downtown Hilo, I was surprised by how small and quaint it was. I browsed around its dozen shops and grabbed a noodle salad at a health food store. After lunch, it took barely an hour to see the whole of Hilo -- not very exciting, truth be told. With the time remaining to me, I walked to the bus station, arranged plans for my trip to Kauai on Sunday and wrote in my journal (feverishly trying to catch up!). At 2:30, the Arnott shuttle picked me up.
Back at the lodge, Wayne and Murray were waiting for me, raring to go to Mauna Kea. Tony and his friend Chris rounded out our small party. The five of us soon set off. Mauna Kea means "White Mountain," and it is aptly named. A dormant volcano rising over 33,000 feet from the ocean floor, Mauna Kea is technically the tallest mountain in the world (though some 19,000 feet of it is submerged under water), and its peak is covered with snow in the winter. It sits directly across from Mauna Loa, another dormant volcano, which actually rises a bit higher into the atmosphere than Mauna Kea, but doesn't run as deep into the sea.
-------------------------------------Mauna Kea----------------------------------
Mauna Kea is currently the site of one of the world's most comprehensive astronomical observatories. At 14,000 feet above sea level, the mountain summit towers above virtually all cloud cover, offering one of the best unobstructed views of celestial scenery on the planet.
Our tour took us first to the mountain's base, where I took some photos. Then we shifted into low gear and exploited the van's engine for all it was worth as we fought our way up the slope. At approximately 11,000 feet, we turned off the main road and took a side path to a mountain lake . . . where Tony presented us with an interesting challenge. He informed us all that the lodge gives a free T-shirt (a $10 value) to anyone who swims in its frigid waters -- with one catch: you had to be naked. (As if the 45-degree water alone wasn't enough of a deterrent!) I pondered this offer as we walked towards the lake, and by the time we made it, I had psyched myself up and somehow convinced Murray to join me (Wayne thought we were nuts!). I tested the water -- which was a mistake -- and then stripped down to my birthday suit and jumped in anyway. Murray and I skinny-dipped just long enough for Wayne to snap a picture (waist up, of course), and then we high-tailed it back to shore and the warmth of our forsaken clothing.
---------Freezing Our Naked Butts Off For A Free T-Shirt----------
As we trudged along the half-mile trail back to the van, Wayne let out a strange, high-pitched "koo-wee!" sound, which echoed resoundingly off the surrounding mountainsides. Wayne and Murray went on to explain that this was a very Australian thing to do: when lost in the Outback, or just looking for some company, a well-executed "cooee!" would reward you with a similar response, eventually leading you to the location of your nearest neighbor. Murray tried a cooee next, but he sounded really pathetic (sort of like Peter Brady going through puberty when he sang that "Time To Change" song). Truthfully, I had been somewhat reluctant to attempt the call, figuring my American throat would embarrass me, but after Murray's miserable performance, I figured there was nothing to lose. I let out my sincerest cooee, and though I detected only the faintest of echoes, I thought it wasn't half bad for my first shot. The Aussies said it was "okay," and let me in on the secret of the expert cooee (basically, a long, drawn out "koo" and a short, sharp "wee" allow for the strongest echo). I tried several more calls, each time improving considerably. For reasons I can't adequately explain, nailing a solid cooee felt quite good.
Wayne and Murray soon adopted me as an honorary Australian (though mocking me that I'd have to let up a bit on being such a photo-happy "tourist" for the title to stick), and taught me some of their vernacular. I learned Australian slang such as "chewy" (gum), "swimmers" (bathing suit), "Sheila" (woman) and "pissed" (drunk). They laughed at some of my words for things, especially bathing suit ("ya sound like a Sheila") and power nap (although they thought "power kip" was perfectly normal).
We soon made it back to the van, and then it was time for the vehicle to crawl the last few thousand feet up the mountain. We eventually reached the end of the road, and Tony informed us that if we wanted to tackle the true zenith, we would have to hoof it. My new found Aussie friends and I gladly accepted the challenge. We climbed a short, steep slope, and we reached the apex out of breath, but otherwise intact. The first thing we noticed was a sizable patch of snow on the far side of the mountaintop (proving that the sheer height of Mauna Kea was more than enough to compensate for the tropical heat of Hawaii's summertime sun). Stretching out before us was a white carpet of a different sort -- not snow, but clouds. I felt like the king of the sky, standing on my island castle, floating in a foamy sea. The only discernible landmark peaking out of the pale monotony was another far-off mountain (I later learned that this "mountain" was really the island of Maui).
-----------------------------------Atop Mauna Kea-----------------------------
We arrived at the summit just as the sun was beginning to set. Already, a pallet of colors was streaming across the sky. The shadow of Mauna Kea was projected upon the screen of clouds, and beams of multi-hued light burst around it. I truly had the view (if not the power) of Zeus atop Mount Olympus.
I took a few photographs (much to the continued amusement of "Wayne and Garth" [as I had dubbed them -- in my head at least]), and we trekked across to another peak.
------Wayne And Murray Suggest Which Way To Go Next---------
When we reunited with Tony and Chris, the former pointed out the group of multi-million dollar telescopes housed nearby. Then we watched in awe as the sun finished its dive and sank below the clouds.
With the last pink rays of sunlight came the last hint of warmth. My comfort level set with the sun. Soon my jeans and sweatshirt weren't enough to combat the cold, and not forewarned of the temperature drop before leaving the lodge, I had nothing else to wear. Tony gave me a jacket, but it did precious little to insulate me. We were anxiously awaiting twilight's end in order to spy the starscape (the much ballyhooed mountaintop nighttime view was the reason we started the trip so late in the day), but long before the first star winked on we went back in the van to warm up. Thus shielded from the 37-degree cold, we waited out nightfall from the comfort of our cloth seats.
Slowly, the stars began to reveal themselves . . . one . . . a dozen . . . a hundred . . . a thousand . . . a galaxy. As soon as the sky filled, we universally cursed the cold and stepped back outside. The height of Mauna Kea, combined with the absence of artificial light, set the stage for an impressive show -- I've never seen so many stars in all my life! We all layed down on the mountaintop and gazed up at the heavens. It was truly breathtaking! For a moment, I shut out all distractions and floated through infinite space. . .
. . . but then it just got too damned chilly, and I crash-landed back on Earth.
As one, we stood up and piled back into the van. We headed down to the Mona Kea Museum, where they had two public telescopes stationed (along with two knowledgeable astronomers). I viewed the Milky Way, several star clusters, the "double star" of Alpha Centari, the Scorpio Constellation (not visible in my native Long Island sky) and the planet Jupiter, along with 4 of its moons. Viewing Jupiter led to a lengthy discussion about what may happen on July 16th, when a massive comet is predicted to bash its surface. Some scientists speculate that the impact may destroy the planet or knock it out of orbit; others say the gases will combine to create a new sun; and still others predict almost no effects at all. (I'm certainly routing for the latter theory, but we'll just have to wait and see).
Finally, it was time to go. I snoozed most of the ride back, made a quick turkey sandwich on Hawaiian Sweet Bread when I returned to the lodge, and hit the hay.
Oceania: Day 7: 7-9-94: Waipio Valley
This morning, I "slept in," waiting until almost 8:00 to arise. Today's big trip was an expedition to the Waipio Valley, where we would hike through a rainforest, wade through a river, and immerse ourselves in the cascading shower of a 1,300-foot waterfall (the island's tallest). The falls were so remote and the journey so arduous, that of the 50 million tourists who visit Hawaii each year, Scott (our new guide) estimated that maybe only 1,000 or so make the trek.
----------------------------------Waipio Valley----------------------------------
An enjoyable aspect of this trip for me was that it combined my friends from the volcano trip (the Shaw family) with my friends from the Mauna Kea trip (Wayne and Murray). As mentioned above, today's leader was Scott, not the regular guide, Tony -- I was told that only Scott is permitted to take tourists to the valley, both because he personally trailblazed the route, and he has 20 years of experience as a paramedic if anything, perchance, should go wrong. (Had anything gone wrong in the past? Or were they just being precautious?)
The 6-mile hike commenced with an ankle-straining, calf-pulling walk down the most steeply graded road I've ever had the "pleasure" to suffer through. While this stretch of the journey covered less than half a mile, it seemed a lot longer: I would venture to label it the most painful, strenuous mini-hike I've yet experienced (with the possible exception of the climb back up at the end of the day).
Thankfully, we plateaued before my tootsies became irrevocably inflamed. Then it was jungle time! We entered a lush, Hawaiian rainforest replete with ferns, tropical fruits (I ate a wild guava), bamboo thickets -- and lots of mud & mosquitoes. I tried my best to avoid these last two, but with limited success (I stepped in several swampy mud patches [some as much as a foot deep], and I doubt a single mosquito went hungry during my visit!). Now I know what you're about to say -- "it could've been worse . . . it could've been raining" -- but hold your tongue, because it eventually did that too. (After all, they don't call it a rainforest for nothing!) The precipitation started out as a light drizzle and then intensified. Since I wanted to have dry clothes for later but lacked a spare shirt, I doffed the one I was wearing, and I put it in a plastic bag in my backpack -- clearly seeing the wisdom in my actions, Wayne and Murray soon followed suit. (Unfortunately, the mosquitoes also took notice: having previously dined upon my hands, neck and face, they clearly saw my bare torso as the dessert cart -- I was quickly covered in pink welts!) Honestly, the rainfall was nothing compare to the drenchings I received each time I waded in the river (at times, up to my chest!), and looking back, I guess it kind of added to the overall "tropical rainforest atmosphere" -- but it was uncomfortable/annoying, and made me feel rather miserable at the time.
The Intrepid Shaw Family (Bookended By Wayne And Murray)
--------------------------Next Time We'll Pack A Raft!--------------------
Well, after several miles of bites, bruises and blisters, we finally made it (2 1/2 hours later) to the base of the waterfall. All my aches and discomfort evanesced as soon as the towering falls came into view. Tons of rushing water (continually refreshed by Hilo's perennial rainfall) plunged down the monstrous cliff, forming a turbulent, fresh-water pool at the bottom. Wow! This was the fifth time in as many days that I was awed by the power and majesty of nature. I felt an overwhelming desire to get closer to it (to merge with it, if you will). Scott said that we could indeed jump into the pool and swim under the waterfall, if we so desired. I didn't think twice!
--------------------------------The Falls (From Afar)---------------------------
I dove in and swam over to the rocky ledge beneath the deluge. It was a tough swim, especially in my heavy hiking boots (which in my haste, I had failed to remove), and I swallowed more than my share of water -- but in truth, I hardly noticed this. My attention was focused on the plummeting sheet of water before me. I climbed along the ledge until I was in line with the center of the waterfall, and then I swam right into it. Boy, was it powerful! Endless gallons of water drummed down on my head. I couldn't see a thing, and all I could hear were rushing, splashing sounds. Naturally, I also couldn't breathe (lacking either a regulator or gills), so I soon swam back to shore. (It was only during my return swim that I wondered about the potential danger of a log or rock coming down with all that water -- hmmm!).
Soon it was time to head back. The return trip through the rainforest was pretty much the same as the forward one, with the notable (and welcome) exception of nonstop sunshine. As we ventured out of the jungle, I grabbed a wild Hawaiian nut (it takes one to know one) as a fitting tribute to the thrill-seeking craziness that prompted me to join the hike.
We may have been out of the forest at this point, but we were not "out of the woods." We still had to rechallenge the leg-busting, lung-bursting vertical road from Hell, and this time, it was an ascent, with all the added demands of fighting against gravity). I dared not complain, however. Scott told me how a 66-year-old man had done the hike (3 months off of a triple bypass operation, no less). Additionally, neither 12-year-old Emily nor her teenage brother Tom (who had scraped off most of his abdominal skin diving into a rock) had said "boo" the entire day. So I sucked it up and tackled the hill.
On the way back to the lodge, Wayne, Murray and I picked up some pretzels and beer (they were horrified when I suggested that a six-pack should be enough for us -- it seems my hedonistic Aussie friends regularly consume a dozen beers in a single sitting and have been known to imbibe as many as 20 [EACH!] . . . not surprisingly, six beers and the entire bag of pretzels didn't even survive the trip home!). The time passed quickly and lightheartedly on the drive back to the lodge as Scott shared some black humor from his paramedic days. Two of these stories will forever stand out in my mind. One was about a man who had his head virtually crushed by a frenzied circus elephant (It's best not to piss off Dumbo!). The second tale (and Scott SWEARS this is true) concerned a gentleman who had to have a pickle jar surgically removed from his rectum (!). Well, the Aussies and I laughed ourselves purple as we invented scenarios leading up to the guy's predicament (Murray had a hilariously simple suggestion: perhaps the lid was just on a bit too tight and the poor man [lacking any of those rubber gripping thingies] improvised the best that he could). According to Scott, the reason the patient provided for the cause of the accident, was that he "slipped in the shower" -- the ridiculous nature of this explanation had us in stitches all over again. (Seriously though, that story may have permanently turned me off to Garlic Dills!)
Upon arriving back at the lodge, I decided to spend the time leading up to our communal chicken dinner (prepared by none other than Tony himself) catching up in this journal. I didn't get far, however, before I got roped into a conversation with three new friends -- Damaris and Christine from Switzerland and Marc from Germany. I passed most of the time with Damaris, who tried valiantly to teach me some Swiss German ("Wo isch's poulet?" [Where is the chicken?] became the catchphrase of the evening). Damaris told me that she and Christine (just like Wayne & Murray and countless other Europeans and Aussies) were traveling around the world for a year. When she told me that they would be stopping in New York in October, I instantly opened "my" house to them (with Wayne and Murray possibly coming in the Spring, along with a few other potential lodgers scattered throughout the year, I'm going to have to start taking reservations -- I hope Dear Ol' Dad is understanding!)
Eventually, the dinner came (salad, rice, baked chicken and ice cream sundaes for dessert) and it was simply scrumptuous! I wholeheartedly commended Tony on his fine cooking.
After dinner, I amused myself attempting to learn a Swiss card game that Damaris, Christine and two fellow Swiss natives were playing. (As if deciphering the language and figuring out the rules weren't enough of a barrier, I had to memorize the new faces and suits on a foreign deck of cards!) Eventually, I gave up and played poker with Wayne, Murray, Marc and a new guy named Marcus. When I lost my last domino (each one was worth a million dollars, so naturally it stung a little), I went to bed. Thus ended my last night on the Big Island.
Oceania: Day 8: 7-10-94: Kauai: Power Rafting Along The Ne Pali Coast
Wow! I've finally caught up in my journal (thank God, too, for I've had to overly strain my memory the past few days, and my brain is quite taxed). Anyway, I arose at the crack of dawn this morning and packed everything up for my flight to Kauai. I had the good fortune to be traveling with the Shaw family to the airport. I exchanged addresses with them during the taxi ride.
We parted at the airport, and I boarded my plane to Kauai. Unlike my longish stay on the Big Island, my schedule only allowed for a single day on Kauai. But thanks to Scott and Shawna (see day #1), I already knew the activity I most wanted to do on the island. According to S & S, the Ne Pali Coast is incredibly breathtaking (a site not to be missed!) -- they recommended that I take a tour on a power raft (a raft equipped with two powerful outboard motors) operated by an outfit called Captain Zodiac. I had already called the previous day to make arrangements: I reserved a spot on the 3:15 tour, as well as lodging at The Sleeping Giant, a local hostel. My plane was due to land at 10:45, which would give me plenty of time to drop my bags at the hostel and get to the raft launch.
Or so I thought . . .
I landed at the Kauai Airport on time, but that is the only thing that went smoothly. The trouble began when I attempted to contact the hostel to ask them to come pick me up. No one answered on their end, although someone certainly had to be there. I kept redialing several times, and it took a full 15 minutes until the manager finally picked up the phone -- when he did, he didn't give me the news I wanted to hear. The manager told me that the hostel wasn't going to come get me, but rather, I'd have to use the Aniki Express shuttle bus for transportation. The shuttle bus would take me from the airport to the hostel for free, but there was a catch: they didn't allow backpacks (can you imagine?!). I was told that I would have to lock my backpack in the airport locker until 6:00 p.m., when one of the hostel workers would go to the airport to retrieve it.
What a pain in the ass!
So I trudged back through the airport, locked up my pack and waited . . . and waited . . . etc. I stood outside for over an hour, but the shuttle bus never appeared. Now I know it was a Sunday, and the bus might be running on a truncated schedule, but this was ridiculous! I was starting to get worried that I'd miss out on my big tour, so I called the hostel back. The same manager answered the phone, made a transparently insincere apology about giving me some "bad information" (the shuttle bus, in fact, no longer ran on Sundays), and told me that he'd have someone over in 20 minutes to pick me up. I grunted my thanks, hiked back to the other end of the airport, took my backpack out of storage, and returned outside to wait once more.
Within 40 minutes or so, a beat-up car arrived and I got my first glimpse of Dave, a stereotypical California Surfing Dude (he even said "Bitchin'!"), who, by his own (proud) admission, was currently collecting a year's worth of unemployment as he enjoyed Hawaii's surf, sun and sand. I disliked him immediately. As we rode to the hostel, Dave gave me more bad news: it wasn't just the shuttle bus that was off duty -- no buses ran on Sundays. Moreover, the Captain Zodiac office was a half-hour drive away, and a local cab would cost me a budget-breaking $30 each way (!).
By the time we arrived at the hostel it was 1:00 (could I really have landed over 2 hours ago?), and I was as frustrated as Hell. I only had a couple of hours before my tour began, and I was either going to have to shell out the exorbitant cab fee, or start walking, if I wanted to make the 3:15 raft. Then that scheming slacker Dave came in for the kill: "Well there IS one other option," he confided -- "I could drive you . . ." (my eyes lit up) . . . "for the right price" (they clouded over again). Now I hate haggling, and I despised him for charging me, but I was desperate, so I offered $10. He laughed, and he said that he "really couldn't do it for any less than $30." I winced and told him to forget it.
I spent the next hour trying every way I could to reschedule my rafting trip and/or my plane ride to Honolulu the next day. But I couldn't work it out. The only positive thing to come of my efforts was that Dave -- seeing that a quick & easy payday might be slipping away, as I was clearly pursuing other options -- dropped his asking price to $20. I loathed every red cent I gave him, but pay him I did. We chatted on the ride over, and I got to know Dave a little better -- almost to the point where I didn't hate him.
Dave dropped me off at Captain Zodiac, and I registered for the tour. It was here that I had the pleasure of meeting the very voluptuous Sonjia, one of the rafting guides. I quickly found out as much as I could about her. Originally from Oregon, Sonjia had now lived in Hawaii for 11 years. She was currently in university, studying to be, of all things, a kindergarten teacher (bless my stars, a commonality!). In the midst of our conversation, Sonjia asked me how I planned to get down to the launch site at the beach (geez . . . I hadn't thought of that -- I had assumed it was included in the tour). I told her I didn't know, and before I knew it, she offered to drive me. My day was suddenly getting better.
We continued to converse easily on our ride down to the beach. When we arrived, Sonjia stripped down to her bathing suit . . . and my jaw dropped. There before me, busting out of a blessedly skimpy bikini top, in all their generous, well-rounded glory, were the nicest pair of (censored/edit) -- well, let's just say that Sonjia had an ample bosom. After my heart was resuscitated, Sonjia and I walked down to the beach where the rafts were sitting.
While waiting for the other tourists to arrive, Sonjia jumped in the ocean for a swim. I watched. Then, I took a turn in the water to cool off -- it was a gorgeous, clear day (Sonjia remarked that it was the best weather day of the year, to date) and the heat was intense. Climbing back on shore, I took my first real look at my surroundings. Nice! Now, this was a beach! Unlike the commercial, overcrowded beaches of Waikiki, this place looked like a scene out of South Pacific (in fact, it was). Sparsely populated and beautifully decorated with swaying palm trees, sugar sand and sparkling blue water (with towering green cliffs providing a majestic backdrop), Kauai's beachfront made me feel for the first time that I was truly in paradise.
We parted at the airport, and I boarded my plane to Kauai. Unlike my longish stay on the Big Island, my schedule only allowed for a single day on Kauai. But thanks to Scott and Shawna (see day #1), I already knew the activity I most wanted to do on the island. According to S & S, the Ne Pali Coast is incredibly breathtaking (a site not to be missed!) -- they recommended that I take a tour on a power raft (a raft equipped with two powerful outboard motors) operated by an outfit called Captain Zodiac. I had already called the previous day to make arrangements: I reserved a spot on the 3:15 tour, as well as lodging at The Sleeping Giant, a local hostel. My plane was due to land at 10:45, which would give me plenty of time to drop my bags at the hostel and get to the raft launch.
Or so I thought . . .
I landed at the Kauai Airport on time, but that is the only thing that went smoothly. The trouble began when I attempted to contact the hostel to ask them to come pick me up. No one answered on their end, although someone certainly had to be there. I kept redialing several times, and it took a full 15 minutes until the manager finally picked up the phone -- when he did, he didn't give me the news I wanted to hear. The manager told me that the hostel wasn't going to come get me, but rather, I'd have to use the Aniki Express shuttle bus for transportation. The shuttle bus would take me from the airport to the hostel for free, but there was a catch: they didn't allow backpacks (can you imagine?!). I was told that I would have to lock my backpack in the airport locker until 6:00 p.m., when one of the hostel workers would go to the airport to retrieve it.
What a pain in the ass!
So I trudged back through the airport, locked up my pack and waited . . . and waited . . . etc. I stood outside for over an hour, but the shuttle bus never appeared. Now I know it was a Sunday, and the bus might be running on a truncated schedule, but this was ridiculous! I was starting to get worried that I'd miss out on my big tour, so I called the hostel back. The same manager answered the phone, made a transparently insincere apology about giving me some "bad information" (the shuttle bus, in fact, no longer ran on Sundays), and told me that he'd have someone over in 20 minutes to pick me up. I grunted my thanks, hiked back to the other end of the airport, took my backpack out of storage, and returned outside to wait once more.
Within 40 minutes or so, a beat-up car arrived and I got my first glimpse of Dave, a stereotypical California Surfing Dude (he even said "Bitchin'!"), who, by his own (proud) admission, was currently collecting a year's worth of unemployment as he enjoyed Hawaii's surf, sun and sand. I disliked him immediately. As we rode to the hostel, Dave gave me more bad news: it wasn't just the shuttle bus that was off duty -- no buses ran on Sundays. Moreover, the Captain Zodiac office was a half-hour drive away, and a local cab would cost me a budget-breaking $30 each way (!).
By the time we arrived at the hostel it was 1:00 (could I really have landed over 2 hours ago?), and I was as frustrated as Hell. I only had a couple of hours before my tour began, and I was either going to have to shell out the exorbitant cab fee, or start walking, if I wanted to make the 3:15 raft. Then that scheming slacker Dave came in for the kill: "Well there IS one other option," he confided -- "I could drive you . . ." (my eyes lit up) . . . "for the right price" (they clouded over again). Now I hate haggling, and I despised him for charging me, but I was desperate, so I offered $10. He laughed, and he said that he "really couldn't do it for any less than $30." I winced and told him to forget it.
I spent the next hour trying every way I could to reschedule my rafting trip and/or my plane ride to Honolulu the next day. But I couldn't work it out. The only positive thing to come of my efforts was that Dave -- seeing that a quick & easy payday might be slipping away, as I was clearly pursuing other options -- dropped his asking price to $20. I loathed every red cent I gave him, but pay him I did. We chatted on the ride over, and I got to know Dave a little better -- almost to the point where I didn't hate him.
Dave dropped me off at Captain Zodiac, and I registered for the tour. It was here that I had the pleasure of meeting the very voluptuous Sonjia, one of the rafting guides. I quickly found out as much as I could about her. Originally from Oregon, Sonjia had now lived in Hawaii for 11 years. She was currently in university, studying to be, of all things, a kindergarten teacher (bless my stars, a commonality!). In the midst of our conversation, Sonjia asked me how I planned to get down to the launch site at the beach (geez . . . I hadn't thought of that -- I had assumed it was included in the tour). I told her I didn't know, and before I knew it, she offered to drive me. My day was suddenly getting better.
We continued to converse easily on our ride down to the beach. When we arrived, Sonjia stripped down to her bathing suit . . . and my jaw dropped. There before me, busting out of a blessedly skimpy bikini top, in all their generous, well-rounded glory, were the nicest pair of (censored/edit) -- well, let's just say that Sonjia had an ample bosom. After my heart was resuscitated, Sonjia and I walked down to the beach where the rafts were sitting.
While waiting for the other tourists to arrive, Sonjia jumped in the ocean for a swim. I watched. Then, I took a turn in the water to cool off -- it was a gorgeous, clear day (Sonjia remarked that it was the best weather day of the year, to date) and the heat was intense. Climbing back on shore, I took my first real look at my surroundings. Nice! Now, this was a beach! Unlike the commercial, overcrowded beaches of Waikiki, this place looked like a scene out of South Pacific (in fact, it was). Sparsely populated and beautifully decorated with swaying palm trees, sugar sand and sparkling blue water (with towering green cliffs providing a majestic backdrop), Kauai's beachfront made me feel for the first time that I was truly in paradise.
--------------------------A Picture Perfect Postcard Day------------------
-------------------------------------My Raft----------------------------------------
Soon my fellow rafters came, and we all made our way on board the Zodiac. I headed to the front, where Sonjia said the best and roughest ride could be had. Though truthfully, sandwiched as I was between Sonjia and a drop-dead gorgeous Polynesian girl in a thong, I didn't care if we ever left the beach.
But leave the beach we did, and oh, what sights we saw! First we scoped out some native ocean life: we watched a family of sea turtles swim under our raft and we saw hundreds of creepy looking crabs (what our uproarious captain, Mike, jokingly [but convincingly] labeled "poisonous sea tarantulas") skittering on some rocky outcroppings. Then Mike gave us some information about the thousand-foot cliffs with deeply cut vertical valleys that dominated the Ne Pali coastline. Most people see the cliffs via raft/boat or helicopter, as their is no coastal road for vehicles and the foot path is under water 6 months out of every year. Interestingly, the cliffs have provided a stunning backdrop for a variety of television and film projects, including scenes from Fantasy Island (the title sequence waterfall shot), South Pacific, The Thorn Birds, Jurassic Park and Raiders of The Lost Ark.
-----------------------------Welcome to Fantasy Island!--------------------
Finally, we came to the part of the tour I had been anticipating most -- the main reason I had slapped down $55: we went under the cliffs into the dark sea caves, giant lava tubes cut far into the mountainside. The captain surely gave me my money's worth, as he obligingly went through each sea cave twice -- once as quick as lightning for the sheer thrill of it, and once nice and slow, so that photo enthusiasts (like myself) could snap pictures. One of the sea caves had an opening on top, through which a glorious sunlit waterfall poured. Mike gave us time for a short, refreshing cave swim before we headed back. [Point of interest: legend has it that one of these sea caves (near the true life area of Hanalei) was the inspiration for "Puff, The Magic Dragon" -- though the substance that Peter, Paul and Mary were puffing at the time undoubtedly contributed.]
-------------------------------Entering A Sea Cave---------------------------
-------------------------------Inside The Sea Cave---------------------------
If our outbound trip had been designed to titillate our senses with the sights and sounds of Kauai, the return trip was meant to get our adrenaline pumping. We cruised over the choppy waves at tremendous speed, and I white-knuckled it all the way home. The raft slapped my bottom and the water slapped my face the entire ride (Just to make sure I was thoroughly soaked, Mike purposely manipulated my section of the craft under one of the rushing waterfalls!). Long before we arrived back at the beach, I knew my money, and my one day on Kauai, had been well spent.
The only disappointment of the afternoon was discovering that Sonjia had a boyfriend (just as I was about to exchange addresses, too!). Oh, well. At least she gave me some mammaries (err . . . memories) I'll never forget.
As promised, Dave picked me up and drove me back to The Sleeping Giant hostel.
Speaking of The Sleeping Giant, I have to admit that I really didn't like the place (it wasn't just Dave, though he was undeniably part of the reason). The whole atmosphere was wrong. No one was very helpful (unless you paid for it!), and there weren't any organized hikes or dinners. Moreover, the hostel was not set up in such a way as to be conducive to meeting people. Ah -- maybe Arnott's just spoiled me. I guess any place would be a let down after that.
In any case, I did manage to eke out a little enjoyment by playing a couple hours of free pool (the warped table and tipless cue sticks were the only amenities the hostel offered). First I played against an American (his name eludes me), and then I played a German man named Warner (pronounced Verner). I hope Warner doesn't give up his day job, as I won every single game (at least two dozen) we played. But he was a nice enough guy. Ultimately, we tired of the sport and called it a night.
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