See Food

I found out today that I'd been mispronouncing the name of the local seafood dish, and asking staff for a taste of their delicious pudenda.

Which explains a few of the looks I'd been getting.

Perceptions of home

... vary with length of time away. I know people who've been away for years, and their sense of home remains firmly fixed in a jelly of What It Was Like When I Left, or How Much Better It All Was Than Here.

I seem, within the space of one small month, however, to have gone from slight feeling of homesickness for accents and speed of understanding (that's the Americans who don't understand English, mark you), to some sort of weird unfathomable fantasy homeland that never once existed, not anywhere, not even in my jaded dreams.
The home country? In my mind it's all warm Marmite and salty chips, people speaking really fast and being wordlessly understood by patient, knowing elderly folk; it's wall to wall soft beds, privacy, roaring fires and hugs, by now.

Bloody ridiculous.

sky diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive

see the world,

I just fell out of a teeny tiny plane, 12000 feet above ground, stomach fully lurched, heart fully in throat, eyes alternately squeezed shut or wide, wide wide open ... and freefalled for a full minute without screaming.


I was hanging on the stoop of an aircraft roughly the size of my old wardrobe, as it bounced around above clouds and tiny insignificant traces of human architecture. The wind was too rough to pull my legs out at first, and the roaring was deafening. There was nothing I could do to panic any more or any less - they shoved me out. Just shoved.

My face rushed up to meet my eyebrows, the push of air beneath me was too tight to breathe, my legs swung out of control as I tried to retain the surfing position they'd taught me several thousands of feet closer to earth, on top of a picnic table. I cast hasty glances at the mountain range opposite, but mostly was preoccupied with the sort of "ohgodohgodohgod" routine that characterises most perceptibly near death moments. Then a tap on my shoulder, a crashing feeling as the freefall pulled urgent and hard at the parachute explosion opening behind me, goggles lifted, and I swung gently upright into drifting, beautiful silence.

After the parachute opened, the roaring stopped, my mouth became a functioning breathing appratus again, and I drifted quietly and slowly like pollen. I could change direction, swing, turn, spiral.

As I slowed and came upright, Pete, the sensible, taciturn old timer who was taking me down pointed over across Mount Cook in the distance and said "welcome to my office".

Stunning.

Can I just say that again? I fell out at 12000 feet. Fell.

But I don't think I'll ever be as scared again.

Saint Judy of Auckland

So I cut myself up pretty badly in Hawaii - six or seven inconsequential lacerations and one big fat chunk out of my instep that's left me without much ambulation for the last week.
I'd been splashing on Bettadine and Band Aid Liquid Skin (the US version doesn't peel off, it just slowly biodegrades on your foot - I was unsure, given the surgical care with which they scrubbed up to swab any rainforest mud from my trainers, if I should declare it as a biohazard at NZ customs) alternately for days. You can't live on the beach and not swim, sunbathe, snorkel, just a little bit, during your last ever days in Hawaii, and the damn beach decided to bond with my flesh every single day. I tried borrowing a bicycle to keep my flip flops clean and fresh and free from sin or taint, but then fell off in the sand while admiring the (cough) views at Banzai. And no bugger would lend me their skateboard.

So trapped in a sleepless hell of jet lag on arrival in Auckland, I wanted to rid myself of evidence of my battles with the sea. Got my straw-hair cut, got me to a doctor to check out my foot. It's been a week now since I ripped the flesh out (well, less in real terms, but datelines mystify me), and I certainly can't hike on it. Have some problems just adopting this cold-country habit of wearing shoes. Had no idea if I could sea dive or sky dive.

Doc Judy charged me $54 to look at my foot. Pronounced it perfectly dressed and healing well, congratulated me on being better equipped for first aid than most trippers.
Congratulations my arse, said the jet lagged monster that coils its poison deep inside my undersea head. For $54 I want you to lay your healing hands on it, bitch.

She redeemed herself: by taking an interest in the rest of the trip; says I can scuba, sky dive, etc ... that hiking's the only no-no while I'm here. But clued me up on dangers in the south pacific if the thing isn't entirely healed within the week.
Doc Judy, who loves manga cartoons, who doesn't heal with her hands, and charges $1 a second to heal with her eyes, ran through everything I had in my first aid pack, and then gave me all these drugs:
There's a swedish vaccine called Dukoral that protects you from 60% more diarrhoea infections than antiobios, and two vaccinations last you two years. There's also all sorts of antibios and stuff that kill the giardia and dysentery and respiratory infections that I'll run into in SE Asia even if I escape them in the S Pacific. Bactroban cream, Augmentin tablets, Noroxin and Metronidazole. All together costing less than her cursory glance and my socked feet.

Rightfully, I should be calling for her hagiography to Pope Doc Judy. Even her typing was forty times faster than my UK doctor.

But every time I feel good about it, I remember I have to stay awake two extra hours without food tonight so I can give myself this damn vaccination, and how she earnt $54 plus tax for looking at my foot.
Dammit.

Aloha

Cessna

My god, Hawaii has been stunning. If I died tomorrow, I'd feel pretty happy that I'd lived.

I climbed a waterfall, without guides or ropes or permission, then swam in icy cavern beneath it, laughed into the uproar of watercrash beating down at me, and black rock lurking crayfish nipped my toes.
I learnt to surf (well, nearly - later I overheard some locals asking each other about how I'd fared - the consensus had been that nobody could learn to surf in waves that rough - I was declared 'gutsy'. Less than 'graceful', but pretty bloody good, all the same), and crippled myself for the next two weeks when I got 'cleaned out' both on razor-coral reef, *and* the rocks on Molokai.

And Molokai - wow. One of the undiscovered places of the world, fifty year time tunnel to a place lost in the last century. I've spent the last two weeks drinking and hanging out in the hammocks of the most generous locals, who share their breakfasts, their homes, their food, their cars, their friends.

Today, my last, I swam with a turtle, then counted spiny black hiding puffer fish.

I'm not scared of surfing any more, I'm not scared of heights, or of deep water - it's like flying down there, moving in 3 dimensions.

Very very *very* sad to leave here.

If I could only walk properly, I could snowboard in NZ. Ah well. 75 degree (fahrenheit) temperature plunge, here I come.

I'm off to say goodbye to Hawaii - a ceremony that involves loafing about watching an ultimate fighting video and drinking beer in encroaching darkness from a friend's verandah on Sunset Beach before I walk away, to the next destination.
Aloha.

reflections

Car lot reflections,
originally uploaded by digitalia.

Sorry. I've been rather distracted. Hawaii is gorgeous. People, places, experiences and things. So much so that I just changed my flights to NZ, so I can stay here longer.

Hurrah!