This Side of Paradise

I went to Maui for a week and came back with a tan wrestled from an excess of rain.  The island is shaped in a figure eight, with two volcanic breasts spanned by a plain of sugar cane.  In olden days the sugar would have been taro and fish ponds, and before that, probably a wetland filled with invertebrates and minnows.
Because the Japan earthquake and tsunami came only two days after we left, it reinforced how vulnerable islands are.  When we were there the peaks snared rain clouds like a comb grabs tangles and every afternoon the wind picked up and blew the heads of palm trees like they were speeding down a freeway in a convertible.  There is just so much water sloshing around these chunks of rock, that they have no defense against the mighty ocean.

The job of tourists is to tour and we did too much of that, inscribing the letter eight with our tires and then up to the crater which rewarded us with only torrents of rain, and one little native red honeycreeper, the i’iwi, that we dared to look for in the downpour.  Even though the resorts were perfectly manicured around lovely beaches, we could not resist the lure of the one lane roads that led to a glimpse of Hawaii, before landscapers carved away the excess vegetation.  Like all places that humans have had their way with, the proof of true wilderness is slight and we traded a view of condos for pasture land and cows.  But at least the hills tumbled down to the sea without the line of concrete blocks sheltering pairs of vacationers each sitting on their lanais enjoying fruity drinks.  And yes, we were those people also.

The best thing about Hawaii is simply the warmth of the heavy air.  Since we evolved in the hot regions of the world, I think some part of our cells craves the heat and longs to throw off the drapings of cloth we normally shield ourselves with.  Uncovering arms and legs, is perhaps the most lasting pleasure of those used to a harder climate.  Just taking off the shoes for bare feet is a revelation, sending me back to childhood in Vermont, where we went barefoot much of the summer, and the washing of the feet before bed was the last act before slipping into bed.

Back home in the rainy chilly Northwest, I am confronted with what meaning I can construct from this desire to leave what we know for some other viewpoint.  Perhaps the need to wander is as strong as the urge to bare the skin to the sun and air.  This  has put us in all parts of the globe, just lighting out for the territory because it is there.  While we were in Hawaii, the humpback whales were there too, splashing and playing just off the shore giving their babies a warm birth before they migrate to the frigid Arctic waters where food is found.  I’m not sure the idea of home is as strong as we like to claim it is.  Certainly, we seem to crave the contrast between what we know and what we don’t, and the journey that pulls us between.