The Vast Anal Wart of the Gods

So there I was, cruising in my rental car. Here's another unusual thing about Hilo International Airport: a lotta airports are located on the outskirts of a metropolitan area—I assume to cut down on air traffic hazards and on noise disturbances for local residents. Hilo International Airport is located very near to the middle of the city, where the two main highways, 11, running north-south, and 19, running east-west, meet. (Highway 11 starts at Hilo, running due south. 19 switches to north south once it passes through Hilo.) Since the airport is so small, you clear it quickly. I didn't see a single vehicle on my way out, so it was a bit of a shock when I emerged from the place and found myself in the middle of heavy city traffic.

As if that wasn't disorienting enough, headlights glared everywhere in the rainy darkness. They crisscrossed all around me, as, accustomed to the relative darkness of the airport, I tried to see just where the fuck I was and where I should be going. I alternated between blinking at the road and looking at the map and printed directions that I had spread out on the passenger seat.

I didn't crash, but I did get turned around almost right away. Highway 19 splits as you come into town, with one branch becoming Kamehameha Drive, the main street of downtown Hilo. I went this way, losing the highway as it hugged the Pacific on its way out of town. If you're unfamiliar with the roads, it's easy to go the wrong way. You don't get a lot of warning before the split happens, and it's difficult to merge back over once you've fucked up. In a vain attempt to get back over, I compounded my mistake with several others, switching back and turning.

I wasn't helped by the fact that, to an outsider, the names of Hilo's streets are similar to the point of being virtually identical. Strings of vowels, intermixed with only a few different consonants lead to names like Kekuanaoa Street or Wainuenue Avenue. Before long, I'd be able zip through the city without much trouble. But at this point, I was completely disoriented.

Both the guidebook I'd brought and the rental car “magazine” given to me by the rental clerk were more or less useless. They only listed the main roads, and the further I went, I found myself on increasingly obscure side streets. They were murky, rain-slicked and frequently very steep. I was caught in a strictly residential area for a while, rolling aimlessly past clapboard walls, tin roofs, and darkened windows.

And the rain just went on and on, making those anecdotes about how it always rains at night in Hilo seem less like colorful exaggerations and more like hateful facts. I was tired, and, by this time, enraged at my situation. I cursed out the rental car and threw the maps into the back seat. Fortunately I was still rational enough to leave the directions where I could read them.

When I finally made my way downtown, it was getting late. I was surprised by how crowded the rainy streets were. Everything was moving at a very relaxed pace, which, of course, pissed me off. I crawled through clusters of cars and pedestrians, getting caught at like every fucking traffic light in the city. Under the circumstances, I didn't pick up much of the city's geography or character.

Most people who come to the Big Island fly into Kona on the island’s western coast, where the resorts and the beaches are. But in the interest of the job, I needed anonymity, not to mention frugality. So Hilo it was.

One advantage to staying in Hilo, if you're interested in this sorta thing: the volcanoes are damned close. Another: Hilo has a kickass farmer's market--like nothing I've ever seen. I was here to work, but I might never return to the Big Island, so I planned on taking some time to check this stuff out. And later, I discovered at least one more advantage: Hilo has character. It feels very real and settled and solidly what it is. By and large, the people there seem happy. It's relaxed, unpretentious, with all kinds of shit to discover beneath the surface. I spent only a little time in Kona, but it seemed to be more about slick surfaces—and money.

Anyway, on the night in question, I finally made my way back to Highway 19. Outside of town, the two-lane highway grew very dark. I was mostly alone on the road. The long day and various fuck-ups had left me fried. I wasn't dealing with my situation very well as I said before. I was running really pretty late, and due to its low-key nature, I was worried the bed & breakfast might shut down before I found it.

Akiko's B&B is 15 miles north of Hilo and about the same distance from Honoka'a in the north. To get there from Highway 19, you have to drive about 2 miles along a side road to the sleepy village of Wailea. My lodgings allowed me to maintain a very low profile, which as I’ve already said, is more or less essential when you're on a missing persons case.

I can't speak for any other dick, but generally, people end up missing because they don't want to be found. I can count on one hand the number of parties I've sought, who'd been kidnapped or murdered or something like that. Nope, usually, these cases involve someone who's hiding. The trick is to find them before they've made you. If you're too conspicuous, they'll really disappear, and you may not ever find them again.

In this case, I was being paid to do more than just find the guy—or to find out what had happened to him in the event that he had died or been abducted. I was supposed to watch him for a while, then consult my client before further pursuing the matter. My client was not the sort you'd want to fuck up on. So I was gonna be for damn sure that this Wendell fucker didn't slip under my radar. He'd be looking harder than some. I had a feeling he was especially paranoid. Given my client, I know I would’ve been.

Incogntion aside, I thought I could use the peace and quiet myself. Chicago is my home. I'm settled there. But sometimes it gets to be a little much. And lately it had gotten to be a lotta much.

I have this vein at my temple that pops out when I'm mad or stressed. The fucking thing had been on display around the clock for about a month before I flew to Hawaii. It had expanded to the approximate thickness of a length of nautical rope. The noise, the traffic, the general hostility, the crowding. (Try walking through the cock-knocking Loop at any time of day without bumping into about 7 people per block, not to mention getting very nearly mowed down by turning cars every fucking time you cross the street.)

I couldn't afford to take a vacation anywhere, let alone Hawaii. I hadn't even thought about going there until this case came up. For once, my luck was better than bad or OK. The client would pay for travel expenses, food and lodging. I figured I could fit in a little rest n' relaxation (if not recreation) while I was there. Akiko's #1 Best Buddhist Bed & Breakfast generously furnished the first two things. I only had time for a little recreation of my own, though as it turned out, the case provided me with some along the way.

On purely esthetic terms, the location appealed to me as well. The color of the area was pronounced. I can honestly say that the atmosphere—its feel—was unlike anything I’ve experienced.

You'd think that someone as savvy as Steve Forceman, P.I. would've thought to write the place's phone number down where it would be easy to find. Somehow, in the midst of traveling, I'd misplaced it. So I was pretty much on my own as far as getting there went. And even if I could find the place in the dark, I knew it might take a while.

Aside from the lateness of the hour, I had a couple of other worries about the bed & breakfast. I'd put them aside, largely, before I'd left. I figured what the hell? Good or bad, a little life experience can't hurt.

Still—there was that "Buddhist" in Akiko's #1 Best Buddhist B & B. See, I've always been attracted to Buddhism. Being a person who finds it difficult to relax, (to say the least—shit, most of the time, I find it difficult to sit still for more than 10 minutes, which, I'll tell ya, can make a stakeout a bitch, but that's why god invented booze,) I find the peace that Buddhism is supposed to offer has to be a terribly appealing idea.

On the other hand, I've always had some problems with Buddhism, as I understand it. Admittedly, my apprehension is very general and very limited, and I realize that ascribing ideas to Buddhism as a whole is sorta like linking the Book of Mormon to the Greek Orthodox church. Still, that stereotypical Buddhist ideal of doing away with desire seems akin to eradicating yourself as an individual to me. And I guess I'm most fond of people as individuals—each his or her own self.

Though my efforts to recognize and understand the individuality of others have been awkward and imperfect, they’ve given me some comfort and brought a certain richness to my life. Often through the expressions of others, I come to identify with them, even, sometimes, to admire them. (Thus the overlong, embarrassingly earnest "Cage Match: Ema Saiko vs. Peter Cottontail!!!") As groups, people tend to interest me more in an abstract, anthropological way. Less emotionally and certainly less viscerally.

I also don't like that whole "physical reality is an illusion" horseshit either. I know Buddha sat there under that tree laughing his ass off at the "illusory" suffering of those around him, but I guess I'm just not that enlightened in this life. I find the pain of others, (not to mention my own pain, of course,) to be, well, painful. Can't quite get past that.

But then my impressions were–and, I’m sure, still are—monumentally simplistic. So maybe we should just move along here.

The information I'd found about Akiko's place mentioned some optional activities: meditation every day (@ 4:45 a.m.!!!!) tai chi on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, and a morning walk through an the adjacent Kolekole Beach National Park--complete with peaceful forest, a sparkling river and a supposedly beautiful stretch of Pacific beach. All of these seemed like they might be cool experiences, and probably conducive to relaxation and clearing the mind, et. al., and if my work allowed for it, I thought I might indulge in some of them.

At the same time, they implied a sorta communal type atmosphere, and I wasn’t sure how communal I wanted to be. I was glad to have the option of doing all this shit, but I hoped my desire to participate or not would be respected. The online info made it sound like that wouldn't be a problem—even allowing space "for someone on a personal retreat."

Still, I was kinda maybe looking for a little community with my privacy, rather than the other way around. Fortunately, I needn't've worried. Mostly. There was one exception. On the very first morning I was there, fried and exhausted, I had a responsibility thrust on me that seemed like a lot to expect. But I'll get to that later, and otherwise, the atmosphere was friendly, but unobtrusive.