Hula in the Gulag

Remember when I said there would be fire later? Well this was the day.

While I wasn't up before everyone else, I was up early. For me. I'd set my alarm for 5 a.m. As is my custom, I hit snooze a few thousand times before I woke up. I usually write about 3 pp. long hand right after I get out of bed, I didn't have time for that, but I was wide awake well before 7 a.m., when breakfast would be served, so I got dressed, and headed down to get a better look at the day.

It was still raining like a bitch. The sky was pale gray and everything was sloppy. The vegetation on the Hilo-side of the island is lush, because of all the precipitation, so everywhere, there are these dripping stalks and leaves. There are other colors—reds and yellows and pinks—but so much of it is just impossibly green. There are a million subtle variations to the green. It's hard to believe they are all real & not drawn from some carefully mixed pallette.

It wasn't cold—just damp and sticky. My cell phone had no reception here, which Akiko's literature had stated upfront, so I got in my car & drove up to the highway. I parked in the soggy turf below the pedestrian bridge, and found that I had a signal. I listened to the rain drip on the roof of the car for a moment before putting a call through to Tony Castratto. I got his voicemail, let him know I'd made it in OK, then left all my contact information.

I headed back to Akiko's place. The sun was coming out. When I got out of the car, I could hear kitchen noises and smell coffee from back in the courtyard.

I was thinking about my luggage. In particular, I wondered where my guitar was at that moment. I imagined it thudding around some luggage bin, probably on its way to Siberia. Later it would be delivered to some teeming, sludgy gulag, where a prison guard would flip open the case and immediately break into "I Wanna Be Sedated," which seems like kinda a waste of a flamenco guitar. Maybe he could play some Paco de Lucia for his first encore.

(The last, of course, being reserved for a medley of "Back in the U.S.S.R.," "Oh Nikita" and Sting's thoughtful toon "Russians." Sample profound couplet: "Mister Krushchev said, 'We will bury you/ I don't subscribe to this point of view." And sadly, much as I admire—no, revere—no, worship Sting, I do subscribe to this point of view. (Along w/ Popular Mechanics, Auto Mechanics, Quantum Mechanics, Dildo Mechanics, Playboy, Penthouse, Playgirl, n’ High Times . But I only read the articles in 'em. I'm not interested in the pix.) Don't care if there's no more Soviet Union, which makes the "we" and "you" here sorta meaningless. Nope. Don't care at all. Sorry. I fervently believe in the "We will bury you" point of view. It's the one principle that I use to guide myself through life: "We will bury you." I'm not sure what the fuck it means, but it guides me in everything I do. I guess.)

But wow, so there's this guard, plinkin' away at this medley on my flamenco guitar, which would pretty much poison the guitar for any future use, and all these poor assholes in the gulag are puking & screaming at him to stop, and deafening themselves w/ whatever awl-like tools they can get their mitts on. 'Cuz wow! ain't that a sadistic set list? But the good thing is, alla this could take some heat of the good ol' U.S. & all that torturing P.O.W.’s, etc. stuff. 'Cuz if you think people are pissed off at us, wait'll they hear what the Russians are doing to their prisoners. Holy shit!)

But so there I was, trying not to worry about my poor guitar while I was checking out the grounds at Akiko's #1 Best Buddhist Bed & Breakfast. Above a screen door in one of the main buildings was a wooden sign—hand-carved, from the look of it—that read "Akiko's kitchen." In front of the door was another wicker mat with several pairs of flip flops and sandals on it. One pair was made up of wooden rectangles with strips of cloth that would hold them in place on yr. foot. They looked like they might be a litte awkward—to say the least.

I decided to take a quick look at the courtyard before I headed in for breakfast. Beyond the fountain I’d seen on the previous night, dense vegetation lined a path that led to a solid stone wall. It was about 12' tall and lined w/ moss. On the right was a garden. Shit man, more like there was another jungle. It didn't go on forever. Another wall extended in a right angle to the first enclosing it. There were tall trees with splintery bark—banana trees. And there were masses of enormous, very green leaves and small red flowers. It was hard to take it all in.

I headed back to the kitchen. Inside, the clapboard walls were covered in clean white paint. China lanterns were attached to several wall fixtures. There was a large table—probably a desk in a past life, given the drawers that lined its sides. Three places were set on it, as well as bowls of pineapple and banana slices, a covered bowl of sugar and a small tray bearing halved papayas.

There were long wooden benches on each side of the table. The downside of this mode of seating didn't occur to me until it came up: If you were sitting next to someone else and decided that you wanted to get up, you had to move the bench while they endeavored (to varying degrees depending on how polite they were) to scoot the bench back so that you had enough room to clear the underside of the table.

Maybe Akiko thought this arrangement would engender family spirit. The letter she sent me when I’d booked the room had spoken of “ohana”—or family—and she, the other guests and I were starting as one ohana. (Not to be a cynical ass, but I took this w/ a grain of salt.) So benches—what’s more familial than benches? You know, one seat, one love, one family, let's get together and feel claustrophobic. Or maybe it's more like the family who gets squashed together stays together. Or something. On the other hand, they were sturdy and attractive; they had character.