Aloha Ouch: One Big Bummah

We are, I think, being good travelers. We wear sunscreen, drive the speed limit, tip generously, and eat local. We apologize before asking dumb mainlander questions, we say aloha and mahalo, we even send thank you notes to our hosts. We are working hard, keeping the off topic frolicking to a minimum, and in general, we are very much On The Job. I would have though that our karma was in okay order, but on day three, over breakfast in a perfectly wonderful rainforest retreat, our laptop shorted out and is now nothing but ballast.

This is not the worst thing that can happen to a travel writer. There could be a coup, a tsunami, a contagious and embarrassing disease. But it’s damn inconvenient, let me tell you. And if, like me, you rely on writing things down to clear your buffer, it’s also damn frustrating. I have returned to the old school approach of using a notebook, scribbling single word reminders to myself of observations made, stops worth remembering. This is not the same thing as being able to sit down at the end of each very long day to unload my Hawaii addled brain. Also, I’m very sad that we’re not able to upload photos, write mail, and generally stay in touch. Plus, as forewarned, some nights I am unable to sleep, so bogged down in unwritten descriptive language am I. Oh, if only I could scribble 400 words about the resort-centric coast, then I would be off to the land of nod!

Never mind. Never mind. We rush from place to place all the same. Yesterday we had the kind of day that you imagine we are having every day – we got up early, drank coffee on our oceanside balcony and wandered down to the dock. There we boarded the Fair Winds II for a cruise to Kaleakakua Bay where we spent a few hours snorkeling and snacking, two things that make life worth living. On the way back I sat up top, my feet hanging over the rail, the blue Pacific meeting the blue of the sky in a perfect straight line. One of the deck hands told me that the humpbacks will be here soon. “They don’t eat here, you know, they just come to have sex and give birth.” “That’s because the restaurants are SO expensive!” I said. “What else are you gonna do?” said the nice guy from Lake Tahoe.

This morning we left the Big Island and we’re in Waikiki. It’s noisy, crowded, full of Japanese kids carrying shopping bags, and it just seems crazy after West Hawaii. So many cars, so much noise, and good god, the shopping! Wow! A woman yelled at me for snapping a photo of her display of dozens of cheap tourist ukes, and a very knowledgeable gent in Ukulele World told me that my Aloha Royal may be of blue blood uke descent as Kamaka and Kali used to make tourist ukes and sell them under the “Royal” label, complete with the crest that mine has.

We’re at the Wyland Waikiki, right in the middle of the city, walking distance from the beach. There’s no view, but our room is lovely. I’m having a little trouble shifting from the mellow state of watching fish eat coral to the active scene of shopping as a contact sport, but by the time I’ve had a shower and the sun is down, I think I’ll be ready to elbow those Germans away from the rack of discounted aloha shirts. The Japanese kids are younger than me, but they’re small and burdened with packages. I can take them.