September 22, 2014

Iselle and Julio: Cyclonic Lovers

Chasing each other across the Pacific Ocean, Iselle and Julio are cyclonic lovers, two wind cyclones, double hurricanes approaching Hawaii at deadly speed. Like young lovers racing to spend their honeymoon on the beaches of paradise, they are unpredictable and impetuous. Their movements across the sea are broadcast nationwide. The State of Hawaii, the entire chain of eight islands, starts to shake in anxious anticipation of the couple’s disastrous arrival. Each island is shocked by the news. Warnings are repeated constantly from local radio and TV stations: evacuation sites, hurricane safety procedures, preparedness tips, schools closing, primary election delays, fallen trees on roadways, high surf reports. Over and over, “BEWARE of Iselle and Julio,” reporters blare. The strengthening winds intently whisper, “Yes, BE AFRAID.”

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It is August 7th, 2014, Thursday afternoon. I look at the pile of mail on my desk and see the announcement for the State Primary Elections on Saturday, August 9th. The directions and times for my polling place on Kauai get lost in confusion. Everyday life with its everyday routines steadily crumbles with the more urgent announcements of Hurricane warnings. Each weather report feels more Shakespearean than scientific. Emotions begin to wrestle with rational thought and I am startled by the tempestuous power of Iselle and Julio. I shout to myself, “My ass might get blown away, not just once, but twice!” My normal, relatively rational state of mind has already been blown to bits. The mix of increasing adrenalin and paralyzing denial has thrown me into a weird hyperawareness of the unknown. Extreme forces of nature are tossing around thoughts and images in my head, no unlike like the pile of junk mail I just tossed into the trash. While writing my hurricane “unpreparedness” shopping list, I imagine myself and fellow shoppers to be members of a captive audience as well as victims. Both intrigued and panic stricken I ask myself, ” Will this drama reach a violent climax or NOT?” Iselle and Julio’s romantic whims may cause them to simply stop, turnaround and go elsewhere at anytime. Passions may lose luster and their ferocity is reduced to the meteorological category of “tropical storm,” a much less threatening and less destructive event. Even more exasperating, the super –threatening and extremely rare occurrence of dual hurricanes may just as suddenly dissipate and vanish into the skies from whence they came. This catastrophic couple’s travels may just become forgotten news to the rest of the world, but not to us Kauaians. Forecast not yet over, Iselle and Julio tease and frolic, spinning in random ecstasy; meanwhile, we mere mortals freak out, at least I do anyway. I get on “Google” on my laptop at home figuring the facts will help me get a grip on reality. I learn the hurricane categories ratings the damage from bad, to really bad, to “you might as well kiss your house and ass goodbye.” “Nope, bad idea,” I realize too late. Now, obsessing about the ever changing ratings, I could relate to other obsessive types stuck to radios, TV’s, Ipads, and cellphones.

It is still August 7th. Near evening, dusk brings gray, heavy clouds to the Big-mart store’s packed parking lot. After circling around for a parking space, very unusual for Kauai drivers, I get a distant spot and check my shorts pocket for my “unprepared list “written on a neon post-it. I might as well have stuck it on my forehead. All practical purposes   were forgotten. My confused gaze focuses on the unreality of the darkening parkingscape. Humid, gusty winds, bending branches, swirling leaves, and sharpening rains penetrate my dullness. Slowly, a subtle, yet definite electrical charge of communal fear ensues. “WHERE ARE THE CHICKENS?,” I wonder.

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On Kauai , Wild Chickens, are a ubiquitous part of the landscape. DA CHICKENS are both loved and hated by locals. They are a bizarre phenomenon which are a mysterious and direct result of the past two devastating hurricanes, Iwa in 1982 and Iniki in 1992. They are a strange comic relief after the deeply traumatizing effects of both hurricanes. Da Chickens are found everywhere, strolling across most streets, neighborhood homes, shopping malls, food courts, parks, schools, churches, under any picnic table, and cruising Big-Mart parking lots. Their numbers cover the island, so like it or not they are part of island life, in pleasure or pain in the butt. Either way, I find them fun to watch, especially when I least expect them. For visitors, mostly DA CHICKENS are a joy. I like watching visitors watch chickens. I often get a quick chuckle out of the odd, impromptu photo session. Vacation photos of Mom, Dad, and Kids chasing a flock of roosters, hens and chicks must fill digital photo albums and cyber clouds worldwide.

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“Well, where are they?” I keep thinking to myself. Too dumbstruck to get out of the rain, I keep staring into the dark Big-Mart parking lot. “It’s full of cars and empty of DA CHICKENS,” another confusing thought passes and I get back into my car waiting for the rain to stop. Waiting takes time and I remember talking story with my neighbor a couple of weeks ago.”DA CHICKENS disappeared just as suddenly as DA AWEOWEO reappeared,” jus like Grandma said. I thought about my favorite storyteller. I call her “Grandma,” my next door neighbor. Grandma’s stories are da best!

Only on Kauai, would a small, shiny red fish, about the size of an adult palm or small child’s hand cause such a stir. These ono, delicious tasting fish, are best pan fried to a crisp, with a sprinkle of Hawaiian salt. Served with a steaming bowl of rice and a cup of hot green tea, this dish is truly memorable, not only for its flavor, but the story that goes with it.

It was just a couple of weeks before da hurricanes. The weather was nice, breezy, sunny, but a little too hot for my neighbor, “Grandma”, to stay in the house. Grandma was enjoying the cool shade of her garage, when I saw her newspaper left in the driveway. I brought it over to her, like I often did, pulling up an old red dirt stained lawn chair. Sitting next to her, talking story, the time went by unnoticed. Grandma told me fish was biting down da pier, Port Allen, west side. “Wot kine fish?” I asked eagerly, knowing da story was gonna be a good one. “Aweoweo,” she said softly. Grandma nevah spoke softly, except wen it was someting secret o’ bad. Also, she was hard of hearing so she usually talk loud. “Aweoweo,” I repeated softly too, not knowing why I needed to talk soft. Small kid time wuz da last time I seen and ate dat ono fish. Grandma continued in hushed tones, ” Da aweoweo stay biting. Plenny, plenny stay biting,da watah all red,plenny people fishing, catching plenny…Da Aweoweo Run…Good fun.” We laughed quietly, my tongue felt a little salty and my stomach felt ono foh dat small red fish wit da spiny back. Grandma kept going, “Aweoweo, good eating fish, ono white meat. Good fun catch’em wit da long bamboo pole. Wen da Aweoweo Run,” her voice gets louder with excitement,”da watah come red,everybody come line up and pile up, jus like opihi (barnacles) stuck on da rocks. Nobody move, day o’ nite, wen run, all pulling up fish, sometime 3 o’ 4 on one line wit plenny hooks da line. All da hooks get fish. No need bait, jus pull out da gills and da guts from da Aweoweo, bait da hook wit’em and troh da line back in da red watah. I tell you good fun! No end until da red watah come back green again. Real fast da Aweoweo disappeah. Jus gottah wait and watch foh da next run, foh da red watah. Wait, wait, wait, watch, watch, watch den one time da watah come red, den Da Run go again.” I could almost see da small red fish shining in Grandma’s eyes wen she told da story. Da salty smell of da fish frying drifted up my nose again and right into my brain, brightening childhood memories. “Everybody’s buckets full of fish,” Grandma smiled, wit her tootless smile. “Aftahwards, get so much in da freezahs no could geev’um away. Plenny fish, eat’em foh long time. Good fun….den long time no moh fish…no moh Da Run…No moh da red watah… But den latah on…”Grandma stopped smiling her tootless smile,” latah on Da Hurricane come…Bad Sign…Da Aweoweo Run.” Grandma looked down,a sad gesture of respect, her voice low again, ” Bad Sign, Da Run, Hurricane going come.”

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Jus like Grandma said, “Hurricane going come.” The rain stopped. I got out of my car and walked briskly to the the Big-Mart, missing Da Chickens all da way. Inside da Big-Mart I joined an ironically calm cyclone of shoppers. It was kind of quiet, I could hear the spinning of squeaky wheels. Shopping carts circled the aisles getting filled with cases of bottled water, canned and packaged foods, batteries, candles, lighters, even camping gear. Kauai speed, the shopping cyclone was slow and polite. It was like the more I circled round and round, the closer I got to a calm, safe, communal center. No crashing carts, no greedy grabbing from sparse shelves. It felt safe, quiet, even the children were well behaved. I kept circling even after I had collected my supplies. Circling in slow motion, caring smiles and barely noticeable nods of goodwill passed between patient shoppers and diligent clerks. Simple words and gestures of comfort and compassion were repeated gently: thank you, please, excuse me, sorry, its OK, go ahead. Shoppers with just a handful of stuff were spontaneously allowed ahead of long lines. Strangely comforting , in the middle of a crowded rural Big-Mart,I saw myself walking amongst traveling Tibetan nomads. At Buddhist prayer shrines, in what appears to be the middle of nowhere, nomads follow the Tibetan practice of walking slowly, in circles, spinning prayer wheels with the palms of there hands. I was walking among peaceful nomads, from everywhere and anywhere, all fellow travelers, practicing kindness at the Big-mart, praying and preparing to meet the terrifying unknown together. Driving to my nearby home, I was OK. With a case of bottled water, candles, batteries and whole wheat fruit bars in hand, I knew it was all going to be OK. I was surrounded by good neighbors and I am a good neighbor. It was all the same circle, here on Kauai.Within the next few days,jus like Da Aweoweo Run, Da Hurricanes, Iselle and Julio, quickly disappeared. Tropical storms arrived instead and the damage was minimal. Da Chickens returned to Da Big-Mart parking lot and I was voting at the neighborhood polls on Saturday, as scheduled. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, Grandma was back in her garage, chanting, “Da Aweoweo not coming back foh long, long time…long,long time…long,long,time.”