The first week away we volunteer at a farm sanctuary on Maui. We are traveling with another couple for the first time and worry a bit about how we will all do together. But from the get-go it is all pretty easy. The house we rent is sweet, with lots of room for four. It doesn't hurt that the hostess has left us fresh tropical flowers in large vases throughout the main floor, my two favorites containing yellow and pink ginger. There's a bottle of local wine chilled in the frig. The view is eastern, 1/4 mile above the sloping Pacific shore enclosed in a wrap-around deck, hot tub and pool inviting from the courtyard. The four of us are compatible. I shoot sunrises at dawn a few steps from my bed. Our work at the sanctuary is delightful and rewarding. We commune with goats, geese, pigs, rabbits, a gigantic tortoise, donkeys and more chickens and roosters than can be counted. We eat well and laugh into the night over games of "May I?" Because my expectations are met I am able to ease into the massive vacation-imposed change with grace.
The only hiccup in the entire week is the addition of mosquitoes, caused by a couple of late night downpours. The little critters LOVE me, seek me out, leave marks and residual discomfort as long as a month. The morning after a big rain we work in the rabbit corral, under the trees and I get chewed. I feel a tinge of "ready to be out of here." And I am pretty surprised to see how fatalistic it feel. I have a moment of being grateful it is almost over. In one short bug barrage, my expectations are dashed and I have a visceral flight reaction.
The second week is a different matter. I'm on mosquito bite number 17, on my earlobe. It burns and itches and feels hot. I can't leave it alone. It is bigger than my head. I am able to put it aside only when we board a single engine plane to journey island to island, the beautiful ocean below dotted with breaching humpbacks. Soon after landing though the tender layers of unspoken, mostly unrecognized, expectations mount like a sinus infection. In paradise.
The vision is assaulted first by the "rental" car, a beast we find out later is called "The Bondo Burrow." The old boy comes in a bundled package deal, rent + car for one price. Our arrangement is to walk to long-term parking and find the old Toyota, the top of which is mostly separated by rust from the body below, at one point leaving the Toyota emblem to "float" above the trunk. Most of the rust is stuffed with dark grey bondo . . . or covered by duct tape. The keys are, as promised, under the mat. The owner's beach chairs and severely used cooler fill the trunk so we pile our luggage in the small back seat. The desperate sounding door closes shortly before the automatic seat belt pins me in. The interior is as bad as the exterior, and my instinct is to not touch anything.
As we bomb along in The Bondo Burrow, we speculate about what produce stands and markets might have local food to fit with our out of-the-norm diet (being vegan is odd where pig and deer are hunted by necessity). By the time we reach town, we are adjusting to our ride, and can move on to food.
We arrive unfortunately just as the farmer's market food vendors are packing up, the "health food store" is closed and we are forced to buy at the two local markets from things I don't see on my own shelves, and little to no things I am used to. Slipping expectations, even though we know from experience food will be difficult. So we buy fruits and veggies and staples and head to our rented condo several miles away. The Burrow moves us steadily, if not fast, up the elevation notable on the west side.
We are met by the security guy, a local we were introduced to during our previous visit. We laugh because he knows immediately where we are staying because we are driving the Burrow. He directs us to our condo, bottom of the concert path, second floor, on the end. We hoist our luggage up the stairs of the 8-plex, remove our shoes according to the hand painted tile near the bell, and find the key inside the brass box with the numerical lock.
We put the shock of the Burrow behind us and look forward to making something tasty out of the supplies we scored in town, and on moving in to our rented ocean front condo. But we aren't ready for the HUGE contrast between where we stayed the week before and the place in front of us. Although the lanai faces the beach and there are large windows (with some ceiling and floor screens to the outside) the place feels like walking into a theater--dark and cavernous.
The condo is supposed to be one-bedroom and isn't. The one-room footprint with cathedral ceilings has an add-on loft nestled in the pitch in the roof, stuffed with a bed and a few other pieces of furniture--and a 12 slippery-wooden-stair descent to the bathroom on the main level. The fan on this floor is a menacing bandit waiting to smack a hand or elbow if we reach over our heads to put on, say, a tee shirt. The place is hot because while there are screens on the ceiling and floor windows, it is the huge sliding wooden-framed door that is the only opening, and has to remain closed during early morning and early evening to keep out the bugs--because it has no screen. It is hot because the main floor fan is a dinosaur with only one speed. It is hot because ventilation is missing until late in the night and the only salvation is the penetrating wind generated by the high button on the fan over the bed.
The condo is also advertised as "ocean front," which is technically true, but for some reason is much farther from the water than expected. And the beach in front of the condos are not swimmable. Even the small cove beach a short walk up the path is not to be chanced by tourists. The moment I walk out on the lanai I am disappointed with the view.
I officially dawn my cranky pants, however, over the intermittent-working lights, one above the bathroom sink and the other above the stove. Without the latter, it is nearly impossible to see what we were cooking. I find myself longing to return to what is familiar (there has to be some explanation why people marry the same person a second or third time) rather than stick to a new path (even when the change is desired).
Here we are in paradise, me dressed in my cranky pants because nothing about this leg of the journey is meeting my expectations. But let's be serious here, I am in Hawaii! I am on vacation for another eight days. There are beaches in front of us in both directions. One of them known for its rambling shore and its unique ultra-white hue. One of them is the beach we used to stage our wedding vows the year before, with a chestnut colored rock face rising up perpendicular to light blonde sand. We feel notably vulnerable and alive here where we can witness the humbling power of the ocean collide in a small cove.
The lanai where we eat most of our meals is full of comfortable and beautiful seating. It is a breakfast bar that holds our ripening mangoes, papayas and avocados. It is the perch on which we eat salads and drink exotic fruit smoothies using mostly local ingredients. We are here before high season, so the neighbors we eventually connect with on hiking trails have stories and tales. We see our first moon set. We get photos of a breaching humpback whale. We hike most of the abandoned golf course, walk all of the cart paths to nowhere, stalk wild turkeys, sit and watch the surf, explore an old pineapple bridge, scramble over lava rocks, and have massages. There are at least two kinds of cardinals, at least one peacock, and blow-holes, tails and fins on the horizon at least once a day. We nap one day, holding hands sitting on the couch on the lanai. We hang out. We shift our energy to adjust and appreciate what is in front of us.
What I want to remember in all this, as I continue to make change, is that even when I pack my bags and think I am ready to put myself through massive change, it's better to do so with an open mind and positivity. Change might cause me to slow down or speed up, or make something out of nothing. I am rarely prepared even when I sign up for it. I wonder if some of the failed attempts to change are really me bouncing off a different wavelength, out of whack in my cranky pants, unable to make the shift, uncomfortable with the adjustment so I quit too soon. My attitude must be accompanied by a willingness to be grateful and engage with the new things I bump into. Cause the change is going to meet my expectations in some cases, and in other cases not so much.
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