Later, I visit an artist café in Hilo, which is run by a young local. When I was in Oahu, I received a few dollars as a gift, so I now use that to buy a coffee—and even give a dollar tip! It occurs to me that the owner didn’t greet me and also didn’t thank me for the tip. When I move a chair to sit more comfortably, she coldly asks me to use another one. It becomes clear to me that the issue here is not the chair but the tension between the locals and white people—in this case, me. When I plug my laptop into the socket at the table, she asks me to leave the café and kindly charge my device at home.
I learn that the Kanaka Maoli people only wish to again be an independent country. The bronze statue of the last Hawaiian queen in the center of Hilo is a clear symbol of this. Unlike the Inuit in Alaska and the Native Americans in the other states, the Kanaka Maoli do not have any reservations, but they are fighting for that. For many years, the singer Israel Kamakawiwo’ole was the musical mouthpiece of the Hawaiian cause; with his songs, he made the almost forgotten language of Ōlelo Hawai’i popular again. Affectionately called the Gentle Giant, Israel died in 1997 of chronic obesity. Ironically, he is best remembered for his versions of the American classics “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and “What a Wonderful World.” For the Hawaiians, the fiftieth anniversary of statehood in 2009 was not an occasion to celebrate. However, with President Barack Obama hailing from Hawaii, they may now have an important ally for their cause.
The next evening, Lacey Ann, who comes from an old Hawaiian family in Hilo, takes me in. She makes a point of taking in a lot of foreigners and white people in order to introduce them to her local friends: this is her contribution toward rapprochement. She has also become more familiar with American culture. I meet her family and her friends, all of whom receive me warmheartedly. Meanwhile, during dinner, her brother-in-law Ja tells me proudly that his fourth greatgrandfather was involved in the assassination of explorer James Cook at the end of the eighteenth century. I take it as a joke, until all of his relatives in the room nod their heads in approval. Some even clap their hands as a sign of pride.
Curiously, I look online and discover that Captain Cook was indeed killed on his third expedition in the late 1770s by a mob of locals on Big Island, the reason being a violation in the agreement between his crew and the locals. However, legend also has it that Cook and his men spread sexually transmitted diseases across the island, which killed about half of the original local population. Believe what you will.
Back in Oahu, when Cassandra found out I would be coming to the Big Island, she connected me with her friend Veronica, who lives here. So that afternoon, I meet up with Veronica and she takes me to the primeval forest located to the south of Hilo in the region of Puna. It is known for being one of the most famous hippie areas in the United States. We travel in her SUV on a dirt road through the thick jungle for almost forty-five minutes until we reach our destination. We see that a house is in the middle of the forest, approximately fifty by sixty-five feet, without walls and half covered with furry carpet. The vegetation is so thick that the trees protrude into the house. The residents call this house the Playground: about thirty hippies romp about in the evening, some playing instruments while others do aerial acrobatics with the fabric hanging from the ceiling. One actually hangs head first tied to this fabric at about thirteen feet above the ground and plays the saxophone. Others paint or dance to the music.
During the entire evening, I don’t see anyone drinking or doing any drugs, and there are only a few smokers. The only thing one can overdose on here is free vegetarian food. I’m glad that I have come to such an artistic and peaceful place, but then things start to get a little odd. All of us stand in a circle holding hands and dance together to the music. We form the shape of a heart, then back to a circle, and then back to a heart again. Then it’s time for a partner exercise called Energy Hugs. I stand in front of a guy my own age who has long hair and very much resembles John Lennon. We are encouraged to hug each other and feel the energy of the other person; however, all I feel are the buttons on his corduroy suit pressing into my chest.
Around midnight, I leave with Veronica and her friend Natalie. During the drive back, I listen from the backseat of the Jeep as the two women talk about “energy,” which, when translated from hippie jargon to plain English, basically means sex. Veronica says, “Devan just got done massaging me in that place. He’s given me so much energy.”
“Energy is soooooo great. I’ve been getting so much energy from James. It’s been sort of freaking me out though, because he’s been getting kind of obsessed with me lately,” replies Natalie.
“You’d better be careful,” warns Veronica. “Obsession can totally sap your energy.”
“True, but there’s also Marc, who totally gives me energy on a regular basis.”
“What? Are you serious? So tell me, how was it the last time he gave you energy?”
“He gave it to me straight through the night and into morning,” Natalie confesses. “It was amazing, even better than what Blake and Dan could come up with.”
“It sounds like you should get more energy from Marc. I’m lucky; I’ve been totally satisfied with the energy I’ve gotten from Devan and Tim lately.”
The only one this evening who doesn’t get any “energy” is me.
The next day, I hitchhike to continue further. Everywhere, huge clouds of steam are rising up from the landscape; an unbelievable spectacle of nature. The volcanic group of islands is still bubbling violently. In fact, just about eighteen miles southeast from here, a new island is forming that already has a name: Loihi. Although Loihi lies about 3,280 feet below sea level, it is expected to be seen in approximately 20,000 years—allegedly, the real estate prices on Loihi are already outrageous.
On the way back to Veronica’s I meet Brandon, who is in his midtwenties. For more than two years now, he has been procuring his food from the primeval forest. This is good because outside of the cities there are no shops where I can ask for food. First, we go for the countless coconuts that have fallen from the palm trees. The coconuts that have ten- to fifteen-inch-long seeds taste the best. We open them with a machete and scratch out the extremely tasty coconut cream. Afterward, Brandon lists the fruits that grow out here in the wild: papaya, mango, bananas, and so on.
We go through the forest and the pastures and collect various edible flowers. They all look so beautiful, too beautiful to eat; then again, I am very hungry. A long time ago there were more than 50,000 plant species growing in Hawaii, but only 2,000 species still remain today. If I continue at the rate that I am consuming these tasty flowers, there may soon be only 1,999 left. Thanks to Brandon’s guidance, the next day I have another fruitful meal (literally) with flowers as my dessert—a healthy diet for a change.
Sadly, it’s my last day in Hawaii. I decide to undertake one of the biggest tourist attractions on the island: Mauna Kea, which stands almost 14,000 feet high. The complete view from the top must really be magnificent—no wonder a tour costs $200. Although I could have hitchhiked from Hilo to the top of the mountain via Sattle Road, I decide against it; I have heard various stories about hitchhikers disappearing. Since I still have some money left from the pillow fights, I try to bargain a special price with the taxi driver, Albrecht, who moved to Hawaii from Berlin in 1969. He agrees to take me to the tourist center at the half point of Mauna Kea for a good price.
On the way, Albrecht tells me about his life. In 1969 he packed his bags, moved to Hawaii, and, shortly after married a Korean woman and had three kids. Fifteen years later, his wife left him and their kids and eloped with another man. When he lost his job as a mechanic, he had to sell his house in Honolulu and move to a shabby colony in the suburbs with the kids, and ever since, he has been working as a taxi driver.
Albrecht is now seventy-three years old. He gets a small pension from the German government; however, due to the high standard of living here, he must earn another $2,000 every month to make ends meet. Albrecht tells me wistfully
that he would love to be in Berlin again. A good German beer at the local bar with a few old friends is just what he desires, but since his three kids all live here and are now married with their own families, his only option is to stay put.
From the tourist center, I hitchhike further to the top. The surrounding vegetation changes at every step and at about 11,500 feet I break through the clouds. At the top of Mauna Kea the view is absolutely stunning. I can see all the way past the neighboring island of Maui far off into the Pacific Ocean. The air is extremely thin and each step is strenuous, but definitely worth it.
The next morning, I fly back to San Francisco from Hilo, since my stand-by ticket from California and the second ticket to Big Island were both roundtrips. With a heavy heart I take leave of Hawaii and board the plane. It rains during my stopover in Honolulu, which is nothing unusual—it rains frequently here, but for short periods of time. The locals have a special name for this rain, which falls only near the capital city: liquid sunshine.
In San Francisco, I still have four nights before my flight to Costa Rica. I log on to the Internet to do a search for possible groups or institutions in San Francisco that offer a free night’s stay: the Club of War Veterans, the Society of Bisexual Women, and the Self-Help Group of Excessive Smokers may not be the right ones to approach. I then come across some information for the Hare Krishna temple in Berkeley and enthusiastically send them an email.
I get a response almost immediately welcoming me to stay with them. Once I get to the temple, I am greeted by people wearing the customary Hare Krishna garments. Their heads are also partly shaven, with pigtails on the sides, and they have golden brushstrokes painted on their foreheads. I meet the leader, who calls himself Gran Torasch. He gives me a bed in a large dormitory and invites me for two meals a day.
While we are kneeling in front of the statue of Krishna, he tells me that the disciples of the group also know very well a life without money since they surrender their possessions to the religious community. For them, possession is opposed to strong belief. He considers my trip without money a very spiritual act, one that will bring me closer to God and will remove all impurities. I am not sure whether this is true, but lately, I have been weighing the importance of possessions in my life, especially after my time in Hawaii. So many people have generously given me things these last few months without expecting anything in return. I would like to return the favor one day, even if that’s only possible after this trip.
In fact, one thing occurs to me: the media portrays the world as being full of tragedies, violence, war, and bad people. But, if all that were true, my trip would never have even been possible. I am extremely thankful and intend to share my positive experiences with others, and let them know that there are many, many great things and people still in the world. Of this, I am absolutely certain.
In the evening we gather in front of the Krishna statue in the chanting room. Everyone bows in front of Krishna—who, by the way, is half-man and half-woman—and they sing over and over: “Hare, hare Krishna, hare, hare, hare, hare!” Joining in, I start to relax. After these long three months, a little time off is badly needed. Thanks to the board and lodging of the temple, I can afford to sit around in Berkeley all day without having to worry about food, money, or shelter.
Berkeley itself is just six miles away from San Francisco and is best known for its university, UC Berkeley, and for the protest culture that has been rooted here since the sixties. It is an extremely liberal place, where one can protest anything and everything, which is something I become convinced of while I am on campus one afternoon. A woman in a veil appears with three others dressed up as Guantanamo prisoners wearing orange-colored uniforms, handcuffs, and black cloths over their heads. The woman in the veil suddenly shouts, “Osama is our god!” and “Your f***ing president!” Then, she jumps around wildly, throws herself on the ground, plays dead, jumps up again, and starts screaming. The police and the students nearby seem unfazed. She tries to provoke them, but no one feels attacked. It’s a tough crowd. The woman soon realizes this and retreats, disappointed.
Since I still have two days left before I depart to Costa Rica, I spend this time with Murph and Bryan in Vacaville, which is about an hour’s drive from San Francisco. Murph picks me up in his car, and I can luckily count on both of them for free board and lodging. I also get a chance to thank Murph’s dad for the plane ticket to Hawaii. In fact, I even have time to do a favor for Bryan: he teaches geography and history at a nearby high school and asks if I could be a guest speaker for three of his geography classes one day and share my travel stories. Since I do know my geography and I’m always looking for new experiences (both good and bad), I agree.
Bryan starts his lessons and I wait just outside the door. He asks the sixteen-year-old students whether they have ever met a German before. The entire class is quiet and the students shake their heads. Inevitably, one student calls out that he has seen pictures of Adolf Hitler. While everyone is laughing, I come in and say in German, “Good morning, what’s going on in America?” The surprised students laugh at the foreign words. Once we break the ice, the students start bombarding me with questions, all of which I answer as clearly and politely as possible.
After my successful act as guest teacher at Vacaville High School, Bryan takes me that evening to the San Francisco International Airport. As I am waiting for my flight, I do some calculations and realize that I have already covered more than 12,000 miles. Now Latin America awaits me.
10
ON THE RUN FROM
DR. LUCK
Although I have two connecting flights on my way to Costa Rica, the trip passes quickly and without problems. It’s a funny feeling to fly over the Rocky Mountains one hour, then over the South Coast in the next, when it took me weeks to make my way from Ohio to the West Coast. I also find that flying is naturally relaxing; but also, accordingly, boring.
When I land in San José, the capital of Costa Rica, my tension starts to come back. I have no place to stay for the night and the parks are not very inviting for sleeping in at night. Although San José has a population of just 340,000 people (which makes it look like a village compared to other Latin American cities like Caracas or Mexico City), there is a very high crime rate. At a nearby newsstand I catch a glimpse of the front page of a tabloid paper showing a close-up photo of a dead body. I look even closer at the disfigured victim in the image: lying in a large pool of blood, the victim had received several shots to his upper body and one to the face. The press here seems to be much cruder than in Europe, where brutal and violent photos are not printed. I read the caption under the photo and can translate only one word: violencia, or violence. I start to get nervous because I still don’t know where I am going to sleep and I want to avoid wandering through San José at night without money. However, despite the capital city, the rest of the country has a good reputation.
Costa Rica is often called the Switzerland of Central America: first, because it resembles a tropical version of Switzerland with its mountains and forests; second, because things here are economically quite stable and relatively peaceful. In 1983, then-president Álvarez proclaimed permanent and active neutrality, which most likely caused the relative calmness. There is also no official army in this country. For these reasons, I am confident that I will be able to make my way by hitchhiking outside of the capital city.
I have sent over twenty couch surfing inquiries for overnight stays in Costa Rica and Panama but have received only one response in Panama City. Therefore, there is nothing else for me to do but leave San José immediately and travel to the capital of Panama, and fortunately, hitchhiking goes better in Costa Rica than in the United States. Still, I am annoyed with myself for not having done a little more pillow fighting while there. A bus ticket from San José to Panama City costs only thirty dollars, which would have been three hours worth of ludicrous pillow fighting in San Francisco.
I spend the first night in a truck that travels along the coast of Co
sta Rica. Then, the following day, cars, a school bus, and a Colectivo private minibus take me along. These minibuses are built to hold a maximum of ten people, but usually up to twenty people crowd into them. It is currently the rainy season in southern Costa Rica and there is a downpour nearly every hour. The roads are not fully paved and have large potholes, so the streets are now filled with huge pools of water. I frequently have to take cover and wait for the rain to stop. During these moments, I get to observe the lively street life.
Later on, I come across mountains almost 13,000 feet high that are covered in rainforest to a large extent; I read in a brochure that 27 percent of the land in Costa Rica is protected. As I head along the coast toward the southeastern part of the country, beautiful beaches and palm trees appear for as far as I can see. I make it to the border of Panama just before nightfall, and spend the night at the bus station.
I pass the next twelve hours happily waiting on the station’s hard, cold seat. I have been given a free bus ticket to Panama City by the ticket agent; nothing, but nothing, can ruin my mood. The fifty plastic seats are all facing a large television screen on which advertisements are running in an endless loop. Most of the commercial spots seem to be bought up by a local cosmetic surgeon, Dr. Paul Alegria—which means Dr. Luck. Every ten minutes his commercials shout out the benefits of his cosmetic surgery to the people in the waiting room. Dr. Luck appears to be a very ambitious cosmetic surgeon; he even offers silicone implants for men so that they can increase the size of their chest muscles and biceps. Just as I am seriously considering this procedure, I fall asleep. I occasionally get woken up by Dr. Luck’s voice and by my shivering body. The one air conditioner in the room makes it feel as though I’m already in Antarctica, and even putting on everything I have is of no help.
How to Travel the World for Free Page 8
