Hello Hilo

My time in Hilo was very short-lived.  It was one of our "pit stop" ports: we were there for only about 10 hours to recharge.  You can only imagine that you gotta stop somewhere while crossing the Pacific Ocean.

The story starts when we arrived in Honolulu the previous day.  We were docked there in the morning to refuel and go through immigrations.  While we were docked in Honolulu, we were not permitted to leave the ship, so everyone was on the top deck getting some sun and (supposedly) studying for upcoming finals.  Since we were on American soil, our cellphones were picking up reception.  It had seemed like people's phones had just risen from the dead, and this resurrected mutant zombie phone surgically attached itself to each person's ear the entire time at port.  I can't pretend like I wasn't a culprit of these things: I am completely sunburned all over because I lost track of time while chatting up a storm on my phone.  It was well worth it, though.  We left for the Big Island that evening and arrived there the following day.

By the looks of Honolulu from the ship, it was a sizable city where palm trees seemed to coexist perfectly with the modern-looking buildings.  Arriving to Hilo the next day looked different.  It was a lot more remote, simple, and demure.  We haven't really seen something of the sort since Port Louis or Kochi.  Of course, it could still be considered a city, depending on your definition of one, and it was chock full of culture.  In my head, it was as if we were still in a different country that was stuck in a time period I'd say was around the '60s.  The only reminder that I was back in the states was the fact that I was using the American dollar.  Other than that, it was incredibly peculiar in the best ways.

Walking around in the small Downtown Hilo area was exciting.  Hilo is one of the wettest places in the world, and the sporadic rain didn't stop the locals from going about their business.  Most of the people were Hawaiian Natives and Asian immigrants, and there was a noticeable population of those I would consider "hipsters," including the cheeky fellow who sold me cleverly named soaps at the Farmer’s Market who looked like he was straight from Williamsburg.  Amidst the Hawaiian handicraft stores were restaurants with cuisines from all around the world: Thailand, China, and Mexico were quite prevalent.  I wish I had more time to peruse the shops and talk to the very interesting vendors at the outdoor market.  The people were so nice, it hurt.

It was a pretty slow day, and I didn't get to do nearly as much as I wanted to do.  I guess by this point in time, I should have just calmed down and decided to just take in the scenery.  I just didn't want to waste such precious time.  I would get antsy when I lost people, but then I realized that I could call them.  It was weird calling to find someone because I've had to rely on trust and patience up until this point when meeting up with people.  At the same time, it was almost calming without my phone; it took me back to the days when everyone wasn't attached to an electronic device with which we could contact a person if we were running late.  I'd like to think that I won't be as reliant on technology once I get back home.

While downtown, I wandered into a quaint guitar shop, and Hayden assisted me in buying a simple beginner’s ukulele. It’s a pretty darn nice souvenir, and because it’s Paul-sized, it’s the perfect instrument.  I definitely need a lot of practice, but don’t be surprised if you’ll be getting a few concerts from me in the future.  Hayden, a seasoned uke player, got his fourth, a hip and resonant Fluke.


Though we were so limited on time, I never would have thought that I would have spent a couple of hours in the back of a parking lot of a loco moco place, but it will probably be my favorite memory of Hilo.  To backtrack, a “loco moco” is a local delight.  If you’re from Rochester, you would compare it to a garbage plate.  It is a dish comprised of a ton of local favorites: a whole bunch of rice, a hamburger patty, an egg, and spam, or anything else really, slathered in a gravy sauce.  Of course, there were a million and a half different variations on the loco moco, and whichever one you may want, Cafe 100 was the place to get it.  Behind Cafe 100 was a beautiful lagoon lined with palm trees that people would have probably considered a normal sight.  It probably would have been likened to a dingy back alleyway in New York City.  Nonetheless, the large expanse behind the parking lot was so picturesque.  Us boys took out out brand new ukuleles and the girls took out their cameras.  Who needs a beach?  We spent two hours just enjoying each other’s company realizing that this was really one of the last times we’d probably be doing this ever.

I felt very comfortable with the Hawaiian sensibility: slow, pleasant, natural, hospitable, and delicious are adjectives that come to mind when I think about it.  These islands have rich cultural roots and the people identify with them very strongly.  However, these roots are not culturally homogenous; they are a harmonious mixture of influences from around the world working together to create a great culture of which I’m jealous I’m not a part.  A tiny sliver of myself would love to move here because it is different and exotic while still quintessentially American.  If I call you in ten years and tell you I've moved to Hawaii, don't be surprised.

As I was getting back on the ship, I realized that it was the last time I'd ever be walking up the stairs to board the MV Explorer.  It was a pretty sad moment.  My journey will be over in less than a week.