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Maura Roth-Gormley

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Where you going I don't know [Aug. 31st, 2009|05:23 pm]

7/6/09

Back at the Kona airport, waiting to get on my flight to Phoenix. The moon is out,  and the balmy temperature in the mid-70s is perfect for enjoying the open air boarding pavilions. When I last left off, it was the 4th of July eve and we were freezing our tucheses off at Hasmer Grove for the second time, awaiting Jeff's big party in Kula (a friend of friend found through Teri), and possible destruction at the hands of North Korea. As fate would have it, neither of these events were meant to be. Melanie left Olawalu at 5 in the morning to come get us at the volcano to be at Kula by 9 am, but Jeff proved to be spectacularly evasive about giving us directions to his place, and in the end we just went back to Olawalul for the night. Luckily, the trip to Kula was not a total loss because it led us to a bizarrely pastel, octagonal church with a cute bug-eyed little dog inside, and the greatest breakfast place in the world. The 808 cafe was clearly a local hangout, somewhat akin to the old River Room in my home town of Harrisburg, PA, but with more Hawai'ian specialties, like Loco Mocos and spam. I got two huge buttermilk pancakes and a plate of crispy spuds for just 7 bucks, a relative steal by Hawai'ian inflated food price standards. After Jeff's party appeared to be a bust, we spent the rest of the day lazing around on beaches until it was time for the 4th of July festivities in Lahaina.
 
If you're thinking, "Wasn't that the tourist cesspool you vowed never to return to a couple of entries ago?" you'd be right, but the lure of free music and fireworks proved too strong. By far the best act of the evening were two 15 year old Hawai'ian dudes on guitar and ukelele who rocked the house with songs from "Lilo and Stitch" and originals about the joys of songwriting and eating Loco Mocos. For the fireworks, we all crowded onto a pier over the water and were entertained by twilight paddle boarders and sailboats until the actual fireworks started. They didn't have to be the most technically impressive fireworks to make it the best show I'd ever seen. Something about the breeze from the ocean, the lights from the waterfront restaurants and the collective breath being held by several hundred people crammed on the pier with us made it just magical. Simple, straightforward and beautiful beyond belief, like almost everything else in Maui. Except the boardwalk in Lahaina, that shit hole. In the end, we were pretty delighted to have missed Jeff's party (even though we called us unexpectedly at 7:30 pm to ask where we were), because it meant that we got to see the world's loveliest fireworks. And then I got stung by a scorpion, which compared to the start of nuclear war, was really not too bad. I drank a little whiskey, ate the remaining peanut butter cups, applied ice and went to bed. In the morning, all better! Except every once in a while when I stepped on my stung foot too heavily and it felt like I was receiving electric shocks.

On Sunday, our last full day, we went to Makena beach, or the Big Beach in South Maui, and I know I've been saying this the whole time that such and such beach was incredibly beautiful, but this one really knocked all the others on their asses. Wide, white sand, with crystal clear water, views of the mountains, Molokini crater and Lanai, Makena was the stuff post cards and Sports Illustrated photo shoots are made of. We spent the entire day there, frisbeeing, swimming, reading, and eating a mammoth brownie sunday. That night (our last night in our tiny tent), we had cheap sushi and South Points and somehow struck up a weird game of replacing parts of geographical names with a similar word and trying to guess the original as in:
--Timbukthree
--Canmandon't
--Sacraaltoid
Can you guess where they reall are?

Today there was a long list of things to accomplish in Maui before departure at 7:45 pm, among them: pack up our entire lives from the last month, go to the beach one last time, illegally charge our phones at the world's most charming library in Wailuku, eat Tacos and hot dogs at Island Taco and bid farewell to Taco Man, eat flatbread pizza and coconut icecream in Paia, purchase a lei for my sister, and finally, play some songs together at the Kahalui commuter airport while pretending that we weren't really leaving Dennis and Lindsay and Melanie forever. I think the only thing we missed out on was retrieving Max's copy of "Catch 22" which was supposed to be left behind the Wailuku library by a librarian who forgot (maybe it's not the best library in the world).

Now I'm back at the Kona airport where I started this journey and I'm at a loss for some pity and profound statement to summarize the transformative experiences of the last month. Certainly I feel a little tired and ready to sleep in ia real bed in a real house devoid of giant roaches, centipedes and other various creepy crawlies wiating to jolt me out of pleasant slumber. But I also feel lighter, opener, ready to embrace whatever beauty or saltwater or moldy oranges that the landscape hurls at me. I know I'll miss it here (who wouldn't miss Plumeria-scented breezes wafting to you from ocean cliffs?) but instead of feeling sad, I think I'm doing as Jack Kerouac said and "leaning towards the next crazy adventure beneath the skies." Aloha Seattle.
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Tell me that you got everything you want, and your bird can sing [Aug. 31st, 2009|05:06 pm]

7/3/09

Back at Hasmer Grove, who would have guessed! We spent the last three days at Waianapanapa state park on the eastern side of the island, about a three hour car ride from Wailuku down a windy, scenic road. Unfortunately, the Maui park system is anything but user friendly so on Tuesday morning, we had to book it from Haleakala to the State Park office an hour away in the other direction to get a camping permit, which couldn't be obtained over the phone OR at the park we were going to. Dennis says they make it intentionally difficult to get camping permits so that local Hawaiian families don't just raise their families on the beach, and visitors like us are more inclined to stay in expensive resorts. We were also amazed at the relative scarcity of campsites on an island that not only has a perfect year round climate for camping but is literally beautiful everywhere. This, we guessed, must have something to do with the Maui resort lobby as well.

Anyways, permit obtained, and having eaten a delicious lunch of ham and cheese croissant and cream filled pastry at a French bakery, we began the perilous, windy road along the coast. It was only 50 miles to our campsite as the bird flies, but the frequent hairpin turns and one land bridges across waterfall-festooned gulches made it take a lot longer. While at Waianapanapa we: attempted to hike along the coast until the sun on the jagged lava rocks got too hot, read magazines at the public library, hung out at Hana Bay Beach (black sand was too hot), hung out at Hamoa Beach (perfect!) ate overpriced burgers, delicious road side Thai food and freshbaked coconut bread, visited Charles Lindbergh's oceanview grave, was entertained by a jovial boyscout troup at the next campsite over, and spent every evening gaping at the ocean from the beach. This morning we woke up with the sun (which seems to rise directly from the graveyard behind our campsite) to drive back to Hasmer Grove and see all the sites we missed out on the first time. I was sad to leave Waianapanapa, with its perfect night time temperatures and long evenings spent reading novels on the grass.

After Melanie dropped us off here in search of warmer pastures by the coast, we went on a bird watching tour with park ranger Nick Goodness. He explained to us how the first family of finches came to Hawai'i 100,000 years ago and experienced adaptive radiation, branching off into dozens, possibly hundreds of new species according to the various ecological niches on the island. Unfortunately, Hawai'i has suffered species extinctions in the last 100 years on a greater scale than almost anywhere else on the planet. This is due in large part to the arrival of white folks, who brought with them industrial ranching, clear cutting, deforestation, and non native predators, such as the mongoose. Birds such as the Nene, a large goose-like bird, were reduced to only 30 breeding pairs in the 1950s and has only been strengthened to 750 breeding pairs today, all of which live inside Haleakala. "Even still," Nick told us, "There's a genetic bottleneck on endangered species when they're bred in captivity like that, and now we're not really sure what'll happen." He also told us about how fragile the park's conservancy areas are, even to visitors from other Hawaiian islands. Just last night, in fact, a rogue camper was arrested by HELICOPTER for illegally trespassing in the conservancy zone. He was from Oahu, and apparently even the species on his sneakers could threaten the fragile ecosystem in the zone. "There are species in that conservancy area that haven't even been seen for two generations, they're so rare," Nick said. Max later cursed himself for casting off a burr from the shirt he wore at the orange farm. "This whole place is going to be over run with vines in a week!" he moaned.

We borrowed some binoculars from Nick and set off down the trai l with our "citizen scientist" bird watching field journal. We identified four i'iwe (red with orange legs and a long curved beak for reaching down flower stems), three apapane (darker red with white rump and black legs), six amakihi (chartreuse green with a black band on the eyes), and two endangered nene! Later on, going down the mountain, we also saw an owl and a very rare Hawai'ian hawk. I never realized how spectacular bird watching is. Seriously, you just sit there on a log with your binoculars and your ID guide, and every time you see a bird you almost shit yourself with excitement. It's great! I see these birds almost every day probably, but suddenly, imbued with a mission as a citizen scientist, I was stalking them through the bushes like they were Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson and I was US Weekly.

Later on that day, we got a ride up to the summit of the volcano, first with a weird trio of Europeans and then with a couple of cute newlyweds from Seattle. The summit and craters had some pretty great views, but not that great, especially for Maui. I was glad I didn't expend the energy it would have required to hike all 11 miles from our campsite. I think I was expecting huge bubbling pools of molten lava and instead there were just more pictaresque views of the mountains and ocean. The best part was probably riding there through the clouds in the back of a pickup truck and then back down with a group of jolly surfer dudes from Hana, who lived up to every surfer stereotype from their bleached blond hair right down to their "gnarly!"s. When we got back to our campsite, we finished off the beer and about seven packets of ramen noodles. Joy.
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It's summertime, and the living is easy [Aug. 31st, 2009|04:26 pm]

6/30/09

Last day of June, where did it all go? Right now I'm sitting on a black sand beach at Waianapanapa state park and other than the faint smell of decaying fish, it is a very pleasant summer evening. I've been on Maui for five days now, long enough to know that it is much more of a gringo paradise than my little South Point corner of the Big Island. To get here, Max, Lindsay, Dennis, our new friend Melanie from Rainbow Plantation, and I took a 9 seater "plane" which departed from a 4 trailer "airport." The ride itself was easily the most fun I've ever had on a plane, barring perhaps that redeye I took from South Africa with 13 of my friends when half the plane was empty and I fell asleep in the aisle. But anyways, Knoa to Kahalui was a pretty sweet flight. We flew real low over Maui's abandoned sugar cane fields and when we hit the clouds rolling in off of Haleakala volcano, the plane started bouncing around like a tennis ball, causing me to grip my seat in elated terror until long after the plane had actually landed. We spent our first three nights at Olawalu campground on the island's southwest shore. The campground was BEAUTIFUL: banyan trees, mountain views, sunsets over the ocean 30 feet from our tents. It would have been paradise if not for our creepy, drug-addled neighbor who had the unpleasant habit of popping up out of the bushes like Gollum, and singing Bob Marley songs loudly (and poorly) on his guitar until 4 in the morning. Oh well, there had to be something to make us leave.

During our time on the western side of the island, I: ate delicious $5 tacos from the Island Taco Stand man in Wailuku, visitied the misty Iao needle and did yoga at the visitor's center, went out for overpriced cheeseburger's in Lahaina and vowed never to return to that tourist-pummeled town, bought scrimshaw pendant's with Lindsay, went to the beach at Kalepolepo and Waihee, hiked along the Island's rocky northern shore at Nakalele Point, ooo-ed and ah-ed at about 5,000 different natural wonders while driving down the famous Road to Hana, ate more tacos, painted my toenails black for the first time and sat in quiet contemplation of some palm trees framing the setting sun over the mountains. On Monday we packed up the car and headed to Haleakala Volcano National Park, which involved a long drive through sage brush-scented clouds. Along the way, we passed the famous Makawao horse ranches which hold an annual 4th of July rodeo, assuming Kim Jung Il doesn't ruin the fun. Our campsite in the park at Hasmer Grove was at 7,000 feet was beautiful but too cold for Melanie (or most ill equiped people like us), precipitating our early departure this morning for Hana on the Maui's eastern shore.
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Leavin' on a tiny jet plane [Aug. 31st, 2009|03:20 pm]

6/26/09

Just sitting at the Kona Commuter airport, which is actually a series of baggage check trailer and a parking lot, no security, no terminals and best of all, no lines. When we checked in, we didn't receive any boarding passes, and the attendant had to ask each of us how much we weighed because our plane is only a 9 seater, so I guess every pound really counts. We may need to medicate Max, who is scarred of even regular sized planes, before he boards the plane. Something about this airport reminds me of Albatross Air in the movie "Rescuers Downunder." Perhaps we will actually be riding a humorous, begoggled seagull for the flight to Maui.

Yesterday we arrived at Rainbow Plantation in Captain Cook, about 45 minutes  northwest of South Point. Lindsay and Dennis WOOFed there for two months before coming to the orange farm, and Mariana, the owner was nice enough to let us spend the night there. For free! In a boat! I could not imagine a more different WOOFing experience from the orange farm than working at Rainbow Plantation, which is only listed as an organic farm for tax purposes. There were fruit trees, and a cotillion of peacocks, chickens, ponies, cats, sheep, and one adorably ugly potbelly pig named Maggie, but the "Plantation," was mostly just an unbelievably manicured Bed and Breakfast. Seeing the strip malls along the road, and how most of the WOOFers did things like clean rooms and ride around in rental cars made me incredibly thankful for the experience I had in South Point. It may have been squalid and exhausting, but it was also authentically rural, unbelievably beautiful and wild and the farthest from touristy possible in Hawai'i. I wouldn't have had it any other way. Still, it was nice to spend at least a day in Captain Cook, eat at a swanky Italian bistro, do some shopping and use the internet. For lunch, I had a meatball grinder and flourless dark chocolate cake, and Max played electric guitar in a vintage music shop next door which had a $16,000 Carlos Santana guitar. That evening, Mariana made us a delicious dinner, dowsed us in wine, and gave us her real opinion of the Hawai'ians, Marshallese, and other brown folks on the island, which wasn't too enthusiastic. Like many other white residents, she didn't understand the resentment directed towards her for owning land and not employing locals. I kept my mouth politely closed.

For our last dinner in South Point on Wednesday night, we were instructed by Keiko to finish all the perishable food so naturally we invited guests! First we had to help Teri, Greg and Bob take the camper off their squeaky pick up truck so they'd be able to haul us with all our stuff up the road to the bus in the morning. That took about an hour, because we had to shimmy the camper off with levers and slide it onto a rickety frame which Bob planned to turn into a shelter of some sort. I joked that Max and Teri looked like women in labor, sitting in the cab of the truck with their feet up in the air pushing like crazy on the trailer with their legs and grunting loudly. After that, we had a quick but disgusting glass of homemade wine at Mort and Keiko's and said our goodbyes, then headed home to start our last dinner. Luckily, Dennis took over dinner prep as usual, leaving me, Max, Teri, and Bob to sit around playing ukelele and singing songs. We sang '500 Miles,' 'I wanna go home,' by the Beach Boys, some Johnny Cash songs, 'Union Mai,' and lots of other traditional stuff. It seemed like every song I started humming, Bob knew the chords to. I don't even know what it was, maybe because we were leaving in the mornig, maybe because I felt so close to Teri and Bob after only knowing them for two weeks, but there was something so magical about sitting in the candle light at the very bottom of the United States, making our own music and being happy.
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This must be the place [Aug. 31st, 2009|03:07 pm]

6/25/09

Things I will miss about South Point:

--Teri referring to Max, Dennis, Lindsay and I as the Von Trapp children
--The clucking of the geckos at night
--Smashing cockroaches with Max's library books and scarring the living daylights out of him
--our crazy toothless neighbor who didn't like the Vietnamese, Mexican, Marshallese, or any other ethnicity of worker who had been employed at the farm.
--people's indulgent, slightly condescending reactions when we told them we worked for Mort
--The majestic yellow, gay-friendly bed and breakfast that we always longed to work for as we passed by it on our way to the farm every morning. It was usually back lit by the sun in the morning with some dramatic looking clouds for added effect.
--Bizarro South Point weather: rain from a sunny sky, scary looking death clouds one moment, sunshine the next, the VOG
--zooming down from the top of South Point Rd after taking the bus back from town, feeling utterly elated that I didn't have to hit the pedals once.
--eating teriburgers and bismarks and malasadas in Naalehu on our days off.
--every one of our leaking sinks.
--the way everyone, everywhere, no matter what, knew Mort and knew he was a little crazy.
--our pastel pink dining room with crystal chandeliers.
--waking up at 7 every morning and going to bed by 8:30 every night.
--toothbrushing parties and toothbrushing video footage
--making friends while waiting for the internet at the library
--Mort and Keiko's sprawling junkyard
--orange eating 10 o'clock breaks in which I didn't even take the trouble of peeling the entire orange and dividing it into sections
--timidly using the box stapling machine
--talking to Lindsay about her double cousins.
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(no subject) [Aug. 31st, 2009|02:50 pm]

6/23/09

Today we started off work by cleaning approximately forty eight hundred nasty ass fruit fly traps out of Mort and Keiko's yard. Keiko said they'd bought them before Mort invented his pheromone control thingy which still has not been properly explained to us, and now all the traps have just been sitting in a pile in the yard for night on 16 years. We tried to assembly line them into the trash trailer, but after Max tossed me the first one and it splattered me with black moldy water, that idea was nixed. After we threw them all away, Max's gentleman parts started hurting unexpectedly so he went home for the day, but not before telling Keiko (who told the rest of the farm), and making her giggle like 14 year old girl. Her explanation to Mort went something like this:

Keiko, laughing heavily, "Max had to go home because he had mosquito bite in his genital area."
Mort, "Well he must not have been wearing any underpants."
Keiko, "No, I'm pretty sure he wear underpants."
Mort, "Well you can't get a mosquito bite there if you're wearing underpants!"
Keiko, "Well he did."

After the fruitfly traps, Lindsay and I helped Keiko clean house, which would have been lame what with Mort sitting around in the living room eating soup while we all scurried around like little Cinderellas, but Keiko is so cool and fun to be around it was OK. Especially compared to weeding orange trees. We vacuumed up a lot of flies and spiders from behind their Russian paintings (purchased on a family trip during perestroika). I was amazed at Keiko's agility in the art of house cleaning. She hopped from sofa arm to the top of the TV like a nimble Oreck-wielding gazelle. "Keiko, you're like an acrobat!" I told her.

"Yes, sometimes out of necessity," she said, sucking up another helpless spider. During our midmorning break, which lasted a whopping 30 mintues, she told us that she's nearing her 59th birthday, and can't believe she still feels so young. "People think there's some big secret to good health," she told us, "but just eat right and excercise. Everyday things like that, all you need." She certainly lives by her word. The woman spends six hours a day in the orange fields with men a third of her age and eats a diet primarily of cabbage, wild pig, and oranges. She is a model of youthful health. "Weather here helps too. No need for heating or air conditioning that takes moisture out of skin," she admitted. I wasn't sure I followed her on this one, but whatever. She also fed us chocolate covered mac nuts during our break and we chatted about the importance of traveling while you're young and having life long hobbies. I'm really going to miss Keiko, and I feel sad thinking of her on the farm with no one but Mort and the oranges for company. She strikes me as such an incredibly capable, industrious woman, who nonetheless, gets a little lonely.

This afternoon, Greg, Teri and Bob stopped by to say goodbye, but thankfully it wasn't goodbye because they're gonna give us a ride to the bus stop on Thursday! Bob and Max played some ukelele together and it was a nice visit. Then we watched "Paris Je T'aime" and went to bed. In between, we ate a lot of waffles and broccoli and a cockroach crawled up my pant leg. I'm gonna miss this life, but I guess it really isn't separate from my other life, or lives. It's all just one life really, which is just days, which are just moments, which are pretty simple and nice if you don't think too hard about it.
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Sweet honey and the weeds [Aug. 31st, 2009|02:38 pm]

6/22/09

Today while weeding, I was entertained by two lively cardinals dancing through the freshly de-vined trees. This was almost as much fun to watch as the pack of semi-wild dogs which tore through our yard yesterday in hot pursuit of some little vermin, or maybe a pig. Sometimse when I'm weeding, I like to imagine that I'm like those dogs, hunting for a tasty golden orange to nibble.

In other news, Max and I bought a jar of raw South Point honey off of Greg's 60 lb. stash. Greg bought his from our neighbor Leroy, who's bees feed off our very own orange orchard. How local is that, Barbara Kingsolver? We also took the opportunity while we were down there to weed their corn field. There were a variety of weeds plaguing their eight inch high corn stalks, but most threatening was the spiny amaranthe, Greg told us. Unlike Mort, he also gave us actual tools to get the job done, and hacking at the weeds with adzehoes and machetes was so (compartively) fun, we didn't even notice the three hours go by.
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The Pink Elephant Grass in the Room [Aug. 31st, 2009|02:26 pm]

6/21/09

More weeding today. At first I was fairly irked to be doing so much weeding, but now it's growing on me. Get it? Growing? Oh, I'm terrible.

The orange trees haven't been weeded in over ten years because according to Keiko, once they started having theft problems, they didn't want to make picking oranges any easier for whoever was hauling them away. "Why work for theives?" she said. So now many of the trees are so overgrown with vines and briars they resemble Cousin It from The Adams Family. How the trees survive such suffocation is a mystery to me, but many of them do, as was evidenced by the large quantity of delectable looking oranges we found growing under their hidden leaves. Most of the vines that grow on the trees are Nitrogen fixing legumes, Mort told us, and will aid the trees' growth as long as they're removed but not killed. I was quite pleased by this factoid, which made me feel like I was doing something useful for the trees, but then Teri informed me that the vines are only able to fix nitrogen if you till them under the soil. They don't do anything if you just leave them in a pile under the tree. Shucks. Still, I get a pretty good feeling just devining the trees and liberating them to see the light of day. I feel like the Abraham Lincoln or Moses of oranges, emancipating them form their chains of bondage. the work has become considerably easier too now that we have leather gloves which don't stick to every briar and get pierced by elephant grass fibers the way the itchy cotton gloves did. I also have started wearing sunglasses to work even on the cloudy days, to protect my eyes from dusty, possibly fungal debris which comes flying down when I rip the vines. The first day of weeding I got a single elephant grass fiber in my eyeball and it hurt like a bastard.
 
That elephant grass is nasty. It's over eight feet tall in places, sharp enough to cut you, and the stalks are like fibrous little splinter which stick in your clothes and hair. In addition to blocking the path and making navigation of the orchard even more impossible, the elephant grass seems to act like a step ladder for vines and other weeds to climb up in order to reach the outer branches of the tree. What we really need are a herd of sheep to munch it down, but maybe even sheep don't care for elephant grass. Apparently though, biomass researchers care for it quite a lot, and are discovering some elephant grass to fuel possibilities. In the mean time, I like to just stomp it down if it's short enough, but if it's really tall, I fold my arms into my chest, shut my mouth and eyes, and just fall backwards against it, like all those trust excercises they make you do at ice breakers. I'm really starting to develop a personal relationship with this orchard.

The big news from yesterday was that we had our first ever (almost) visitors at the hostel. Around early evening, a car pulled up which wasn't Mort's or the guy who checks the pig trap, and much to our surprise, a young Hawai'ian dude hopped out and asked how much for a room. Max and I were both dumbfounded that anyone, let alone a local, would want to pay money to stay in our little roach motel. But as it turned out, he (Justin) and his girlfriend (Sarah), just wanted somewhere to rest for a few hours because Sarah was in the midst of having a miscarriage (!) and also her husband caught the two of them going at it and kicked them out of the house. We were pretty confused about what order these events occured it, or where for the that matter since Sarah said she lived near Kona, Justin near Captain Cook, and South Point Rd is in the middle of nowhere, not eve close to Ka'u Hospital, which by all accounts is a kind of shitty hospital anyways. Alas, these mysteries were not explained to us because they only stayed long enough to shower, take a nap and have a bowl of soup (for which Mort still charged them fifty bucks), before they hit the road again towards the Waimea Women's Center way on the other side of the island. Bizarre and somewhat suspicious as they were, Justin and Sarah were very thankful for the soup and listening ears we lent them, which must have seemed pretty firendly compared to Mort's interrogation about whether they were on drugs. Thus passeth our only night as a functioning hostel.
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She's gotta a ticket to ride, and she don't care [Aug. 31st, 2009|01:20 pm]

6/19/09

Yesterday we learned what sweeping for five hours feels like. Keiko put us to work in the big house, and it was monotonous and a little useless feeling since the house will just fill up with dust and leaves all over again. Overall though, it was pretty easy work so I was thankful. The hightlight of the day was finding a box of five unopened cigars and (wonder of wonders!) a decrepit but working lighter, just sitting in a crevice in the wall. I have never had much interest in smoking a cigar, but it was such a serendipitous find that I joined my coworkers in their midmorning cigar break on the balcony, looking out at the view through the two story bay windows. Watching the trees rustle and the birds skittering around through the elephant grass is utterly enthralliing and hypnotic, a thousand times better than watching TV. When we have lunch up there, eating our little sandwiches and baked beans straight out of the can, we feel kind of like the Box Car Children, hoping for a fat, wealthy businessman to rescue us from squalor.

Max and I rode our bikes into town this afternoon for the first time in several days. It looked like it was going to rain, but instead it was just awfully windy, makingthe gentle uphills on the way to Naalehu feel fairly steep. Even the snappy pit bull on Kamao road which usually chases me and threatens to bite my ankle off just sat in its yard today and gave one little desultory yap when we road by. I'm currently sitting at the juncture of South Point Rd and Route 11, the highway which encircles the island, waiting for the Hele-on bus to Hilo, watching what appears to be a group of people stealing tea leaves from someone's farm by the side of the road. They just backed their pick up truck up to the property and started ripping away, which seems like an odd thing to do at 6:30 in the morning if it were your OWN property. Dennis says tea leaves are popular with horses and sheep. Now I'm on the bus, which is filling up with sleepy looking high schoolers and we're riding past the house which holds a weekly goat sale on Saturdays. This a place where the jacked up pick up truck seems to be a mandatory mode of transportation and men still sport hideous mustaches without a hint of irony. 

                                                                                                    --time passes--
OK, just got back from Hilo, and the best day off ever. We had rare sunshine today in one of the rainiest cities in the U.S. We ate, shopped, and photographed our little hearts out, giddy to be back in a place with such sophistication as traffic lights and movie theaters. Ofcourse, Hilo is only a big city by Hawaiian standards, and the rambling assortment of pastel-painted aluminum buildings that made up downtown was thankfully devoid of tourist kitsch and chain stores. We visited the East Hawai'i Cultural Center (lots of handcarved wooden surf boards), a coral reef discovery center where we almost got entangled in a group of four year olds attached to one long leash, and the largest Banyan tree I've ever seen in my life. For lunch we went to Puka Puka Kitchen, a hole in the wall lunch place famous for its Bento boxes and fish plates. I got the breaded Mahi with garlic rice and fresh local veggies. For dessert we had Hilo homemade ice cream which was the freshest, fruitiest damn thing I've ever tasted. Tangy, sweet Passionfruit sorbet and peacy, slightly peachy tasting poha berry were my favorites. While we were deciding on flavors, at least three locals dropped in to give us their two cents about which flavors were best. Other things that happened were Max bough a ukelele from a woman whose six year old daughter chatted with me about The Twelve Dancing Princesses, Dennis started reading The Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankwiler, Lindsay bought a kimono, and I received lots of free stuff from various dudes at the farmer's market.

The two and a half hour bus ride home should have been boring but was actually pretty debaucherous. First, the guy behind me started blasting bad hip hop music real loud, then the two obnoxious giggling teenagers at the front of the bus started snogging and I wanted to bean them with The Milagro Beanfield War, and finally, just before we got to South Point Rd, the creepy guy with sunglasses and bad hair opened his window and started smoking a bowl, apparently overwhelmed by the stress of the bus ride. Oh Hawaii...
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Police and Orange Thieves [Aug. 31st, 2009|01:05 pm]

6/17/09

 

Only one week left in South Point, blerg! Today while helping Keiko clean the packing house, Lindsay and I made an incredible discovery. Nestled in the midst of the orchard, behind a curtain of eight foot high elephant grass lay an enormous, half-completed house. Mansion. It was three stories, had an enormous lanai and was many many many times larger than their current house. Or my house, or maybe any house I’ve ever been in for that matter. Keiko led us there to drop off some stripped pine logs and my jaw literally dropped in surprise to find such a behemoth lurking amongst the orange trees. “Keiko, what is this place?” I asked her, and she gave me the most obvious yet impossible reply.

 

“It’s our dream house.” You could have knocked me over with an orange leaf. She said that they started building the house in 1997, but had to stop when major theft problems shut down operations at the farm. The theft, which began in 1999, lasted until early this year when the thieves were apprehended, but strangely not convicted. During that ten year period, Mort and Keiko lost about 95% of their crop, a number that sounds astounding until you consider that prior to the theft problems, during the farm’s heyday in the mid ‘90s, Kau Gold Orange Co. was turning out about one trailer of oranges, or 3600 lbs. every hour. Now we’re lucky if we pick that much in a day. I was confused as to how even a very skilled group of thieves could steal so many oranges without being noticed, but Keiko reminded me that the farm is 150 very overgrown acres, and once the thieves found an unmarked back road onto the far end of the farm, all they had to do was back a trailer in and start filling up. Even more amazing was the fact that Mort and Keiko knew the thieves (former employees), but hadn’t taken any legal action in a ten year period.

 

“It’s a whole family,” Keiko said, pointing their house out to Dennis on the way to the dump, “Grandparents to children, all orange thieves.” This was starting to sound a little Hatfields vs. McCoys to me, but relationships between native Hawai’ians and Haole (white) mainlanders who move here aren’t much different. The insider-outsider dynamic is very powerful, and apparently Mort and Keiko had received quite a lot of beef from the locals since they moved here in the early 80s, even from their own employees. Ofcourse, it doesn’t help matters that Mort is a few cents short of a dollar and has a reputation for eccentricity throughout the Ka’u district. Everyone we meet here seems to have heard about him and nod their heads sympathetically when they hear we work for him, “Oh Mort,” they chuckle, “Gotta watch out for that one.”

At first I didn't understand why we WOOFers hadn't been subject to the same biases from Native Hawaiians that Mort and Keiko were. "It's because we're just visitors," Dennis explained, "We might be haoles, but we're not trying to move here and stay permanently. And we're not working for money. That's probably the biggest thing. We're not taking anyone's job away, so they're alright with us." What a complicated system! Especially for Mort and Keiko to try to navigate. Lots of non-native residents are reluctant to hire Hawaiians, thinking they'll be lazy and incompetent. Instead Mort and Keiko got grand larcenists, and now they'll never ever hire or do business with a Hawaiian again, only further entrenching the locals' antagonism towards them and their farm. Keiko told me that when the theft began, they hired security guards to patrol the farm. The first turned out to be a member of the stealing family and literally left the gate open for them, but the second security guard tried to do his job and was rewarded with having his house broken into by the thieves who tore the place up and then strangled his dogs. He quit promptly and there haven't been any security guards since. Eventually, Mort and Keiko's house was broken into as well, another act of intimidation, and they caught the thieves on camera, which would seem like irreproachable evidence of their guilt. Unfortunately, local government and police officials are also in the thieves pocket, and aren't interested in pressing charges any time soon. So the big house in the fields stands unfinished, the orange groves become more and more overgrown, and every time we meet a new neighbor in South Point, I catch myself wondering if they're the one to blame for all of this.

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Sun, sun, sun, baby come [Aug. 31st, 2009|01:01 pm]

6/16/09

 

Today Max and I attended a solar workshop at Greg and Teri’s place. They’re currently hosting a fellow by the name of Bob Anderson who is part educator, part wandering minstrel and all solar activist. He travels around the country preaching the gospel of small, homemade solar instillations and selling kits to make your own 60 watt collector. The workshop was held in the trailer at their farm and there were twelve people there, all locals except for Max and me.

 

Bob explained that his main goal in educating people about solar is to keep costs LOW. “There’s not enough rich people to get us off foreign oil,” he quipped, meaning that for alternative energy to really get off the ground, it needs to be endorsed by lower and middle income people, not just the most wealthy. For $225 his kit included 15 amp charge controller, one 60 watt Evergreen photovoltaic panel (at $1.50 per watt), and 400-800 watt inverter. All of the panels Bob sells are production leftovers with slight cosmetic damage which lowers their resale price, which might worry some buyers, but Bob reminded us, “There’s no electrical power in beauty.” He urged new builders to focus simply on making a system that works, not one that will be perfectly assembled or attractive. The beauty of building your own system he noted, was that you’d also be able to fix it yourself, instead of hiring expensive mechanical help.

 

After going over the basics of the kit and how to assemble it, Bob answered questions from those folks in attendance, many of whom had already bought a kit and were confused about assembly. He discussed topics such as how to protect your panels from the elements (one person suggested stretching chicken wire and vinyl across and old bed frame over the panels), the importance of neat sautering when assembling panels, and the relative merits of grid tied versus stand alone PV systems. Then we ate all the goodies people had brought and schmoozed. Max and I serenaded the crowd on Bob’s solar electric guitar. There was something simultaneously apocalyptic and comforting about attending such an event in shipping container in field in the middle of nowhere. Is this what our fossil fuel-less future will look like, America?

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I'd like to live in a Wigwam [Aug. 28th, 2009|11:52 am]


6/15/09

I've filled up my previous journal! May the new journal be good journal for us.

Just returned from an exciting trip down South Point Rd. with Max to visit our neighbors Teri and Greg at their farm. Strolling down the road is very pleasant in the first place, what with grazing inquisitive animals and cool, breezy vog (volcanic fog), rolling in from the mountain to the ocean, but this stroll was particularly nice because it was our first visit to any of our Ka'u neighbor's farms, and I felt somewhat Austonian going for a late afternoon social call. We met Teri a few days ago at the library and she was so friendly and generous we exchanged numbers and made a plan to sit around some time and shmooze (or "talk story," as they call it here). Our meeting turned out to be particularly fortuitious as it coincided with our mutual pact to leave Mort's farm early and go to Maui for ten days with Dennis and Lindsay, thus necissitating an opportunity to work some extra hours elsewhere in order to fulfill our 90 hour internship requirements. Enter Teri and Greg with their 100 acre polyculture experiment. They definitely don't have all 100 acres planted, but I was amazed at the diversity of crops they've planted since they arrived in February: everything from drought resistant dragofruit (the plants resemble cactus shoots which just get jabbed in the ground. Greg says the fruit can fetch six bucks a pound at mainland healthfood stores) to water intensive corn, and practically everything in between including avocado, mango, fig, coconut, apple banana (had some of these finger long delights at the farmer's market last week and they were amazingly flavorful), lettuce, cilantro, chard, squash, and more types of raddish and beet than I could shake a finger at. Greg said that the real problem in Hawai'i's tropical climate wasn't figuring out what would grow, but figuring out what wouldn't get eaten by fruit flies, weeds, and other pests. He also said that they probably didn't intend for the farm to become a commercial enterprise, but to be used primarily for home consumption, which didn't surprise me at all considering the drive for self sufficiency which seems to drive their entire life style. They live under a 10 foot by probably 40 foot plastic canopy, cook over a small camp stove, have no electricity or running water, and entertain guests with three lawn chairs and a never ending supply of almonds and unbelievably delicious raw honey which they obtain from a beekeeper named Leroy who pollinates his apiary from our very own orange farm. Truly, the sense of interconnectedness, locality, and everyone knowing each other on this island, from the people to the bees to the oranges, never ceases to amaze me. I guess this is in part caused by the isolation and agricultural focus of the Ka'u district, but it tends to give the whole area a very small town, homey feel which was the exact opposite of what I expected to find in tourist-ridden Hawai'i.

But anyways, Greg and Teri are so into self sufficiency that they're hoping to start a Sustainable Learning Center once the farm itself gets off the groud, in order to teach people, especially children people, about the benefits of living off the grid. Plans for this involve expanding their chicken coop, turning their large metal shipping container into a usable classroom and finishing the small cabin which Greg started to replace the caonpy. Their overall plan, to live with complete self sufficiency and teach others to do so, sounds pretty lofty and one which I've heard bandied about by scores of crunchy young people, but the fact that these two have made it even this far towards their goal made me feel incredibly inspired and hopeful. Plenty of folks talk the talk when it comes to sustainability, drinking out of mason jar's and shopping at farmer's markets, but Teri and Greg definitely walk the walk. Even if they do turn out to be two hopeless idealists and their farm and shipping container classroom never actually bear fruit, their ability to "live inside their dreams," as Barbara Kingsolver would say, was cause enough for me to feel a hint of optimism about the direction this planet is going.

The visit to Teri and Greg's may have seemed particularly wonderful in light of the god awful morning we had at the orange farm. After just an hour and a half of packing during which we had to throw out approximately 1/3 of our harvest due to rotten spots, Mort treated us to several hours of weeding the orange trees. The strong overnight rainstorms we've been getting make picking fruit impossible, since so many of the wet oranges just end up rotting before we can ship them out to market in Maui and Oahu. This fact was driven home by our last harvest, which Keiko said was the worst they'd ever had. More on weeding later. Oh, and before I forget, here's some basic farm management to give you a better idea of how the oranges actually get from our trees to your mouth.

Official Kau Orange Farm Production Schedule:
Saturday: pick oranges
Sunday: pick, but only until noon because the Marshallese guys have to go to church
Monday: pack oranges in morning for mid day pick up, pick oranges in afternoon
Tuesday: pick oranges
Wednesday: pick oranges in morning, pack in afternoon for evening pick up
Thursday and Friday: weekend!

Official Kau Orange Farm Packing Procedure:
1. Move trailerful of oranges into packing house. Load oranges into cardboard boxes while sorting out rotten ones. Stack boxes on pallet, nine boxes per row.
2. Sweep out empty trailer and repeat step one with second full trailer
3. Load boxes onto chain lift which will dump oranges into jiggling chamber (not sure what the real name of this machine is) which spins the oranges around on little rollers, cleans and dries them.
4. Feed oranges onto conveyor belt, sort out small oranges and rotten ones, make sure not too many oranges go down conveyor belt at once.
5. From conveyor belt, oranges get fed into grading machine, which spins the oranges around a rotating cone and sends them down different chutes according to size.
6. Apply sticker to oranges and box according to size
7. Place relabled ginger box lid over oranges and restack boxes onto pallets.
8. Ensure successful pick up!

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It's just a box of rain, I don't know who put it there [Aug. 28th, 2009|11:09 am]

6/14/09

"It's tea time, bitches," Dennis, upon waking up from a nap.

I finally spoke with Cynthia this afternoon. At last! She was filled with wisdom, as usual, and we spoke about the death of loved ones, life in the tropics, and the profound and rare knowledge of knowing where our food comes from.

Picking in the fields today was the best it's been since I got here. Really, almost fun. I think this was a combination of me getting better at using the picking pole, the weeds between the rows being of only waist height (not over my head), the abundance of fruit on the trees, and the overcast, cool weather which is just right for working in the fields. And then it started raining like magic. That absolutely perfect, light, pattering midmorning in South Point, HI rain that just makes me stop what I'm doing, grin widely and raise my hands in praise as if Jesus just blessed me at the Baptist Tent Revival and now I can walk again. Hallelujah! I guess having it rain while you're working outside sounds like a bad thing, but it's actually wonderful as long as it doesn't make you slip out of the tree you're trying to climb, or make all the oranges in the harvest rot before they can be packed (which will probably happen, unfortunately). The rain feels so lovely, and it washes out all the shmootz that falls in my eyes when I rustle the orange trees too hard with my neck craned skyward. I'm even getting to the point where I can pick and carry a full bag of oranges at a time, a weight of about 50 lbs. The first time I turned one of these in at the trailer for Keiko to mark on her clipboard she pointed to the bag and said in surprise, "Dennis?" and I said, "No. Me. All me."

The only downside to the morning was the new that Elio's child was hit by a car last night and had to be taken to the hospital in Oahu, a couple hundred miles away. I overheard Keiko telling the Marshallese guys, "That is just the worst thing to happen to a parent. I think I would go crazy. You all really need to support him now. Not just say 'sorry.' I mean really support!" That's Keiko for you, authoritative, even in her condolences.

Other things from the last few days include our decision to abbreviate our stay at the farm to only 3 weeks due in part to the squalor of the hostel, the non-academic nature of our intership, and our slowly dawning realization of how truly eccentric Mort is. This last point came to light after Max was forced to spend 45 minutes rinsing out his (uninjured) eyeball while listening to Mort chastise him for not removing his shoes properly and complain bitterly about his Marshallese employees. I should say in fairness, that Mort has been a very generous and kind host to us, but not one with whom we can spend an extended amount of time. As for the squalor of the hostel, this became apparent last night when I discovered an eight inch long spiny poisonous centipede in my room that had to be at least as thick as a broom handle in diameter. Of course, I promptly shrieked, ran outside and informed the others that there was "a dinosaur" in my room. This was laughed off as an exagerration, until Dennis and Max went inside to dispatch with the beast and both ran outside shrieking as well. We went back into the common area to regroup, turned on the lights, and were greeted with a dozen cockroaches scurrying for their corners. Then followed about twenty minutes of group hysteria during which we cursed our hostel, cursed the absence of chickens to eat the insects, and cursed our very skin for feeling as though it was crawling with insects. Somehow during this time, Dennis managed to disect the centipede with a wooden two by four, but the deceitful villain refused to die, and both pieces of centipede began wriggling forward ominously, like the mulitplying broomsticks in Fantasia. Eventually I managed to fall asleep despite my fear, and don't you know, woke up a few hours later with a cockroach in my hair. I ask you, have you ever allowed yourself to imagine the depths of squalor to which you'd have to sink before you actually had a cockroach crawling through your hair? Luckiily, my reflexes have quickend while picking oranges and I had barely felt a tickle on my scalp before it was clobbered with a copy of Barack Obama's memoirs. The book is alright, but I think Max may have been scarred for life.

Thankfully, not everything here is madness and squalor. On our last day off, we treated ourselves to culinary tour of Na'alehu, which consisted of Teriyaki cheeseburgers, Kona coffee ice cream, and passionfruit glazed malasadas. And, obviously oranges, lots and lots of oranges.
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Goin' to live on Cinder Cone Mountain [Aug. 28th, 2009|10:23 am]
6/11/09

Max, "Hey Dennis, what kind of bird is that?"
Dennis, "It's the grey-shirted ass face."

Today might have been the perfect day. I slept in late (til 8:30!), then got up just in time for Dennis to make a fancy breakfast: home fries, ground beef and fried eggs. Delicious, especially after many mornings of corn flakes on the quick. Max and I were planning on riding our bikes to Punalu'u Beach and taking the bus back to South Point, but then we realized that the bus probably wouldn't be running in observance of King Kamehameha Day. He was the first Hawai'ian king to unite all the islands under a non-sucky monarchy. I learned this yesteraday from a picture book in the Hawai'iana juvenile fiction section of the Na'alehu public library while I was waiting to use the internets. Anyways, the bus was indeed not running, so we managed to rope Dennis and Lindsay into a new plan which involved Max and Dennis taking the two bikes down South Point Rd while Lindsay and I got a ride with our fisherman neighbor, all with the intention of meeting up at Green Sands Beach. We looked like two regular hippy farm girls in our tevas and straw hats, sitting in the back of a jacked up pick up truck, which seems to be the fad around here. I can't even begin to describe the euphoria of zooming past cows, wind turbines, and lava flows in Hawai'i's southernmost and wildest district (although actually I guess I can describe, and just did). Our friend dropped us off after 11 miles at the end of South Point road and headed off to meet up with his fishing buddies at the cliffs. The South Point cliffs , or Ka Lae in Hawai'ian, are famous (at least locally), for the ancient Hawai'ian canoe moorings which date back to 750 AD. Lindsay said these were drilled directly into rock cliffs, so fisherman could lash their boats to hundreds of feet of rope and prevent wayward rip currents from sucking them out to Antarctica. Today, people mostly just fish off the cliffs, or if they're feeling intrepid, dive off of them and hope they don't spend the rest of their lives amongst polar bears. 

Our fisherman didn't recommend diving today though, "There's a big swell coming in from the North," he said. This much was evident once we actually made it Green Sands Beach, after a two mile hike down a dusty four by four road. The waves were bigger and stronger than any beach I'd been to on the East Coast and even seemed to rival the famous surfing beaches of South Africa. I thought I'd be safe standing in ankle deep water, but even this managed to knock me over and pull down my bikini bottoms a few times. Luckily, I wasn't the only one with this problem. After an hour or so of people watching, we decided to rename it Butt Crack Beach, since the sand wasn't all that green anyways, and tucheses of all shapes, shades and varieties were abundantly on display.

Despite the violence of the waves, the setting itself was breathtaking, with the beach set in a bluer than blue bay that was once a volcanic cinder cone. The remaining crater was walled in by steep, curvilinear walls which you could climb to the top of and get your hair whipped around as your jaw dropped at the amazing views. The wind on the beach made it difficult to either sunbathe or read, so mostly we sat under a little lava outcropping and people watched (and I still managed to get sunburned). We called it the butt crack channel of Beach TV and joked about having made such a long trek just to watch the idiot box. When our tummies started rumbling, we decided to head back home and I didn't envy Max and Dennis having to make the 1700 foot up hill ascent back to the hostel during the hottest part of the day. However, we'd also developed a sort of 'Amazing Race' attitude towards being split up into two groups and my competitive desire to get home before them edged out my sympathy. Just before the start of South Point Road, Lindsay and I caught a ride with a big family in yet a truck, who we at first thought were throwing up their hands in the universal signal for "all full," but were in fact motioning for us to squeeze in the back with their two little boys and their Hawai'ian Island-tattooed father. "Couldn't leave you walk all the way up that road," he said, "The sun is mean. Even I wear sunscreen out there." Eventually it started raining and some of the little boys had to be transferred to the cab of the truck because the rain drops pelted us like little bbs. One of the little boys elected to stay in the back and had to be cloaked with his father's tshirt which was adorable and made me smile. Lindsay and I were excited to win the second round of Amazing Race: South Point, HI, but discovered that Dennis and Max and bikes had actually gotten a ride with a different member of the same family in an indentical pick up truck, save for the marijuana leaf emblazoned "Grown here, not flown here" sticker on theirs. Their driver was a heavily accented Hawai'ian man who instructed us to give his regards to Mort.

"You know Mort?" we said, though we shouldn't have been surprised, based on our bus companions, Walmart attendant, and librarian who all knew Mort as well.

"Oh sure," he said, "Mort's famous around here. For a reason," he added with a husky chuckle.

The rest of the afternoon into evening was spent in our usual manner: reading/journaling punctuated by tea breaks, dinner, and shmoozing. The day was perfected by Keiko's delivery of a package from my Dad! A thick stack of glossy magazines ranging from Home Power to Bitch to Mother Earth News. Oh boy! When I retire, I just want to subscribe to dozens and dozens of magazines, like John Waters, who arranges them artfully around his house to create the right atmosphere.
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(no subject) [Aug. 26th, 2009|05:15 pm]
6/9/09

Lindsay's comments on the awful haircut she had just given Dennis:
    1. "It looks like you just survived chemo, but in a cute way."
    2. "He'll fit better in a coffin."

Fruit packing on Monday provided a much needed respite from picking, which we've only been doing for two days and is already proving daunting. After we unloaded the trailer and picked out the rotten fruit, I helped Franny and Tsitsiro make boxes to pack the fruit in. This involved going up to the loft of the packing house away from everyone else, working a little and chatting a lot. The boxes we use at the farm are left overs from an organic ginger farm in Hawai'i, so we had to cross out "ginger root," and write "Ka'u Gold Orange." No big deal, except for the giant picture of a ginger root on all the boxes. Max and I learned how to use the box stapling machine, or "Ideal Stitcher: Seal with Steele," which somehow made it all the way to South Point from Chicago, Illinois. The machine is loud and little scary and seems like the kind of thing you should wear goggles while using, what with the little metal shavings flying off every now and then. To use the machine, you place the folded box over a weighted pole which rocks forward and back, and then you tap the pedal of the machine to punch a staple into the box from a big spinning spool of steele thread. If you're clumsy and not fast enough taking your foot off the pedal (which I am), then the machine punches in like 12 staples where you only needed four. Max made fun of the little dance I do when I use the box stapling machine, tapping the pedal as fast as I can and then jumping back in fear as soon as the box has four staples.

While we worked, Franny asked us how old we are and was alarmed to hear that Max is only 19. The conversation went like this:
Franny, "19! I thought you were at least 25."
Maura, "Did you think I was older too?"
Franny, "No, you look younger than me, and I'm 21"
Maura, "I thought you were at least 25!"
We also discussed our taste in music as well as how to swear in Marshallese and English. At first Franny didn't understand what Max was asking him about swearing until Max asked what he would say if he stapled his finger to a box (unpleasantly possible scenario). "Oh," Franny chuckled, "I would say 'Bono.'" That's right, Bono. You may be Ireland's biggest rock star and a leading humanitarian, but your name means shit in the Marshall Islands. Not 'the shit.' Just shit.

Anyways, after we made enough boxes we went downstairs and helped sort the oranges by size. After they get jiggled around and cleaned off on the conveyor belt, the oranges spin around on this circular cone which sends them down different chutes according to size. This machine is very mesmerizing to watch. I stood there for a while putting "Kau Gold Orange. Product of Hawai'i" stickers on all the fruit, which was something of a cathartic experience because as a child I always wondered if there was a person somewhere putting stickers on all my bananas and apples. Now I know the answer: there is a person, and it's ME.

In the afternoon Max and I took an inaugural ride on our new bikes (newly christened "Lennon," and "Blackie," can  you guess what colors they are?) for a ride down Kamaoa Rd. to get to Naalehu, the nearest town and southernmost community in the United States. It took us about 45 minutes in the light drizzle, and that was with lots of stopping to take pictures of the ocean and photogenic horses. The ocean and mountains and pastel coloured, lowslung Hawai'ian homes were so beautiful they made me want to cry, but it also might have been the downhill wind, which whipped across my glee-filled face at speeds which must have been approaching 25 to 30 mph. There is NOTHING more fun than riding downhill, super duper fast on your bike. Naalehu is a cute one street town with a post office, library, Buddhist temple, abandoned movie theater and sweetbread factory all lined up like ducks in a row. I was most disappointed that the movie theater was closed (the last film advirtised was 'Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman) but most excited about the library. Housed in a building about the size of a trailer home, the Naalehu public library was everything I hoped for: cozy, friendly staff, but kids and mommies looking at Hawai'ian language picture books, and internet access. I was too excited about writing my newly bought postcards to actually use the internet, but knowing it's there, a mere downhill bike ride away, was very reassuring. Around quarter to five we went out to wait for the bus by the side of the road and contemplate further adventures around the island. That night Sean made us a delicious feast of steamed veggies and ginger fried tofu and I learned how to play Texas Hold 'Em, which was OK, but not as fun as Spoons or Egyptian Ratscrew, my card games of choice. Too cerebral and pseudo-masculine, I prefer games where you grab or slap things.

Today was the first day at the farm that Keiko let us work our originally agreed upon but later renogiated hours of 8 am to 1 pm without having to stop for lunch. Keiko is a delightful lady who sometimes reminds me of my own mom when she's puttering around the house or feeding me, but out in the fields, it's all business. "Efficiency is her middle name," Max says. I'm not sure if this is just a personal thing for her, or if the Japanese cultural stereotype really is true. On the Sunday drive back from Kona, Keiko was telling us that she loves going to Costco but gets flummoxed by the free samples. "I don't want to eat from the product I don't think I'll buy. That would be rude," she said. I asked her if Mort feels the same way, and she told me "Oh no. He eats two or three of everything. It's very embarassing!"

In addition, today was the first day that I failed to duck the falling oranges and got bopped on the head by a big fat one. It would have been a great find too, but it smashed when it hit me. A ripe orange hitting the ground is not as entertaining as a moldy orange, which emits a faint whitish green cloud upon impact. It was also the first day I attempted to use my picking pole while climbing a tree and was rewarded by promptly crashing through a dead branch and scraping my already bruised calf. Tomorrow is another day.
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(no subject) [Aug. 26th, 2009|04:58 pm]

6/8/09

Max, "I've been taking French for so long that when I hear Mort's name, my immediate thought is 'death' "

We got our bikes yesterday! This facilitated a number of exciting adventures. The first was trying to drive home with them. Keiko dropped us off at the Walmart in Kailua-Kona, two and a half hours from South Point, on her way to pick up Sean (our latest WOOF addition) from the airport, and then we had to spend an hour cursing and sweating as we wrangled the bungie cords to strap our bikes to the roof of the car for the twisty turny ride home. The Walmart in Kona was huge and horrible in the manner of Walmart's everwhere, but perhaps especially so because this Walmart had the distinction of being built atop an ancient Hawai'ian burial ground. Way to go Walmart. Luckily Keiko bought us malasadas (deepfried sugary donuts popular on the island) to buoy our spirits. Also, the Walmart employee who helped us buy our bikes used to work for Mort on the Orange Farm! His name was Geronimo, and he was an older Filipino gentleman. This only adds evidence to my theory that at least half the people on this island know Mort personally, and the other half know him by reputation. He is his own popular legend.

The drive to Kona was also well worth it because I got to talk about ballet with Keiko for an hour! She's been dancing since she was a little girl and pursued it through adulthood, even driving an hour and a half to Hilo when her daughter was younger so they could take lessons together. She also told me that when she retires from the organic orange racket, she wants to spend a month in New York City attending classical music concerts and ballet performances. I fantasized briefly about Keiko accompanying my Goucher dance professor Laura Dolid to see New York City Ballet perform Symphony in C while they both bitterly complained of the lack of technique in today's dancers. I think Keiko's exact words on the matter were, "Hawai'i have nice weather, but no culture here of any kind!" I wanted to remind her that she is blessed every day with Tenorico and Franny singing in Marshallese from atop the orange trees while they're picking, but I suppose culture is in the eye of the beholder.

Also yesterday I was granted a reprieve from picking to help Mort fix some tools. Actually, first I had to help him fix his car door, but after that we attached new heads to some of the picking poles. The head consists of a metal loop with a cloth sack hanging from it to catch the oranges and a metal blade to snip the stems. The new heads he ordered didn't match our existing poles so we had to saw off the metal threading at the end of the pole, pry off some plastic casing, then drill holes in the aluminum shaft and screw in the new head. Mort gave me a shot at the electric grinder to sand down the sharp metal edges which might be detrimental to fragile orange flesh. While we were working, his inner science teacher came out in full force and he didn't miss any opportunities to relate simple mechanics to major feats of engineering, such as when he related my use of a flat head screwdriver to hack at a piece of plastic to the Egyptian discovery of the water level in building the pyramids at Giza. I can only imagine what growing up in the Bassan house must have been like.

So now our numbers at the hostel have swelled to five: Max and me, Dennis and Lindsay, a nice couple who quit their jobs at the University of Missouri corn genetics lab to go WOOF in Hawai'i, and Sean, an MBA from China who's visa is soon to expire and wanted to spend his remaining weeks in Hawai'i. Surely, this is more inhabitants than the hostel has seen in ages, maybe ever, and we've now achieved approximately a 1:5 ratio of humans to cockroaches. Fabulous. But what's actually fabulous are the Slingers which Dennis made us last night. Apparently they are a St. Louis, late-night, post-bar crawl delicacy consisting of hash browns, hamburger, fried egg, chili, cheese and onions, arranged in a precipitous, but awe-inspiring tower, one ingredient atop the next in a configuration designed to best induce heart attack. Needless to say, Max was beside himself with joy, and we are all now fast friends.
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I've been working on the orange farm, all the live long day [Aug. 26th, 2009|03:57 pm]

6/6/09

Dennis, imagining what Otis Redding would say after dying in a plane crash three days after recording 'Sittin on the Dock of the Bay,' "Shoulda kept sitting. Jesus."

We just completed our first full day on the island (yesterday) and our first full day of working in the fields (today). Max '11 and I got acclimated to South Point by zealously cleaning out the common area of our hostel, which appears to have been vacant for some years until we, the only guests, arrived. The common area includes a large screened in dinning room with two picnic tables and a bizarrely fancy crystal chandelier as well as not one, not two, but THREE whole kitchens, all with leaking sinks and reversed hot and cold faucets. We felt like we'd inherited a ramshackle tropical mansion and were being entrusted with fixing it up. We also took a leisurely stroll down South Point Road (horse farm! wind farm! but too far to the beach...) and went over to Mort and Keiko's for Shabbos. Mort blessed the candles, which were actually tea lights, and poured us each a glass of homemade wine. While he was in the bathroom, Keiko played us Mozart's 'Nocturne,' on a piano which took up the better part of their living room. Then it was time to divide up vegetables and head back home.

Today we woke up nice and early to meet Keiko in the packing house by 7:45 (it'll be nice to get bikes, the farm is twenty minute walk from the hostel). We found her, in all her tiny, Japanese glory, using some enormous piece of machinery to staple cardboard boxes together and toss them nonchalantly into the back of the trailer. Then she introduced us to the Marshallese dudes who work on the farm:
            --Likiak: short hair, drives the trailer, speaks clearest English
            --Elio: goatee, a little older than others, best picker
            --Tsitsiro: youngest and smallest, probably should be in high school, not orange fields
            --Junior: skinny, wears Barack Obama shirt, everyone's favorite
            --Komi: long skinny braid worn under baseball hat, quiet
            --Franny: has a sweet pompodour, is attempting to teach Max Marshallese
            --Branton: largest and strongest of the group
            --Tenoriko: unfortunately I can remember nothing distinguishing about Tenoriko
            
I wouldn't describe Ka'u Gold Orange Co. as an organic farm so much as a magic forest, sprawling, overgrown, and easy to get lost in. The farm is 150 acres, contains over 18,000 trees, and has no clear system of rows or paths. Keiko showed us the ideal way to go through the trees, clipping off the low hanging fruit with hand sheers and using an extendable picking pole for the high ones. That method quickly fell by the wayside however, when the row would suddenly become blocked by eight foot tall, razor sharp elephant grass blocking the way, and the tree itself entagled with wild vines. At this point you could either crawl through the pig tunnels on your hands and knees, awkwardly towing your pole and picking bag behind you or just find another row to start picking in. I generally opted for the latter, especially after I got pig shit all over myself. The work was pretty demanding physically: your bag gets heavy the more oranges you fill it with, the picking pole is incredibly awkward to use and somewhat painful if your hands are small and unshielded, and added to all this is the optical difficulty of trying not to pick an orange that is too hard, too green, or too rotten, from thirty feet below, with the sun shining directly in your eyes. I was a little jealous of Max's colorblindness and nearsightedness, which exempted him from picking (lest he accidentally sabotage operations), allowing him to snip stems and chat with Keiko. He said he told her he'd be happy to go out and keep picking but she replied emphatically, "No! You stay here snip!" Despite the intensity of the physical labour, working on the farm feels like a hunt for enchanted treasure: the perfect orange. Or at least, the perfect orange flower, who's scent was so intoxicating I nearly fainted when I accidentally smelled one for the first time.

By the end of the day, we'd picked over 3500 lbs, thanks mostly to the Marshallese dudes, who wield their picking poles and climb trees so gracefully you'd think they were born doing it (which in Tsitsiro's case might unfortunately be true). Stay tuned for the next edition where you'll hear about: our sweet room! the arrival of fellow WOOFers Dennis, Lindsay, and Sean! and most importantly, Slingers!
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Brave New World [Aug. 18th, 2009|10:22 pm]

6/5/009

Aloha from Hawai'i! People really do say that kind of thing here, a fact which caught me off guard initially. We arrived at Kona airport yesterday afternoon after two long and largely uneventful flights from Baltimore. On the first flight I slept for many hours until I noticed the kicking screaming noises of the little girl sitting behind me who was keeping most of the plane awake and on edge. She even managed to wake me through my ear plugs. I got out my special puppy (embarrasing that I travel with it, I know, but it was a going away gift from Kait'10), and made it bark and jump in her lap, and that seemed to appease her.

The Kona airport had the best ambiance of any airport I've ever been to, largely because it was completely outdoors. The boarding gates, baggage claims, and security lines were housed under shaded, open air pavilions and scented with flowers from the leis woven by little old Hawai'ian ladies to sell to tourists. After a long wait at the airport, we caught the Hele-on bus and made lots of new friends. There was Cliff, the large and amiable bus driver with a Southern accent who'd just returned from a hiking trip to Arizona, Tim, the super talkative airpolane mechanic/registered nurse who gave Max and I a white grapefruit and more information about solar panels, geology and life on the island than we could process, Divan, the nice Hawai'ian lady who worked on Honolulu but lived in Ocean View, the alleged slum of the island located on a lava flow, and Daniel, a man who'd just moved to Kona from California and wove leaves into bowls for a living and sold them to tourists. It rained during the two hour drive to South Point , making the hairpin turns and steep climb up the volcano (there are two active ones on the Big Island), that much more exciting.

When we arrived at South Point Road, Mort, our WOOFing farmer and host, picked us up in his SUV and took us to meet Keiko, his wife. Keiko was every bit as tiny and adorable and Japanese as I had hoped, and she made us cabbage salad with pork, cucumber and peppers, brown rice with tofu, meat, ginger and garlic, butter squash, ribs (of the notorious wild pigs, I suspected),  and hawai'ian sweet bread for dessert. Throughout the meal, Mort discussed his restricted diet due to a wacky alternative treatment for colitis which involves intravenous cleansing. It seems like people around here gravitate to one end of the nutritional spectrum or the other: either they eat complete junk food, pre-packaged crap, or they home cook everything without sugar, dairy, oil, or anything tasty. The upshot of Mort's diet is that it is (inadvertently) turning his hair black again. Keiko, who doesn't have colitis but also receives quilation, also exhibited a large black spot in the midst of her graying hair. We finished off the meal with some of Mort's home made wine, which was neon yellow and terrifyingly sweet. Max dubbed this concoction, "Mortishewitz." Then it was back to our spartan little hostel down the road from Mort & Keiko's and twelve hours of much needed sleep.  
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Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip [Aug. 16th, 2009|05:25 pm]

Hello World!

As most of you know, I've been home from Hawai'i for over a month now, but due to limited internet access I wasn't able to blog while actually in the island oasis. Instead I kept a careful journal, which I now present for your reading pleasure in transcribed blog form. I know that most of my vast readership (i.e.parentals) will by this time have already heard most of my stories and seen all my pictures, but for those who don't keep such close tabs on my life's adventures, here's the premise.

On June 4 I embarked on a four week journey with fellow Goucher student Max Levenson '11 to the Big Island of Hawai'i. Our purpose was to learn about the environmental and administrative aspects of organic farming while completing an internship with farmer Mort Bassan on his Ka'u Gold Orange Farm in South Point, Hawai'i. We'd located the internship through the expansive organic farming omnibus organization WWOOF, which matches up volunteers with farmers all around the world who agree to pay for room and board in exchange for work. What would ensue over the course of four weeks is a tale of adventure, daring, discovery and oranges. Lots of oranges. Read on!
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The Meanest Ballet Teacher in the World [Apr. 8th, 2009|11:42 pm]

Alright, this entry isn't really going to be about Laura, my instructor extraordinaire of DAN 127. But I have been thinking a lot about writing a short story about her, especially after she told me in class today, "You know, I thought your body lines in that exercise were quite good, but if you had Danilova for a teacher, she would have yelled at you for having floppy chicken arms." Whoa, good thing I didn't go to the School of American Ballet in the sixties. Still, it was better than what she told poor Marlin, "I thought you were doing the step wrong, but actually your legs are just shaped funny." Oh Laura, where would we be without your scathing honesty? This woman is worth about three Maureen Dowds with a little lemon juice thrown in for tang.

But as I said, this entry isn't about the meanest ballet teacher in the world. It's about the Greatest Modern Architect in the World... Except for Frank Lloyd Wright, and Maybe a Couple Other People. For other interesting looks at the life and work of Louis I. Kahn, I highly recommend the documentary My Architect, which was directed by Kahn's illegitimate son. Or you could just read my Historic Preservation paper, which is pretty sweet too.

Maura Roth-Gormley

HP 220: Documenting and Preserving Historic Buildings

Professor Sheller

22 March 2009

Beautiful Geometry: the Life and Work of Louis I. Kahn

In practically every major American city, in countless modern institutional buildings, the style and influence of one architect inevitably shines through strong and clear. Louis Isidore Kahn’s soaring, geometric design style has been imitated in high rise apartments, public institutions and office buildings across the U.S. in the second half of the twentieth century. His style has become institutionalized in American architecture to the point where an ordinary observer would probably find such replications of his work mundane or even ugly. But despite Kahn’s widespread influence on American buildings, his name and legacy are seldom acknowledged outside of academic circles. Kahn revolutionized modern architecture through his heavy use of brick, stone and cement where previous modern architects had focused on the transparency of steel and glass.[1] By integrating concepts from traditional schools of architecture into his own cutting edge designs, Louis Kahn created an innovative, geometric style which continues to influence American architecture. This paper will focus on four of Kahn’s seminal works, which span his career from small scale suburban homes to monumental government complexes: the Margaret Esherick House outside of Philadelphia, the Phillips Exeter Academy Library, the Salk Institute of Biological Sciences, and Sher-e Bangla Nagar, the National Capital of Bangladesh.

Just as his buildings evoke a soulful, unique perspective on design, Louis Kahn’s personal life gives the portrait of a brilliant but peculiar man invested wholeheartedly in his craft. Born in 1901 on a small Estonian island on the Baltic Sea, Kahn immigrated to Philadelphia in 1905, spending his early childhood moving frequently between the city’s impoverished slums.[2] Some historians speculate that it was in these cramped, gloomy tenements that Kahn’s lifelong fascination with open, light-filled interior spaces was born.[3] Kahn’s peculiar appearance was shaped early in life by a coal fire accident which scarred his face and hands, and a brush with scarlet fever which raised the pitch of his voice and prevented him speaking above a soft squeak.[4] Despite his shy deportment and late start in school, Kahn demonstrated an early talent in both music and the arts, ultimately deciding to focus on architecture when he entered the University of Pennsylvania in 1920. There, Kahn benefitted from the instruction of the leading minds in architecture at the time, including Paul Philippe Cret, a master in the Beaux-Arts tradition.[5] Upon graduation from Penn, Kahn toured the great cities of Europe between 1928 and 1929, studying the ancient and classical monuments which would later be integrated into his cutting edge, modern designs.[6] Although Kahn worked as an architect for his entire adult life, critics consider him something of a late bloomer in the field, contributing little work of significance until the last fifteen years of his life.[7]

            The Margaret Esherick House, built outside Philadelphia between 1959 and 1961, provides a striking example of how Kahn’s small scale domestic architecture foreshadows the cavernous public institutions he would design later in life. Set in the wooded suburbs of Chestnut Hill, the Esherick House is notable for its strongly geometric rectangular exterior and thick cement exterior walls which measure more than two feet in thickness.[8] Both of these elements, a geometric design executed in thick layers of concrete, would be recurrent themes throughout Kahn’s career, as seen in structures such as the Salk Institute of Biological Sciences in California and the National Capital of Bangladesh. The interior design of the Esherick house emphasizes Kahn’s trademark sense of expansive openness and uses windows and bays, particularly on the rear façade of the house, to provide a portal onto the surrounding environment.[9] Kahn strategically placed screens and ventilation apertures in many of the house’s windows to allow inhabitants to modify the amount of light and fresh air admitted to particular rooms. The overall purpose of such a design is to make the character of the house dependent on the weather and season surrounding it.[10]

            Often praised by critics as Kahn’s most revolutionary and influential design, the Salk Institute of Biological Sciences in La Jolla, California stands as a testament to its architect’s unique approach to lighting and space. The Salk Institute, which was designed and built between 1959 and 1965, was commissioned by Dr. Jonas Salk, inventor of the polio vaccine, to be a modern research facility capable of bridging the gap between the modern arts and sciences.[11] In order to accomplish this lofty philosophical goal, Kahn turned to the classical architectural tradition of ancient Greece and Rome for guidance and inspiration. During his travels in Europe following graduation from the University of Pennsylvania in 1928, Kahn was inspired by the “‘wrapped ruins’” style building, which could be seen in such structures as the courtyard of San Francesco at Assisi and the Roman ruins of Palatine Hill.[12] In these buildings, heavily constructed walls are wrapped around the primary space of the structure in order to create a dramatic sense of light and shadow.[13]  Kahn’s sketches from the early 1950s indicate that he was also inspired by the Acropolis of Athens which, like the Salk Institute, stands on a prominent plinth by the ocean, seemingly rising from natural cliffs.[14]

With these classical inspirations in mind, Kahn’s original design for the Salk Institute focused on three main concepts of lighting and space. Although each concept was innovative in its own right, none was fully realized in the final design of the Institute and can be seen more clearly in Kahn’s later work. First, Kahn sought to wrap interior spaces in heavy cement “shadow-giving walls,” mimicking the monuments of ancient Greece and Rome. Second, instead of creating a single spacious structure to house the Institute, Kahn envisioned a number of smaller independent structures, or “room-buildings,” to make up the overall plan of the Institute, thus creating a “society of spaces.” Finally, Kahn used a folded, accordion-like plan to combine “served and servant spaces” within the Institute’s overall structure.[15] Kahn’s final design for the Salk Institute includes a laboratory complex consisting of two identical folded plate structures facing a wide central court, which is empty of any landscaping or ornamentation save for the narrow, continuously flowing ravine which bisects the entire design and seemingly vanishes into the horizon.[16]

            Like the Salk Institute’s combination of classical inspiration and innovative design, the Phillips Exeter Academy Library demonstrates how concepts from early libraries can inspire an original and groundbreaking new structure. On this project, which was created between 1965 and 1972, Kahn’s pioneering and questioning nature is clearly evident. The design for the Exeter Library challenges the traditional program of the library, which typically separates spaces for people from spaces for books. Kahn believed in a dynamic relationship between people and books and sought to reconcile their separate positions within the structure of the library. He also conceived of the library as a sacred space, a temple for housing the priceless treasure contained in books.[17] It is reasonable then that Kahn looked to actual places of worship for inspiration on the project, most notably Frank Lloyd Wright’s Unity Temple, the medieval monastery library at Durham, and the cloister of Bramante’s in Rome.[18] In his plans for the Exeter Library, Kahn made certain to allow access of natural lighting to student reading carrels (individual work spaces) in the manner established by medieval monasteries.[19]

Viewed from its exterior façade, the Exeter Library comes across as an uninspiring four story brick structure with rectangular bays and corner stair cases. Upon entry however, the true genius of the structure is evident in the spacious, naturally lit interior which allows glimpses into the book stacks through large circular openings in the concrete walls. The three primary spaces of the Exeter Library include reading rooms around the outer edges of the building closest to the outside light, book stacks located far from natural light in the interior of the building, and a top-lit central hall to serve as a gathering place upon entry.[20]

            Sher-e Bangla Nagar, the National Capital of Bangladesh and a veritable city in its own right, stands as evidence of Louis Kahn’s final and most ambitious design concept. Built over the course of twenty-one years, Sher-e Bangla Nagar ultimately outlived Kahn himself, who died unexpectedly of a heart attack in 1974, nearly ten years before the project was completed.[21] If Kahn had lived to see the National Capital to completion however, there is little doubt that he would have been dazzled. The completed National Capital exceeds the definition of a mere building or even project site and includes not only structures to house the National Assembly and Supreme court, but also  buildings to house schools, a library, offices, hostels, markets, and gardens.[22] Reaching this impressive result was not without challenges though, and Kahn’s infamous failure to meet deadlines only exacerbated the organizational challenges of building in an impoverished faraway nation to delay the completion of the project even further.[23]

In seeking inspiration for this daunting project, Kahn turned to two of the modern architects he admired most and incorporated elements from Bengali culture. From Frank Lloyd Wright, Kahn borrowed the umbrella columns which Wright had used in his Johnson Wax and building, and from Le Corbusier, Kahn used the elliptical roof from the Ronchamp Chapel.[24] After experiencing Bengali culture on his first visit to Dhaka in 1963, Kahn deciding upon using separate buildings to house the National Assembly and Supreme Court, mirroring the concept of independent “room-buildings” which Kahn had developed while working on the Salk Institute. These two government chambers would be housed in a central citadel and joined by a mosque, thus symbolizing the importance of Islam as a unifying force in Bangladesh. In a series of remarks delivered in 1965, Kahn describes, in his singularly poetic style, the need for the Capital to be a place of unity and assembly,

“[…] assembly is of a transcendent nature. Men came to assemble to touch the spirit of community, and I felt that this must be expressible. Observing the way of religion in the life of the Pakistani, I thought that a mosque woven into the space fabric of the assembly would reflect this feeling.”[25]

Despite the sense of unity conveyed in the Capital, the numerous buildings which make up the project’s design ran the risk of becoming chaotic. Kahn likened the design process of Sher-e Bangla Nagar’s to placing pieces on a chessboard, each piece being both independent and interdependent on its comrades for meaning.[26]

            The final result at Sher-e Bangla is a structure as massive and complex as it is intricate and starkly beautiful. The main citadel housing the National Assembly, Supreme Court and central mosque stands as a stone and brick fortress constructed of geometric blocks and Kahn’s trademark cylindrical columns, perched atop an artificial lake. The façade of the building is inset with triangular, circular and rectangular bays to allow light into the Capital’s vast gallery spaces.[27] Having weathered many political upheavals during its construction, the National Capital of Bangladesh serves not only as a shrine to Kahn’s architecture but also as a testament to the strength of democratic institutions in this developing nation.

After nearly fifty years in the field of modern architecture, Louis Kahn left a legacy of strong professional achievement but enigmatic personal relationships. In the 2004 documentary, My Architect, Louis Kahn’s son Nathaniel, the film’s director, reveals his father’s peculiar domestic life and detachment from family. Kahn carried on long term relationships with not only his wife but two mistresses, and three illegitimate children, all of whom lived within several miles of each other in a suburb of Philadelphia. As a man who traveled frequently and funneled all of his passion into architecture, Kahn left little time or energy for his family members, who nonetheless loved and admired him deeply.[28] Despite his lack of a stable family life, Kahn developed a reputation among his clients and students as an eccentric wise man, a lone genius who inspired many with the geometric poetry of his buildings but was emotionally attached to few.[29] Kahn’s peculiar, nomadic lifestyle ended fittingly with his death by heart attack in a public restroom at New York’s Penn station.[30]

Throughout his career in American architecture, Louis Kahn conceptualized buildings from an altogether unique perspective which integrated concepts from traditional architecture into innovative, pioneering designs. Critics have attributed a variety of modern architectural concepts to Kahn’s work, such as the use of independent room-buildings to break up a large structure, continuous rounded facades constructed of brick and concrete, and strongly geometric shapes such as circles, triangles, rectangles and columns.[31] Perhaps Kahn’s greatest legacy though is the high regard he earned from his students and contemporaries in the American architectural community. John Lobell, a student of Kahn’s at the University of Pennsylvania, describes him as a “philosopher-poet as well as an architect,” stating that

Kahn repeated himself again and again, speaking of Order for twenty years, continually refining, finding a tighter fit. Embarrassed at his self-repetition, still he was driven to find a more perfect expression until the whole came together and stood gleaming in the sun like a pyramid: a perfect form, new in that it had never been before, but eternal in that its form was inevitable.[32]

It is clear from this statement that Kahn refused to be defined solely by his role as an architect. In creating innovative works such as the Esherick House, Salk Institute, Exeter Library and National Capital of Bangladesh, Kahn transcended the bounds of mere architect, becoming instead a groundbreaking style-maker whose designs are mimicked but impossible to duplicate.

 

 

 

 

 



[1] Leonard Quart, “My Architect: a Son’s Journey (Film).” Cineaste 29, no.2 (Spring 2004), http://web.ebscohost.com, pg.24.

[2] John Lobell. Between Silence and Light (Boulder: Shambhala, 1979), pg.114.

[3] Robert McCarter. Louis I. Kahn (New York: Phaidon, 2003), pg.9.

[4] David Bruce Brownlee. Louis I. Kahn : in the realm of architecture (New York: Rizzoli, 1991), pg.20.

[5] Lobell, pg.114.

[6] Brownlee, pg.22.

[7] Lobell, pg.114.

[8] McCarter, pg. 160.

[9] Brownlee, pg.152.

[10] McCarter, pg.162.

[11] McCarter, pg.183.

[12] McCarter, pg. 210.

[13] McCarter, pg.183.

[14] McCarter, pg.211.

[15] McCarter, pg.210.

[16] Brownlee, pg.332.

[17] McCarter, pg.304.

[18] McCarter, pg.322.

[19] McCarter, pg.305.

[20] McCarter, pg.306.

[21] Brownlee, pg.374.

[22] McCarter, pg.259.

[23] Brownlee, pg. 374.

[24] McCarter, pg.282.

[25] Louis Kahn, “Remarks,” (1965) qtd. in Alessandra Latour, ed. Louis Kahn: writings, lectures, interviews (New York: Rizzoli, 1991), pg.195

[26] McCarter, pg.282.

[27] Quart, pg.24.

[28] Quart, pg.24.

[29] Quart, pg.25.

[30] Lobell, pg.115.

[31] Quant, pg.24.

[32] John Lobell. Between Silence and Light (Boulder: Shambhala, 1979), pg. 4.



Margaret Esherick House



Salk Institute of Biological Sciences



Philip Exeter Library



National Capital of Bangladesh



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