Hawaii 5-O.M.G! Part 1: My Feet Have Gone Native

The Hawaiian Islands are the most isolated lands on Earth.  More than 2400 miles from North America, these tiny little mountain tops are further away from any continent than any other land mass on the planet.  Despite their remote nature, Oahu has become the L.A. of the Pacific, the Big Island thinks of itself as the mainland and little Kaua’i (“The Forgotten Island”) is slowly being loved to death.  Kaua’i is a crazy little dot in the middle of the world’s largest ocean; it is and is not the United States.  Of course, I could say that about a lot of places within our union, especially those far flung and remote enough to require several planes, busses, cars and steps to reach.  This description fits Kaua’i particularly well.  

Since arriving in October, my feet decided that shoes, socks and cover of any kind were incompatible with our new latitude.  Flipflops, sandals, okay but nothing at all was even better.  Within 2 weeks, shoes began to feel as foreign to my body as a damp sweater in the tropical sun.  We went hiking and I got blisters from the well worn-in shoes I’d tramped about in for years.  Quite simply, my feet rejected the trappings of their mainland habitat.  

Today, after three months of living, biking, walking, doing farm chores in only sandals or bare feet, I put my dogs to the test.  We did 8 miles on the Na Pali Coastal path, some of the most challenging trail in the country – or so “they” claim, shod only in the gently used, 2 dollar, Croc sandals I picked up at the thrift store in Price, Utah.   I have just about loved these puppies up too!  Even in this near-nothing footwear my feet are fine, happy even, after the ups and downs, slippery rocks, creek crossings, and ankle swallowing mud.  Most of the other 872 people we saw on the trail were tourists with more sensible shoe choices, boots, sturdy trainers, sandals with straps.  They cast me sideways glances when they noticed my “slippas,” or commented sarcastically, “Nice Futvere,” like the rugged German woman who was hauling ass, in her tall boots and trekking poles.  Apparently, I knew nothing of outdoor preparation and would pay the price of my hubris in a twisted ankle or injured foot.  I only saw one other “braddah” sporting flipflops on the trail the whole day – he was happily dancing from rock to rock with nothing more than his tank top and board shorts.   He nodded as he went by.  

Now many of my former students will find this hilarious because I used to make a big deal about Crocs, and sandals.  Being the coordinator of outdoor adventure programs at ASU, I had always advocated the use of sturdy, supportive and appropriate footwear while hiking or backpacking.  Indeed, I have seen the consequences of poor choices.  “Crocs,” I said, “are the worst shoes you could possibly hike in!”  I even went so far as to ban them from programs as water shoes altogether.     

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that my choice of footwear led me to Kaua’i, but the idea of spending a winter without boots was appealing.  Perhaps it was just a desire to embrace the spirit of Harry Nilsson’s “going where the weather suits my clothes,”-- remember Midnight Cowboy?  But like a gateway drug, my feet liked breathing and I wanted more, Kaua’i beckoned.

Unlike a cultish indoctrination, which would try to reason with me, keep me awake at all hours, deprive me of adequate nutrition, love-bomb me until I finally began uploading their programming, Mother Kaua’i has a more subtle and possibly effective approach.  She whispers to you upon arrival, it’s hot, those shoes and socks are so confining, why don’t you take them off for a few minutes and let your feet breath in this tropical breeze.  I heard her; upon landing I happily kicked off my clod hoppers and went about my business barefoot, across pavement, over sand and reefs, into stores, between the rows of kale, amongst the chickens and the hila-hila grass.  My feet got poked, wet, stained by the red dirt, tough, fungified then de-fugified, and each week they grew more accustomed to this place.   I wonder if this is how it happens, this going native -- from the toes up. 

Perhaps the process continues up my legs to where the hair quickly returned to my knees and lower thighs – hair rubbed away by long-legged trousers.  What will happen next, when her transformation reaches my torso?  Will I acquire some tattoo bearing modern native symbols to proclaim my island-ness?  Perhaps when her programming reaches my head I’ll think it a good idea to start looking for property here or attend a time-share seminar where I will finally step up to her white plastic folding table and drink the Kool-Aid she has prepared for me.

I have returned time and time again to this idea, while we’ve been here, this Kool-aid.  We have been exposed to some crazy island cultures that have been making, drinking and serving some messed up (though not necessarily harmful) Kool-aid to their brothers and sisters who have somehow found their way here from wherever Bali Hai called to them.  Now, I’m not sure whether 1 drink gets you hooked; but guaranteed the first one is always free.  

Next up: The rainbow of flavors...