Happy Honeymooners... Sort of... Part 2

If you haven't read PART 1 of Happy Honeymooners... Sort of... - please go here:

http://sirensecho.blogspot.com/2013/07/happy-honeymooners-sort-of.html

After that, come back and join me for the delightful adventures in "Happy Honeymooners... Sort of... Part 2" *continued*

So with my somehow vertical body still in mostly-functioning order, we got into the hamster-mobile and off we went, with a warning from the nice rental car lady that entrapment is NOT illegal on Hawaii, so follow the speed limits to the letter... er... number... Anyway, don't speed. However, piling a bazillion people into the back of a pickup truck with no form of formal restraints or even seating is perfectly legal (probably due to the fact that a tank of gasoline is the near equivalent to purchasing an aged Kobe beef steak or the price of a cartridge of printer ink... which as we all know is priced just slightly under a stopper-full of unicorn blood. Not that I promote the blood-letting of unicorns in any manner. I only wanted a dead animal fur for survival! Don't you judge me!)

We headed off for our scenic drive (though now I've heard that lava has blocked part of the highway and a loop tour of the big island is no longer possible!) I was positively amazed how in the span of literally a mile and a few hundred feet of elevation gain the terrain would change tremendously. It was amazing! On our fabulous driving tour of the island, including a lunch at the Bamboo Garden in Hawi, a quick hike at Pololu Overlook down a short but slick slope of a trail to a black sand beach in a tropical valley that was literally a setting for Jurassic Park, and some photo ops, we continued on. The terrain goes from dry side scrublands to dense rainforest with over 50" of annual precipitation and we hiked down a steep slope (me in a sundress and sandals, OF COURSE) right after one of the typical rainstorms. The clay-based soil proved treacherous footing, but it was neat to stand on the beach as the waves crashed in. Though technically it was more lava rock than black sand (see below shot of the "beach.")

The "Jurassic Park" valley

Lava rocks - neat!

Lovely flowers!

The flowers were blooming everywhere, and to my winter color-deprived sight, it was glorious! We filled our eyes viewing the 11 of the world's 14 different ecosystems all contained on one island. From dry tall grassland punctuated by the erratic black lava flows to the green rolling hills speckled with grazing cattle and horses, the dense green rainforest with climbing vines, wild orchids and towering stands of bamboo, to towering and fragrant eucalyptus groves thickly clustered along the roadway, and finally down to the coastal scrublands with gray shrubs and dusty grey-green evergreens, we arrived back at our beautiful hotel suite in time to watch a crazy brilliant sun sinking below the horizon.

Beautiful sunset view from our hotel

It was beautiful. Peaceful. Serene. Just us two, a mild grumbling in my lower intestines (thankfully Hawaii has a BEAUTIFUL climate year-round and was perfectly acceptable to keep the windows open. For fresh air. No really. It was necessary.)

The following day, I woke up sounding like Darth Vader. Congested is too mild a term to describe what was truly occurring. Typhoid Mary had passed her contagion to me, and I dubbed myself Mrs. Snuffalupagus. It was terrible. The pressure behind my eyes was so intense I wondered if I could even function. But this was our Honeymoon, damnit, and as previously declared- I was going to enjoy it! I quickly exhausted the supplies in my mini first aid kit, and needed more Chloraseptic to numb the battery-acid throat, more decongestants for the insufferable congestion plaguing my wheezing breath, and perhaps some Pepto Bismol or the like for my lower rumblings. I was NOT a happy camper. Thankfully, a light coat of makeup, Hawaii's amazing climate, something about light reflecting off the ocean, trade winds, and some magic of the camera did in no way convey the true state of my misery in photographs. Thankfully.

That day was our helicopter tour of the volcano, which entailed driving from Kona to the other side of the island to the airport in Hilo. I took extra-long in the restroom just to be sure nothing wicked this way comes, and once I was relatively certain everything was staying put, we ventured off in the name of tourism. Thankfully my amazing husband was the driver for the entire trip, and happily carted my stuffy self over there while I leaned my head against the hamster-mobile's window and tried to quell the raging sinus headache engaged in a furious territory war inside my nasal cavities. Fully loaded with cold meds, cough syrup, sucking down cough drops and periodically numbing the bejeezus outta my throat with Chloraseptic, I was also prepared for the potential motion-sickness from taking my first-ever helicopter ride. If I'd had to take a pre-screen drug test for employment, they wouldn't have found anything illegal in my system, but may have wondered if I downed half the pharmacy in preparation!

A helicopter that is an exact clone of the one we were in.

We arrived as a light rain began falling, and after safety briefing and some cute 1980s high-fashion fanny packs and some groovy headphones, we were ready for takeoff. We had a woman helicopter pilot and I was thrilled as we lifted off with no bumping or lurching and soared over macadamia nut plantations, countless waterfalls and the shining black lava fields. We saw the slick, oily-looking surface of a fresh lava flow, and steam vents pumping deadly sulfur dioxide into the atmosphere (we actually couldn't tour Hawaii Volcanoes National Park for this reason - but the pilot assured me that the air inside the helicopter would be unaffected. Probably because she saw my eyebrows knit together like a pair of my mom's baby booties with those dangerously sharp-looking metallic sticks of death entangled in some yarn. As previously mentioned, I'm domestically disinclined. I digress. Again.)

The volcano!

Finally we flew over the crater, though much to my dismay from Hollywood making me think all volcanoes would be burbling with a orange-red sludge of lava, it was rather disappointing to look down into. Where all the action was taking place was on the shoreline, a thousand-plus-foot tall plume of steam rising into the air where the lava tube had carried it all the way to the oceanfront and where, glimmering like long-hidden gold, gleams of reddish-orange peeked out as the lava spilled into the water. I learned that this is actually how the black sand is made. I would have thought it was due to the process of erosion wearing down the existing lava rock, but no! As the super-heated lava hits the (relatively) cold water, the sand is made as it explodes. Also, the lava flow had added something like 500 acres to the size of the island. The goddess Pele was certainly waging her own territory war, and winning, as the lava flow had swallowed up an entire town named Kalapana, save one lonely red-roofed house. No one could drive in to it any longer, so all supplies and people had to be flown in via helicopter.

Interestingly enough, after looking it up, it seems as though Pele claimed this last outpost of humanity in 2012, though my husband and I cast our peepers on it while it was still there. One red roof in a splotch of green surrounded by a sea of various shades of black.

The last house standing

I was actually feeling fairly peppy by the time our helicopter circled back to the airport - whether the fact that we lifted off as lightly as a hummingbird and that a helicopter has no "herky-jerky" motion that apparently triggers my motion-sickness, or the fact that I was so hopped up on a combination of cold meds, antacids and Bonine (Dramamine does weird things to me...) that I was just higher than 3 kites. We waited out a bit of a rainfall and watched a fun show at the Planetarium about the origin of the guiding star that led the three wise men to the manger. (Surrounded by plumeria blossoms, hibiscus and eating fresh pineapple, mango and papaya every day it was hard to remember Christmas was only a few weeks away!)

We then headed back to Kona and ate at a place called Huggos. I ate THE BEST DINNER of macadamia nut pesto pasta that I have ever eaten. I mean, it was so good that I cannot even recall what my husband had - probably a steak, I'd guess, because I was so busy stuffing my craw with delectable pasta that if we hadn't been in polite company I would've licked that cream sauce clean off the plate!

Huggos in Kailua Kona - yummy!

Confession time. I love those mixed salted nuts. LOVE THEM! I would eat them as a kid until my lips got all shriveled up and puckery from eating them. Until the salt corroded the tip of my tongue and made me wince. Honey roasted peanuts, yum! Toasted almonds - yes please! I'll even take cashews, but I've never actually liked macadamia nuts. I always thought they tasted vaguely moldy, and had the consistency somewhere between a stick of chalk and greasy crayon. Until I had fresh ones. Oh...my...bleedin...blazes are they good! I think the problem is shipping time. I mean, there may be planes dedicated solely to transporting macadamia nuts across the ocean to the mainland solely for public consumption while they're fresh, but NOTHING was as good as eating them there. They were delectable! Mild, nutty, faintly sweet, and I could've eaten until I puked. Ironic.

Well, whether it was dangerous chemistry of all the meds, the head cold, the fruity drink with an umbrella in it that may have been a bit potent, or from positively stuffing myself to the gills, there was trouble once again in the Confederated States of the GI...

After our very full day, my husband was sleeping quietly when I attempted to sneak my way quietly into the restroom. Which, being Hawaii, only had a slatted bathroom door. Feeling the first ticklings of that acid-tinge and my mouth starting to react like Pavlov's dogs at the bell, I assumed the position of worship in front of that porcelain throne... and literally cried in sorrow as I  heaved and hurled the entire delicious, amazing and sublime macadamia nut pesto pasta into the white receptacle. Tears poured out of my eyes as my insides contorted to relieve me from the curse of some imagined food demon when the worst.possible.thing.in.the.world.happened.

A squeaky toot. Which was my first, and turned out ONLY warning that more trouble was in store. Oh dear God save me now. Between soul-ripping bouts of vomitus, I was faced with a necessary choice, and in this case, there was no option to phone-a-friend to make the split decision. Bad news was coming, and I had no option but to swap ends. And fast. In a move rivaled by only the finest Russian ballerinas and Olympic figure skaters, I pirouetted while simultaneously ripping my PJ shorts down just in the nick of time... but with more ingested tenants evicting themselves out the front door as well, I needed somewhere to continue to puke up the fabulous dinner that was seeming less fabulous with every tiny hunk of macadamia scraping its way upstairs.

In sheer panic, I clapped a hand over my mouth and spied the garbage can, which as I was reaching for, realized - in the theme of the islands - was made of wicker. Oh that is SO not gonna work! I was panicked. I was trapped. I was becoming increasingly desperate. And I needed a solution with the kind of haste that would make the Looney Tunes Roadrunner have to sprint. I had no other remaining options with the bits of noodle hitting the undersides of my fingers clapped firmly over my mouth... I leaned over and puked in the tub. At the wrong end. Having not only to be assailed with the stench, but also the incredibly revolting visual of watching my macadamia nut regurtitus slowly make its way like the creep of lava down the slope of the tub bottom toward the drain was too much. I shut my eyes and bawled. And retched. And tooted. (To put it mildly.)

Now, as afore-mentioned, this was our Honeymoon. It was supposed to be romantic and sweet. We were supposed to be canoodling and feeding each other chocolate-covered strawberries. My husband should be driving a smart red Mustang! But by this time, short of ebola and polio, I seemed to have contracted nearly every form of disgusting human condition known to humankind. I was forcibly excreting substances from every orifice of my body, tears pouring down my cheeks, snot bubbles forming under my congested nostrils... and the rest we shall leave unnamed. Also, as previously noted, the door wasn't a heavy plank-and-oak construction suitable for a Medieval battering-ram, but an airy thing of slats of wood.

A view of the adorable pineapple chairs in our hotel suite and similar wood-slatted-incapable-of-preventing-a-mosquito-from-entering doors

And though my husband has the capability to sleep through an industrial wrecking ball taking out one wall of our bedroom, somehow the horrendous noises and hysterical sobbing managed to wake him. I'm not sure how. And this man, goddessblesshimalways, opens the door, sizes up the situation in one quick second, remarks "OH DEAR GOD!" and slams the door rapidly, backing away from the unbelievable sight and smell of his beautiful bride...

...which prompts me to cry even harder between my horrible mating pterodactyl-like noises, and (get this!) he takes a moment to gather himself... and comes back in the door to hold my hair while I puke up everything that wasn't previously expunged in the last great purge... of precisely two nights before.

(When we came back home, I inquired whether ANYONE else had gotten sick, so before you judge me and scoff at undercooked meat, cross-contamination or eating raw cookie dough, NO ONE else got sick at all, nor had so much as an out-of-place sneeze. It was NOT my cooking. Though I'll happily eat Chinese takeout for Thanksgiving every year if it gets me out of cooking! LOL!) So yes, my husband came once again to my rescue, though under far more dire circumstances this go-round. And was he ever my hero!!!

Ladies, when you talk about love, this has GOT to be the definition! I mean, this was my own stink and my eyes were scorched and burning from it. Also, there is very little dignity left when your PJs are around your ankles, your rear end is plastered to the throne and making inhuman noises similar to what I imagine baby whales would make when their mothers tell them to quit blowing bubbles in their chocolate milk (go with me on this one - I realize whales don't drink chocolate milk. They drink krill-flavored milk. Everyone knows that.) All the while my front end alternately sobs, apologizing and trying to thank him while performing the mother-wolf-feeds-her-pups routine crossed with a rusty foghorn.

When you are in that position, eyes pouring, stomach emptying by all exits available, WHILE ON YOUR HONEYMOON, in front of the man who just pledged to love you through good times and bad, and now you have put him to the ultimate litmus test, yes, that's love. And guys, take notes. Because I seriously don't know how he did it. With dignity, and not even any noticeable gagging... though honestly I was a little too preoccupied to notice if he was gagging. Or breathing through his shirt. Or just not breathing....

I imagine it something like this:

This dear and amazing man of mine cleaned me up (pulling me away from the drain - once the volcano stopped erupting - where I was desperately attempting to alternately push the remaining chunks down the tub's drain and try to extract them with a bit of TP) he tucked me into the bed with a tiny glass of water to sip and the woefully small icebucket, (but still better than WICKER wastebasket in case of an encore performance), and consoled me while I freaked out that the maids were going to hate me forever. He even dutifully ran 10 minutes of hot water down the tub drain (in my head thinking that this would somehow "dissolve" the clumps and we wouldn't be standing in a mixture of gray water in the morning's shower... augh!)

This is love.

And I never got a shower the next morning. In fact, I never got out of bed, (to my recollection) much at all. Gone were my plans of touring the coffee plantations, the sacred place of refuge where, if you made it prior to the tribe members catching you, then you would be forgiven all your sins. Much like a high-stakes game of capture the flag. Except if you didn't win, you were pretty much dead.

Instead, my day consisted of viewing my inner eyelids. I spent it sleeping for something ridiculous like 22 hours, during which my beloved entertained himself by watching pay-per-view movies non-stop, (thank GOODNESS I didn't have to pay that bill!) obligingly getting me a packet of crackers and more cold meds, or refilling my water glass. In fact, the only movie I can recall even being cognizant of was that one with Drew Barrymore that sparked the roller derby fad. When I awoke later that day, he had gone down to the restaurant in the hotel to bring us some dinner, which I VERY cautiously ate - having revisited the prior two... and he didn't complain one word. I however, croaked and snuffled and sneezed before finally laying down my fork and snoozing once again.

--------------------------------

Thankfully, the remainder of our Honeymoon was without eruptions either volcanic or involuntary, and we enjoyed a submarine tour, we saw a WHALE! went snorkeling the reef (where I sunburnt a distinct "V" into my derriere, though that's a story for a different day) attended a luau, and went on a jungle walk to an incredible waterfall called (to our hilarity) Akaka Falls.

Our awesome submarine! COOL!

Hope you find your Dad, Nemo!

Fire-dancer, torch-twirling Luau man!

Akaka Falls... *snirk snirk!*

However, since I ruined this Honeymoon, someday hubby and I will have to do another. And this time I'm taking the WHOLE pharmacy, a solid wastebasket and a parka... just in case.