Sitting with my Abbaa on a magical yaqona-hazed night
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As a part of the sincere effort I have been making of late to improve the state of my general mood and view on life, I have returned to taking grog, or kava, tablets on a daily basis. Although it has been somewhat of a success, and I am satisfied with the results of this new regimen thus far, the very fact of taking kava again has brought back some very pleasant memories of much happier times.
Kava is a drink to be truly savored, not for its taste, for that would be nearly impossible for all but a few connoisseurs whose skin is most likely quite shiny and patterned like tiles, ready to flake off at the slightest hint of a breeze, but for its heuristic and social properties; here, it remains unmatched in its abilities.
One of my fondest memories of drinking kava, or as we called it in Fiji, "yaqona" (pronounced "yahn-go-nah"), was on some nondescript night during the summer, probably around January or so. I can remember sitting there in the pale anemic light of the tiny fluorescent bulb in the corner of the corrugated tin shack we called home, hordes of insects flitting about it like groupies at the backstage door to an Aerosmith concert in 1977. It was hot as blazes, but a steady breeze kept it bearable, or maybe it was the grog. In this dim third-world sanctuary, I sat thinking of my mother's dishwasher - of all things! I traveled there in my meandering thoughts, and in my mind's eye, I could see each of the tiny red lights on its face, indicating the wash cycle. In the darkness of my mother's kitchen, I could see light coming in from the living room, where my mother sat perpetually reading three biographies while watching yet another "Colombo" re-run. I sat quietly at the kitchen table and listened to the steady hum and swish of the dishwasher doing its merry little job.
The room was quiet, save the slightly plastic flutter-sound of the insects' wings on the fluorescent bulb. Outside the open doors and screenless louver-bladed windows was the sound of coconut palms moving in the cooling South Pacific breeze. A cow sat under the sprouting tree across the small dirt path from our house.
I sat there in two places at once, savoring both.
As a part of the sincere effort I have been making of late to improve the state of my general mood and view on life, I have returned to taking grog, or kava, tablets on a daily basis. Although it has been somewhat of a success, and I am satisfied with the results of this new regimen thus far, the very fact of taking kava again has brought back some very pleasant memories of much happier times.
Kava is a drink to be truly savored, not for its taste, for that would be nearly impossible for all but a few connoisseurs whose skin is most likely quite shiny and patterned like tiles, ready to flake off at the slightest hint of a breeze, but for its heuristic and social properties; here, it remains unmatched in its abilities.
One of my fondest memories of drinking kava, or as we called it in Fiji, "yaqona" (pronounced "yahn-go-nah"), was on some nondescript night during the summer, probably around January or so. I can remember sitting there in the pale anemic light of the tiny fluorescent bulb in the corner of the corrugated tin shack we called home, hordes of insects flitting about it like groupies at the backstage door to an Aerosmith concert in 1977. It was hot as blazes, but a steady breeze kept it bearable, or maybe it was the grog. In this dim third-world sanctuary, I sat thinking of my mother's dishwasher - of all things! I traveled there in my meandering thoughts, and in my mind's eye, I could see each of the tiny red lights on its face, indicating the wash cycle. In the darkness of my mother's kitchen, I could see light coming in from the living room, where my mother sat perpetually reading three biographies while watching yet another "Colombo" re-run. I sat quietly at the kitchen table and listened to the steady hum and swish of the dishwasher doing its merry little job.
The room was quiet, save the slightly plastic flutter-sound of the insects' wings on the fluorescent bulb. Outside the open doors and screenless louver-bladed windows was the sound of coconut palms moving in the cooling South Pacific breeze. A cow sat under the sprouting tree across the small dirt path from our house.
I sat there in two places at once, savoring both.
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