Episode 6: In Which Jay Gets Killed by the Mafia About Ten Times.

Previously, on Keep Calm and Joust On

Jay bought a bunch of paintings from salvation army to use a decorations. No jokes here, second hand shops are like the best place to obtain awesome art on the cheap. Hell, you can even buy some crappy art and a few tubes of paint then rework the canvas into some sweet multimedia piece. I got four paintings $9.

Whales Are Probably Aliens

Day 5: The fifth day on Rarotonga was our first real day of the educational part of this field trip. We started with an economics lecture from a disgruntled and very angry economist. He had some choice things to say about the current state of affairs on the island and about how poorly he thought Pacific politics are being handled. The lecture was at the 'university' on the island, which was one building with a bunch of computers and tribal statues. I believe we sat in the only lecture room in the building, but I was still a bit blown away that there was a university at all. The island only has a population barely over 9000. After that lecture we headed to our second: a lecture by Nan Hausser, a fairly well known whale researcher. We learned some crazy things about whale movement patterns, reproduction, and navigation. It turns out that there is a large amount of research that indicates that whales actual navigate the ocean by stars. Celestial navigation was used by human navigators with a heavy amount of math and logic, but apparently whales have long hairs that allow them to be expert celestial navigators. Basically, whales are goddamn space aliens. Which, honestly, I could totally understand that - it kinda makes sense to me.

After lectures we headed off to a farm and learned to plant taro, the native root vegetable. Taro is a vital part of sustenance in the Cook Islands and is basically a really bland and chalky tasting grey potato. But, it is one of the only vegetables that natively grows, so it ends up in almost every meal in some way. Then, we learned the art of climbing coconut trees. It is difficult. Our native guide, however, managed to shimmy up the tree trunk in a few mere seconds. He went on to teach us how to properly husk, crack, drink coconut water and eat the meat. He somehow managed to husk a coconut with his teeth and in about a fraction of the time we were able too. The proper way to husk a coconut is to smash it at various angles onto a sharpened ironwood stick that you've put in the ground and prying off the thick husk. Most people don't realize, coconuts don't come off the tree as they appear in the supermarket. Instead they are enclosed in massive nut shaped husks about a foot in diameter. I can now truthfully say that I've climbed a coconut tree and husked and eaten a coconut freshly from said tree. In a jungle. On a tropical island. So, I feel pretty badass about that.

The final part of our educational day was spent at the Pacific Island Forum opening ceremonies. There was a great deal of pomp and ceremony as 15 Pacific countries were represented. Dignitaries were brought in on thrones, carried by manservant teams of 8 dudes each. There was a solid amount of press and security and lots of food and performance to go around. It did strike me as funny: for all of the ceremony, the only place big enough on the island for this was the local indoor basketball gym. The bleachers were full and we had to peek in through the windows to see the performances. Afterwards, we all unwound, cerebrated some birthdays within our group, played cards, and traded stories about life late into the night.

Day 6: We woke early for another lecture, this one on island bio-diversity. It was actually quite interesting to learn about the sheer number of endangered and protected species that lived on such a small island. Our lecturer could say "that is endangered" and just point to what he was talking about. However, I could hardly pay attention because today was our awesome day trip day. We quickly left the university to go on a cross island walk through the jungle. Since the island is so small it only took less than four hours to trek all the way up a mountain and down the other side. The foliage was lush and green, the air hot and breezy, and the path treacherous. We scrambled up and over tree roots, climbed steep slopes, and hopped across streams on our way to the top. At the top of the mountain we were faced with amazing views all around, seeing the coast in 360 degrees put the fact that we were on an island into some serious perspective. The climb up was intense, the climb down was dangerous. Along the way we found streams and awesome plants and wildlife. The views were great, the people awesome to walk with.

After that, we headed off to the beach to rent kayaks. The island is small and there are tiny islands surrounding the various lagoons that were easy to paddle to. We hopped in and explored some islands, finding cool things and having some solid bonding time. Probably my prize of the trip was discovering half of a rusted harmonica in the shallow pools on one island. We set back for dinner on the beach next to a stunning sunset. The bar was run by an eccentric Hawaiian white guy named Jim who was, as they say, a hoot and a holler.

We returned to further celebrate birthdays and play some of the most intense games of Mafia I've ever seen. This went LONG into the night, everyone wanted the chance to play god and tell the story to hilarious effect. As a future note: getting people drunk for playing mafia is always a hilarious idea. It also gave me a great premise for Mafia: townspeople are hobbits, the town is the shire, mafia are ring wraiths, the medic is a ranger, the detective is a wizard, and the hobbits all die in gruesome ways when they try to go off on adventures. We just need someone with knowledge of LOTR to be the story master.

Day 7: Massive breakfast, we packed everyone up into one cabin. 18 people in a space for 6. Then we just had a free beach day, which was great. We had to walk about a mile to an actual beach, but we could easily do so by walking around the island through the lagoon. I went on this walk around the lagoon, white dog following, with a gorgeous girl, on a gorgeous sunny day, bare feet in the water, book under one arm, and could not help but think "well, this just plain sublime". I've never been so relaxed and happy at one time. Even though I totally accidentally dropped my book in the lagoon, I was still as happy as possibly could be. I mean, actually, I don't know what could top that. As a group, we spent the day on the beach, reading, chatting, and accumulating a small pack of dogs. We seemed to attract animals wherever we went. At the house there was Tim the cat, if I hadn't mentioned him, and a flock of chickens that hung around as well.

Finally, we packed up for good, went to the airport and left Rarotonga late at night. We all tried to get shut eye, all 18 of us packed into one cabin or lying on the balcony. The airport security was hilariously easy to pass through and we flew away from that one landing strip all the way across the international date line back to Auckland. Technically, because of traveling back and forth over the date line, we pulled some impressive Back to the Future time travel. In Aukland we said our goodbyes with a great big cinnamon roll hug before heading to Christchurch. 

I will miss those Aukland kids, and can only hope to meet up with them back in the states at some point. Amazing people who were just so much fun to be around and interact with.

- Jay

Episode 5: In Which Jay Never Knew What Time It Was On The Island

Previously on Keep Calm and Joust On

Jay completed his courses at University of Canterbury, had a BBQ, feared for the life of a chinchilla that was being chased by an aardvark, and was generally productive. Oh, and on the island we 'adopted' a white dog that followed us around, his name was Charlie/Lester and he was a total boss.

Pa's Magical Mystery Tour

Day 3: On the third day of Rarotonga we got dressed and snazzy to go to a local church and experience a sunday mass island style. It was interesting to say the least, and I struggled not to dick around as I typically would. Despite the exotic location, island dialect, and baptist church style hats…I still hate going to church. Something about it just is off putting and makes me think that I'm in a cult. It might have something to do with the fact that I am of the opinion that organized religions are essentially glorified cults - the blind worship, the money collecting, the ritualistic chanting in unison, the eerily synchronized patterns of rising and sitting. Thankfully, I didn't offend anyone when I was there. I guess being around so many devout christians in Christchurch has taught me valuable lessons in holding myself back. 

After that affair, we went onto something that I would consider to be potentially a far more religious experience: snorkeling in the reef. The water was warm, the fish brilliant, and the coral beautiful. I never had gone snorkeling before and after that experience I found myself stunned that no one had ever made me go before. It definitely inspired me to go diving someday. After seeing so many incredible fish (including a stonefish!) we hung out with our British guides and ate coconuts. Cool dudes. Later we went to a bar/restaurant/mini-golf place called Coco Putt and chatted with them more. I love mini golf, and island mini golf is one hell of an experience. Messing around, trying crazy strokes, and all the while a goddamn jungle just a few hundred meters away. The clouds crowded in and let down some torrential rains to end out night in a big drenched bang as we sprinted back through enormous puddles with giant smiles on our faces.

Day 4: The next day we visited the Takitumu primary school on the island and were swarmed by small children. We learned some basic Maori language pronunciations and words and how to make crafts out of various ferns from the island. The faculty treated us to a special buffet of traditional foods, which was amazing. During the recess type period we all got swarmed, I mean zerg-rushed, by a small horde of children demanding piggy-back rides and to be spun around by their arms. I suddenly understood how exactly how lone survivors in horror movies feel - the swarm surrounding them on all sides. Relentless. They take no prisoners. We all were quickly run ragged from playing and barely escaped with our lives.

Afterwards we set out on a special tour of the jungle. Pa Tangaroa, a local medicine man took us on a walk to show us the various traditional healing plants the island offered. It was interesting to see the strange combination of tribal superstition, christian superstition, and actual science melding together. Unfortunately, most of it came off as a crock of shit. He would often point at certain plants and proudly proclaim they would cure cancer. "See this plant? If you boil the root and eat it, it cures cervical cancer in a week!" All I could do was think in sarcastic tones: "Wow, you should tell more people about that, see the rest of the world is having a huge problem with cancer. The people of the world could really use a cure, dude." Interesting, yes; credible, not so much. The only thing of note was that there were eucalyptus plants and a certain kind of mint leaves that helped out with clearing airways. Claire has lost most of her voice at the time, and the mint helped her out a bit - even if it tasted horrible. The best part about Pa's tour was towards the end: he suddenly strayed from the path and grabbed a long stalk-like plant and told us that is was narcotics. He actually used the word 'narcotics' I shit you not. He regaled with tales of his drug use, which, of course brought him closer to the christian god. The plant he had in his hand, he said, could be and-processed into a fine powder and either snorted or dissolved in water and drank. According to his story, this would induce a hypnotic trance that seemed to bring users to the edge of consciousness while also hyper stimulating senses for a sort of heightened drunkenness. Then, to SHOW us what the powder looked like, he took a tin out of his pack and opened it to reveal over a kilo of this drug. Just casually. IT WAS THE ONLY THING IN HIS PACK. We thought, "oh, maybe he has shoes in his pack, or water, or food, or maybe a first aid kit." NOPE. JUST DRUGS. He proceeded to offer us the drug, out of the tin in his pack. Our program directors were not impressed. Naturally, Chelsea tried a little.

We finally, got away from Pa, another great escape (did I mention he was in his 50s and would creepily make sex jokes and hit on the girls in our group…no? Well, consider it mentioned.) and headed out to dinner. The Aqua Cafe was easily the nicest place we ate, a full hotel set up with more amazing food. We all bonded over how ridiculous Pa was and had ourselves a grand-old time. A final walk back to the huts in the dark was followed by cards, shenanigans, and a good time.

That wrapped up our fourth day, easily the most entertaining day we could have had. To be continued….

- Jay

Creative Work: Brain Eating Zombies From Area 51 (video)

Music Video

This is a project I've been working on off and on for the past two months. Primarily done in my spare time, I've finally been able to finish now that I'm done with papers and course work. It is a music video for a little known ska band from Germany called Skankshot. I found them wandering around the internet looking for royalty-free/Creative Commons 3.0 licensed music and I really dig their sound. Since the song is about zombies, I figured I'd use George Romero's Night of the Living Dead (1968) - also CC 3.0 because Romero is the man. I present: "Brain Eating Zombies From Area 51"

Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSRScxarBiI

- Jay

Creative Work: On the Topic of Life Goals

Creative Writing and Monologues and Projects

I figure that since I have so many small personal projects that I work on, I might as well put them up online somewhere. Well, my blog just happens to be 'somewhere'. I've started this process already by creating a youtube channel for my video and audio work (http://www.youtube.com/user/SolidGambit). The title "Solid Gambit" comes from the idea that putting any sort of work you think is good in a public space is a gambit - it is my first foray into openly publishing my work online and I risk as much criticism as I can muster. Bring it on. The piece I am posting here is my final monologue for my creative writing class at University of Canterbury, which I submitted as my 'final exam'. Hopefully before I get back to the states I will have recorded an audio version and edited together some footage to make this a short film. Here's hoping. As a fair warning, this is a long monologue.

On the Topic of Life Goals

Scene: The following monologue is spoken over film footage. The footage is all first person and hand-held shaky-cam. The camera takes us on a late night journey through a nearly deserted town. It takes us into cars, drives by neon signs and traffic lights, stops occasionally at supermarkets and shopping centers. The film is grainy and unprofessional. We assume that the camera is point of view the person speaking.

I want to make a gritty reboot of Scooby-Doo. I mean, really gritty. It'll be like a "where are they now?" sort of thing. Real gritty, you know? Like, Daphne is a stripper at Fred's skeezy club in downtown LA. Velma runs a meth lab in the basement; Shaggy and Scooby are the drug mules. Fred is venturing into organized crime and at some point the Mystery Machine will get shot up in a police chase. After so many years of trying to help the cops the team realized that mystery solving just doesn't pay the bills. They had to make a living somehow and all their dealings with the criminal underbelly of the city put them in contact with some major players. I bet Fred would be the mastermind. He was always the one with the complicated plans in the TV show after all, so I bet he'd make these elaborate deals and power plays against various mafioso. Of course, the plans would always go awry because Scooby messed something up – but Scooby's dumb luck and a "scooby snack" or two would make it all work out in the end. Oh, and I'd kill off Scrappy-Doo as soon as I got the chance. I always hated him. I don't know, I guess I just have a lot of free time to think about this kind of stuff. Who the hell would want to make a gritty reboot of Scooby-Doo? Probably just me.


I really want to make a gritty reboot of Scooby-Doo, but I can't. I'm still just a film student. I don't have those kind of resources yet. I don't have the know-how. I don't have the connections. It takes a lot to make a tv show or a film. Next time you watch a movie, and everyone else gets up to leave the theater, wait and watch the credits. Count. Just try to count all the names in the credits. It takes literally hundreds of people to make a film and they all need to get paid. It is unfathomable. Absolutely insane. But, eventually, eventually I'll make that gritty reboot. There would be interest in it anyways. I figure enough people still grow up with Scooby-Doo that they’d want to watch it. I mean, I'd watch that movie. I'd watch the hell out of that movie. That's why I want to make it. I feel like too many producers and directors, these days, just don't like what they make. So many crap-tastic films come out every year: you just know that during filming those directors woke up every morning after hitting the "snooze" button - at least three times – before going to work disgusted by their 27th remake of Halloween or Texas Chainsaw Massacre only with more boobs and gore than the last one. How many different Michael Myers and chainsaws do we really need? As many as the studio wants, I suppose.


Maybe I should do a reboot of Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Not a remake, but a sort of re-imagining, you know? The whole thing is about a demented family that kills and eats stupid teenagers, right? I could do something with that. Totally. Let's see…well, the family is all male, so we'll make them all female for starters. Maybe instead of a leather facemask, one just wears a lot of make-up. Instead of being real creepy looking and inbred they'll be pleasant and proper, but we'll keep that gross corpse-like grandfather. That bit is always good for a laugh, even if it is a bit grotesque. I think it'll be a nice sort of statement about gender roles in horror films: a decrepit corpse of a paternal figure loosely in control of pleasantly psychotic cannibal women that run around a Texan farmhouse killing teenagers with blatantly phallic chainsaws and hammers and meat hooks. It's brilliant is what it is.


I should make that film. I can't wait. Like I said, right now, I’m still just in school. All I can do is get my degree out of the way as fast as possible. All I can do is read about film and art and get the most out of being here. After that, I’ll be able to make my venture out into the film industry and create my very own Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I guess I'm really just drawn to the idea of re-doing stuff that already exists. Just because one filmmaker made a film one way doesn't mean it should end there. I don't mean plain remakes, I hate those. I think that anything one person builds another person has the right to tear it right down and rebuild it however they like. Take Beowulf for example. The classic epic tale of Beowulf fighting off the terrible creature Grendel and going on crazy adventures and fighting a dragon and all that. See, the story is all good and cool, but it's all from Beowulf's point of view. There was this writer, Tom Gardner, and he thought like I think: let's tear it down and build something new! So he wrote a book called Grendel - see, its the story of Beowulf, but from Grendel's point of view. Grendel gets to explain his murderous rampage and his mommy issues. We get to see this whole other side of the story that we never saw in the original. Margaret Atwood did the same thing, only different: she wrote this book called The Penelopiad, you see, it's all about The Odyssey but its told by Odysseus' wife, Penelope, looking back on her life after she died and went to Hades. In The Odyssey we never really hear from Penelope; in The Penelopiad, she finally gets her say about everything.


It's really…. postmodern. I guess. Do you know what postmodernism is? It's really cool. Basically, if existentialism asks, "why am I alive?" then postmodernism asks, "why do you presume there is an answer to that?" It seems a bit nihilistic, sure, but it forces you to think about the concept of meaning and assigning meaning. There is this famous postmodern art installation by Joseph Kosuth that goes by the name "One and Three Chairs". There is a chair, a picture of that chair, and an enlarged dictionary definition of the word chair. This piece begs the question: how can we possibly have a single and concrete definition of "chair"? After all, each of the three chairs is a valid representation of "chair". Meaning is flexible and inconsistent in everyday life and we take it for granted: no one thinks about the meaning they've assigned "chair" but this installation makes us realize how fragile and relative that meaning really is.


Of course, always take these sorts of ideas with a mountain of salt, or else you'll go mad. The very concept of realizing that our entire library of meanings barely means anything at all could send an individual into a complete downward spiral. We're talking complete nihilism. If our lives can mean anything, then our lives can mean nothing at all. If Scooby-doo means can mean justice, then Scooby-doo can mean corruption. If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh, otherwise they'll kill you. Oscar Wilde said that. Brilliant author and you've got to admit: he's got a point. In fact, this is why a lot of intense questions of postmodernism and nihilism and existentialism are posed in joke form. Difficult stuff to digest but it makes you laugh in case the question frightens you.


Take this one, for example: Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other side!


I've always had a sort of love/hate relationship with this joke. Well, I guess it is really an anti-joke. First of all, who is this chicken and why should I care? Is this chicken actually important or is it just some random chicken we, the audience of the joke, have just magically stumbled upon? Is it a magic chicken? Does it belong to someone? Does it have a family or some sort of story? WE just don't know. WE get absolutely no contextual clues about this chicken or the situation. All we get is "why did the chicken cross the road?" But, this is entirelyx intentional. We're supposed to either fill in our own answers or cope with the fact that there might not even be an answer. This is a postmodern exercise really. Just like defining "chair" we are faced with defining "chicken". It isn't a red chicken, it isn't one with spots or funny feathers, it isn't short or large, its just a "chicken" and whoever is telling the joke is manipulating our minds into filling that ambiguous chicken-sized gap with whatever we define as "chicken". I guarantee that whatever I imagine that chicken to look like is completely different to what you are imagining right now.


I say love/hate because I hate that this joke it puts us in a position of unwilling agency. Asking that question assumes that we are in some sort of position to actually know the damn answer - yet, we have no idea. Whenever I'm asked, I'm overcome by this sudden wave of guilt and shame: I should know why that chicken crossed the road, and I can't believe that I never took enough interest to actually know why. Great. Thanks, you jerk joke-teller. Now I feel bad. Ultimately, there is simply no way to know the answer. Like I said: no clues or context. It is impossible to know that chicken's motives. We've been faced with an impossible task and I feel nothing but helplessness at my inability to understand this enigma of a chicken. I'm helpless to understand a mere chicken, how pathetic is that? Even if it is a hypothetical chicken, this chicken is still a complete mystery. Behind its imaginary beak and beady eyes lies the greatest mystery I've ever encountered. This simple chicken is suddenly more mysterious and interesting than James Bond. I should make a reboot of James Bond, too. I'll figure that one out later.


Anyways, the joke always gets me frustrated. Why did the chicken cross the road? Why don't we just ask the chicken? Hell, why are you asking me? I don't even give a shit about this chicken. I shouldn't anyways. You know what? Fuck this chicken! But, I digress.


The joke inevitably comes to it's natural conclusion: to get to the other side. Wow. And just the set up alone gave me a lot to think about. Now this punch line? To get to the other side of WHAT? The road? I doubt it. If we have such an enigmatic and abstract postmodern chicken on our hands I think it is safe to assume "the other side" has some deeper meaning to it. Maybe the other side means the afterlife. Maybe the journey of crossing the road is the chicken's life and getting to the other side means its racing towards death… which is pretty depressing for a chicken. But it makes you think, doesn't it? Maybe this is a cautionary tale: don't go through life just to get to the end. Maybe this is cautionary tale: while the road can be filled with cars and hazards that might kill you, if all you do is try to just get to the other side, what's the point? You die anyways. Or maybe, the other side of the road is irrelevant. Maybe the chicken is counting on being hit by a car or truck so it can die and get to "the other side". Do we find out, at long last, that our chicken is actually suicidal? That dramatically changes the question! Why did the chicken cross the road suddenly is transformed into why did the chicken commit suicide? Come to think of it: chickens only have beaks and claws, they can't really kill themselves at all - crossing the road to get hit by a truck could be the only way. And, hell, maybe our chicken really needed to commit suicide, we don't know what its life has been like. Maybe it just can't stand to lay another egg that will only be stolen by a farmer, put into a crate, bought, sold, and fried up with bacon. Maybe it thinks that suicide is the only way out this miserable reproductive slavery. Or, maybe the chicken is really a metaphor for ourselves. Why would we commit suicide? The question is a hard and very serious one, but I suppose masking that sort of deep existential crisis as a chicken joke is a pretty good way of disguising such a serious topic. The next time someone asks you why the chicken crossed the road, I suggest you give a good hard think as to why they are asking about your mental health!


Of course, maybe there is just some food on the other side of the road and our chicken is just a bit peckish. I guess we'll never know - and that is my point. We'll never know the meaning of the joke or the chicken's motives and we have to live with that fact: something has no knowable meaning. All we can do is make up meanings for ourselves. All we can do question existing meanings. All we can do is analyze the chicken's motives. All we can do is tear down our concept of meaning and build it anew and THAT is why I want to make a gritty reboot of Scooby-Doo.


The camera, in a car, pulls into the driveway of a suburban house and parks. The shot lingers and then fades to black.


Thanks for reading.
- Jay

Episode 4: In Which Jay Arrives in Rarotonga and Makes Friends

Last time on Keep Calm and Joust On:

Jay figured out that the automatic posting function does not work the way he thought it did, went bowling, and made a music video for a German third wave ska band named "Skankshot".

You Can Dance if You Want To. You Can Leave Your Friends Behind.

As an IES abroad student we have several group trips through the semester, and our big one is to Rarotonga, the largest of the Cook Islands. Because our group is so small, only three of us, we joined up with the Aukland IES program for a much larger trip. Three of us became eighteen of us. And that was pretty awesome.

Day 1: After a restless night we woke up to catch our 4:30am taxi to the Christchurch airport for a one hour flight into Auckland. We hopped off the plane and wandered the airport, I was pretty familiar with it after all the time I spent there entering the country in July. Our small group met the Auklanders and we tried remember each others names. Check in. Customs. Security. A quick stop at the duty free shop and we were off. A three and a half hour flight was made easy by a hot meal and the movie Drive. Which was pretty sweet. I was able to grab an hour of shut eye in between watching a large older gentleman practically die of laughter as he watched Anchorman. A pleasant flight and we arrived in Rarotonga. Let me paint a picture real quick: ocean, ocean, ocean, ocean, oh shit why are we defending there's nothing but ocean! We decended so close to the water is was bit terrifying. The runway of Rarotonga airport begins a grand total of ten feet from the shoreline. Coming by sky, the island seems to jump up underneath you out of nowhere. Then you walk out of the plane onto the one, singular runway, and realize: holy fuck I'm on an island. All you can see is beach and jungle covered mountains. Oh, and it was damn nice weather. The actual airport is tiny, two customs officers, one luggage belt, and the whole thing is open air. For the first time in my life, I arrived by plane on-time, got my luggage, and got through customs without a single hitch. Best flight of my life.

We moved into our accommodations: girls in beach-side bungalows and guys in cabins up the road. From the balcony of the cabin we had the most stunning view of the lagoon, beach, and mini-islands nearby. Talk about paradise. The one thing that just floored me was that when we looked out at the ocean horizon, there was just nothing there. I realized I was on this tiny, 6 mile wide, speck in the middle of the entire Pacific ocean. No feeling like it. We dined at Mama's Cafe, Maddie was forced to dance for her birthday, apparently customary. Later we tried to go down to the beach, making friends as we went, but were thwarted by the tide receding too far out. Why not just walk out to the water? Sea slug mine field. In the dark they look like rocks and they were everywhere - some as big as my forearm - and that is not pleasant to walk through. We chilled and turned in for the night.

Day 2: Wake up. Its fucking beautiful. We just sat on the balcony looking out, just stunned by our first tropical sunrise. We headed off to the saturday market, a touristy affair but filled with awesome food, music, dancing, and local goods. Sadly, I didn't bring much money with me, not expecting it, and had to pass up some great souvenirs. The craziest thing was the black pearls, the Cook Islands' claim to fame. They are really something else to just see in the tropical setting. It is one thing to see a pearl under glass in a shop, but to see one about 200 meters from where it was found? A whole new perspective.

After the market we headed off to our coordinators place to learn some local culture. Using coconut tree palms we constructed woven plates and ceremonial accessories. We used inks to dye sarongs and learned islander dances and the local haka. We sat and ate traditionally prepared mangaian food (cooked underground in a giant makeshift oven) off of the plates we made. The food was awesome, it generally was everywhere on the island - even if taro is pretty bland. Following the dinner was a sweet dance competition where we had to get on stage and try to dance the islander dances, which, honestly, are incredibly difficult and we generally just flopped around looking like fools. The dance for guys consists of wildly swing your knees apart and together again while lifting your feet up and down to the beat of wood drums. Oh, and you can't look down at your feet while you do it. Oh, and the beat is breakneck fast. Go ahead, give it try if you think you can.

We wrapped the night with saying our goodbyes and heading back to the cabins. Naturally played cards and swapped stories and generally got to know each other better before turning in, exhausted.

To Be Continued....(7 day trip, this is only the first 2 days 0.o)

- Jay