Tom Robbins, �Villa Incognito�
This is part twenty one of a 25-part story about Hawaii. The story begins here. Part five is located here. Part ten is here. Part fifteen is here. And part twenty is here. Other parts you'll have to find yourself. So there.
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Okay, I know I�m supposed to be writing a travelogue here, but before I get back into that, I just want to say that this book is fucking hysterical. I was pissed when we got back to the campground that night, because I couldn�t read anymore.
The Girlfriend dispelled any notions that something was bothering her when we returned by proceeding to jump me again in the tent. But she fell asleep soon after that, and I couldn�t seem to get my mind off the book. I wanted so desperately to find out what happened next that I took the book with me and stood outside the men�s room bathroom, reading under the fluorescent lights.
I stopped when I realized I probably looked like I was cruising for some bathroom action.
The next morning I woke and started reading the book, laughing and hitting my hand against the ground as we ate SpongeBob SquarePants Pop-tarts. The action of hitting the ground has startled an ass pigeon that is venturing closer to us, knowing we have food.
Travel guides mention these birds by their proper name, saying they�ve grown so tame that they�ll actually land on your table and steal your food as you try to eat. The bird angles closer, and we notice that it�s missing two toes from its left foot.
Well, if any bird deserves SpongeBob Pop-tarts, it�s this one. We decide to christen him �Stumpy� and toss him crumbs from out stash. He devours every last bit of our food that we throw to him.
I finish the book, which has to be the second best Tom Robbins novel written, just under Jitterbug Perfume, and we get into the car to head for our second hiking expedition.
But the drive is taking longer than we expected. For this trip, we�re supposed to hook up with a group of people who reportedly love two things: hiking and drinking.
I think I�ll like these people.
But they also are on a time schedule, and the invitation says they�ll be leaving exactly at one o�clock. It�s now 12:30, traffic on these one-lane highways is backed up, and we�re not even at the first house that we have to go to before meeting the group.
Goddamn it.
We arrive at the first house at 12:50. My father�s friend loads up my shitty car with stuff because she doesn�t want her nice, new car to get damaged where we�re going. I convince her to drive as we�re in a hurry and I drive like an old lady on Quaaludes.
We get to the starting point, having to first cross a large stream in the middle of the road. My father�s friend drives through and we bottom out so hard, that people who are eating at nearby tables all shout out in collective disbelief that we didn�t get washed over the side.
Just as we�re parking, we see our group leaving. Our chaperone starts hollering out the window to get them to stop. Amazingly enough, they do.
We pile into a huge off-road vehicle that holds eight people. Introductions are made all around, and we start up the unpaved road, bouncing all over the place. Finally we reach an iron gate and we all pile out of the car. We start hiking past the gate, all of us carrying boogie boards.
Something like an hour later, we�ve reached a small, man-made water diversion, where the water moves slowly downhill. People get suited up, taking off their hiking gear and getting ready for water apparel. The big, loud Australian who apparently organizes these hiking trips, strips down to a Speedo.
Why the hell, in this day and age, haven�t Speedo�s been made illegal?
People jump in the stream, climb on their boards and float lazily downstream.
This is not what I would call shooting the rapids.
