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Wanderings
Sitting quietly, listening to the soft patter of the raindrops upon the dried grass hut roof, more the sound rain makes hitting upon the dense grasses of the meadow. Darkness is around, stillness. Soft breathing of the sleeping children snuggled up on their straw beds along the far wall. All this adds the the loneliness and isolation that has been building since our arrival here. This picture post card of an island far from family and friend. What ever possessed us to pick up and come upon this journey? Even more, why bring the children here? Back home they would all be starting to school with their friends. Here they have no friends ,as the natives don't even speak our launguage. How shall we communicate? What do they think of us? Do they find us as strange in dress and custom as we find them?
Few comforts do we have here. Little were we allowed to bring along, and of that much was stolen before we even hit the beach. Our escape is gone now, the ship which brought us here has long since disappeared over the edge of the earth,
just before the sun sank in a bright flash of green light. So unnerving, that color of light, but yet so beautiful . Are all the sunsets like this?
The rains soft patter now has increased to a downpour, like the heavens have opened up and started dumping every drop of water stored up for years. Soft trickles of water seep through the dried grasses covering the hut and drip down to the smooth dirt floor, no not dirt, but a fine sand, almost black in its coloration. The children stir, but none waken. I wait. Listening, listening for my husband to return. It seems hours since he left us here alone. My husband and the other few men of our group had to see the Chief or leader, whatever they call this big man who seems almost godlike to his people. Will they ever return? Will we survive this, our first night here among these savages? Would anyone miss us? Would anyone care that we never made it back? There has, since our departure from home, been no talk of returning. Our stay here may be permanent. What did they say happened to the Captain who first encountered these people? How can it be safe here now, such a short time since his visit, his fateful visit? Lunch, wasn't that what he was to them? Shall we be their breakfast? Will the children fair any better than the rest of us? Not one of these people seem to care a lick for clothing, how can you look upon all this nakedness? How can we hope to make them see that there is a better way?
They seem to have only one punishment, death! Kapu! That's the word isn't it? Don't do anything Kapu! What is it? How do we avoid doing something if we don't even know what it means? Don't go here, don't go there. Oh, I only want to go home! Home where people are civilized. Where the walls are solid wood, not grass. Where the floors aren't earth, and there's windows and doors, walkways, gardens, flower beds, friendly neighbors to visit with. Children that you don't fear for your children to play with. Where birthmarks aren't a reason to put a child to death at birth. That poor woman earlier today. Her child was only born this afternoon, and tonite it is dead. Dead because it was born with a discoloration upon its forhead. What type of people are these? Have they no feelings for new life, for what a mother suffered to bring into this world? Oh, I so want to go home. Why, oh why, did we ever have to come here?
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What was it like for those first women to come to the islands? To leave everything behind and follow their husbands, mostly ministers, into the unknown. Another day and we shall see.
Aloha for now.
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