The Coconut Chronicles

Hello again from the Big Blue!

I am reluctantly giving this week’s Scootie award to the chicken-leg-chopping owner of the Para-Trooper Motel. How could I not? After all, it’s not every day you see someone with two hands of bananas, (weighing about 40lbs each), hanging off each side of their scooter and an adult cat (with all four legs intact, I should add), perched on the handlebars. Congratulations, you freaky little man! 

Once again, the name of my…will remain a mystery because this is a special Canada Day Edition of the Coconut Chronicles! On July 1^st, Canada turns one hundred and forty-one years old, which makes me feel, at 38.92 years old, positively juvenile. And it’s not just Canada’s birthday, the Ripster flips the page on another year of life on July one. About this, Prez and I are more than slightly melancholy. You see, this year’s party, back in Nelson, promises to be the social event of the century as the Ripster’s friends and family gather, en mass, to celebrate both his birthday and his successful Everest summit. Oh, we received an invite – three houses, four BBQ’s, tons o’fun – but Air NZ has yet to establish a cheap commuter flight from Aitutaki to Nelson, so we’ll have to send best wishes from afar. Sigh.

And how does it feel to be a Canuck who spends so little time in Canuckland? Well, it was once suggested to me, by a friend, that nationalities tend to be at their most stereotypical when abroad and I think I must agree. I feel most Canadian when I am not in Canada. Whether this is a subconscious desire to hold onto my “roots” or if I’m merely more cognizant of my behaviour when compared to other cultures, is impossible to say. But let’s just say that, last week, when I went for an underarm wax, and the cap of the super-heated roll-on waxing device came off, and my poor pit was burned by molten lava wax, and after the “waxident” I still tipped the esthetician, and said thankyouverymuch, and smiled politely, I felt more Canadian than I ever have in my life. 

CBC Radio, last spring, asked listeners what, for them, was most striking about living in Canada. Interestingly, the answer from fifty years ago when 80% of Canadians lived in rural areas and 20% urban, was exactly the same as today’s answer, when those statistics are now reversed: The overwhelming vastness of the land. But there’s much about being Canadian that nestles into our hearts and minds. For me, I love our sense of humour and humility…although I acknowledge it is a sort of backhanded humility as we all secretly harbour superiority complexes. But I feel my friend Sue, aka “Mompoet”, captured the essence of Canuckism in her poem, Hey Canada. She has been kind enough to let me reprint it here, though I must let you know that this poem was commissioned by CBC Radio for its 2007 Vancouver Poetry Face Off.

There are many uniquely Canadian references in here, so feel free to ask if you’d like anything explained! Now, without further ado…

Hey Canada

1967.

I’m lying on a cot in the nurse’s office

At David Oppenheimer Elementary

in Vancouver

where my parents enrolled me in Grade 1

when we came to Canada.

I’m bleeding maple leaf patterns

into a mound of tissue, clutched to my nose.

Up on a wall, the Queen is watching me

otherwise I’m alone

missing another assembly.

It happens every time

we file into the gym, stand to sing the song

racing pulse, sweaty palms, and WOOOOOSHHH!

O CANADA!

I pinch my nose, raise my hand

and Mrs. Forbes takes me to the nurse’s office.

I don’t know how many NFB films and recitations of

“The Cremation of Sam McGee” I’ve missed this year,

but I never miss your song, Canada,

even if it is just the Queen and me

singing it to each other.

At school and at home, I learn to be Canadian:

to celebrate Thanksgiving in October,

to call my french fries “chips”

and to eat them with gravy.

my “sneakers” are “runners”

my “mom” is “mum”.

I learn that zed is a letter and gorp is a food.

I dump Captain Kangaroo for Mr. Dressup

and learn the words of Dennis Lee,

“Alligator pie, alligator pie. If I don’t get some

I think I’m gonna die…”

I grow up proud to be a member of this

hockey-loving, CBC listening

Toyota-driving, draft-dodger-harbouring

wilderness haven of Hinterland Who’s Who.

We’ve got Emily Carr, The Group of Seven

Margaret Atwood,

the NDP, MSP,

Participaction and the Canada Council for the Arts,

Miles for Millions, the Marathon of Hope

both Expos

and those awkward aluminum teapots

at Bino’s restaurant that spill tea on your plate

so nobody will ever steal them.

By the time I finish school, I know you

in more complicated ways, Canada.

Most of the time you’re red and white and green all over

but you’re also shades of grey.

I wonder, Canada, how I’ll explain to my children

that it’s taken a dozen forevers and still

we can’t outgrow

scraped naked landscapes of clear-cut logging

highways that grow wider

as ice floes slip into the sea

how we never managed to truly

open our hearts and share the richness of this land

with each other and the rest of the world.

And I’m hoping I love you enough

that I can help us change our ways

even if I’m not sure how to do that, most days.

But some things are simple and always true

like the way we eat our cake and watermelon on July first

your birthday, Canada.

This year, I’m giving you

a pony, a hockey stick, a Canada flag

a model of the CN tower

a puppy, a medal, socks

a recipe for carbon reduction

a toque, a new Prime Minister, a CD of the Vinyl Café

and a giant croquet set

so everyone in the country can play.

After the croquet game, I’ll take you on a date

just you and me, Canada.

We’ll write a poem in the Bay of Fundy, then

watch the tide sweep it away forever.

We’ll dump a whole bottle of bubble bath

into Niagra Falls

just to see what happens.

We’ll kayak up the coast and marvel

At the mystic beauty that is Haida Gwai.

We’ll walk down to Starbucks

pay 5 bucks for a coffee

and complain about the Americans.

After that we’ll go far from the city, where darkness is

all around. Cradled in your arms, I will breathe in the

grey, green and brown of your mineral soil, and breathe

out blue, purple and gold into a crackling Northern

sky. This I will do for you, Canada, to say thank you for

making me want to learn more about you, for making

me want to stay.

As we gaze at colours and stars all around

you will whisper in my ear,

You are Canadian. You will always be a part of me, and I

will always take care of you, even when you are very old.

O CANADA!

Thanks so much to Sue for letting me use her wonderful words! Happy Canada Day to the folks back home, Happy 4^th of July to our American amigos, and lots of love to everyone else, wherever you call home.

QUESTION: What does being Canadian mean to you?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

Hello, at last, from the Big Blue!

This week’s Scootie award was going to the two young men proudly driving down the road, each with a rooster tucked under one arm, until I learned the Cock-a-doodlers were going to be used in a cock fight. Shame on you fellows! Instead, it goes to the nice young man carrying a behemoth of a cooler under one arm, after returning from a day of fishing – I would give him bonus points if I knew the cooler had a tuna in it.   

My running regime is progressing nicely. I can now call it running as opposed to shuffling, and I’m up to 12k now plus I’ve also been doing some hills (we have only two hills on the island, so when I say I’m doing hills I mean all of them). Of course, I have Rod to keep me company, he’s a big help. And not only in the exercise department, Rod also helps with hut cleanings and other chores. He even assisted me during a particularly grueling day of accounting. I haven’t yet taken Rod to bed with me but it’s not out of the question. I love Rod. What? Oh, don’t worry about Prez, he’s been known to use Rod from time to time, while raking the grounds or some other monotonous chore. I suspect Prez is almost as fond of Rod as I am.

Rod is my iPod. Rod the pod. I name everything, it’s a silly habit. Isn’t that right, Lappy? (She pets her laptop affectionately). 

Anyway, I had this very long explanation for you about my naming fetish, and names in general, but then there was the rooster scooter incident, followed by an interesting discussion between Prez and me that changed my mind. So you will have to wait until next week to find out what I call my…

In the kitchen a few nights ago, Prez said to me, “You know I’m ashamed of the men in this world.” He went on to explain how it seemed, to him, the majority of men are either murdering bastards or spineless wussies. In other words, where have all the good men gone? (Yeah, I know, we women have been asking this one for years). While I know lots of good men, I can see his point. But what does it mean to be a man? 

In prehistoric times, a man’s purpose was clearly defined – kill things with a pointy stick, bring them home for dinner, then create more humans. If Caveman A could not produce dinner or babies, he didn’t last long and Caveman B would step in. Brutal but simple.

In this more civilized age, a man’s role is an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of expectations. When does a man cross the line between Strong & Self-assured and Egoistic Macho Pig? I suspect that depends very much on the environment he finds himself in.  The Cook Islands are still a very male dominated culture. My friend Moana was told at an Island Council meeting she attended – she being the only female present – to move to the back of the room. I’ve not experienced that degree of chauvinism but even when the more enlightened in the business community get together it is hard for the piggy among them to hide their true nature. Standing next to Prez, I’m all but invisible and my words meaningless -not to all men here, but enough to make it noticeable. 

At the other end of the spectrum you have the men who John Wayne would slap silly if he were here, and alive. We had a guest a few months back who certainly wanted the world to see him as a He-man. Any time of the day, you could see him strutting about, shirtless, gold chains swinging in the breeze. (It is considered very rude to venture outside a resort here without a shirt on). In the basket of laundry he asked me to do, was a large beach towel decorated with all the signs of the zodiac…in various sexual positions. Ick, ick, ick! So, imagine my surprise when the bare-chested wonder steps into the office, pale faced and clearly distressed, to ask me if I would please kill the spider in the bathroom for him. Yes, some people are afraid of spiders, but even my friend Martha, who can barely tolerate a photo of one, has been known to tackle the odd arachnid if she needs to. Men, would you not be even slightly ashamed to have a woman march past you with a whisk broom to sweep away an insect?

F is an interesting case study in manliness. He is a kind of guybrid. He is, hands down, one of the most macho men I’ve ever met. To get him to the doctor for an injury, I almost have to force him at gunpoint.  

Prez: “I’m fine, leave me alone.”

Princess: “Your hand has been cut off.”

Prez: “I’ll put a bandage on it.”

And yet, of the two of us, he will be the first to admit that he is the most romantic, the most cuddly, the most lovey-dovey. He’ll spend hours at a time giving me “neck rubbies” or “head scratchies”. Softy? 

When I made the observation that our VHF radio reception on the property is spotty, at best, and should anything go wrong with the boat or the motor while he’s out fishing he may not be able to contact me, his response was: “Well, you know where I am and what time I should be back so wait an hour then get help. Hopefully someone will figure out which direction I’m drifting in.” If it were me, on the ocean alone, in a small boat, I’d have a GPS locator and several flares strapped to my body…and a life raft…scratch that, I wouldn’t be out there alone.

Yes, he is a macho macho man…who loves cooking and claims Phenomenon is one of his favorite movies because it’s such a great love story and tells his wife (on an almost daily basis) that she is beautiful and he’s so lucky to have her.  

For all his softer qualities, perhaps because of them, I consider Prez a “real man”.

But fellows, tell me, where do you draw the distinction between a real man and a real jerk?  

For me, I believe it comes down to respect: for one’s self, for others, for the world at large. While empathy is a quality more prominent in women, respect serves much the same function in men. Men who respect women would never consider telling them to move to the back of a room at a public meeting. Men who respect themselves would put on a shirt when visiting a culture sensitive to nakedness. Men who respect the world at large wouldn’t make roosters fight each other for sport. I don’t care how tough you are, if you lack respect you will never be a man.

Or maybe Rudyard Kipling had a better understanding of this subject than me? 

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

                                            -Rudyard Kipling

QUESTION: Are you a real man?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

Throw out your diet books, I have solved your weight loss problems! My groundbreaking solution? Eat less.

Stop laughing.

You Nutters have been reading my Cook Islands culinary complaints for months now so what I’m about to confess may come as a shock. No doubt, the food here is abysmal. Taro? Delicious if you like food that has the texture and flavour of slightly thickened Elmer’s White Glue. The mangoes are world class, when they’re in season, same with pineapples and starfruit, but woman cannot live by fruit alone. I used to wait for the supply ship with a hope bordering on obsessive, “Maybe this month there’ll be something new!”, but no more. I’ve come to face the reality that white bread, coke, tinned corned beef, and meat pies are the staples of the Cook Islander’s diet.                                                                               

For months, I dreamt of the day I’d return to Canada and gorge myself on Thai food, fresh broccoli, Panago Tropical Hawaiian pizza, Martha’s Greek cooking, Kozy’s everything, Indian, Italian, Mexican, you name it. (I even had fantasies of a McDonald’s Big Mac and fries – tell no one about this). My trip to civilization would be a return to the world of flavour. I pictured myself walking around for two weeks with some delicacy always being stuffed in my mouth. But something odd has happened.

Oh, this is hard to talk about. Give me a moment.

OK, due to the pitiful grocery selection here, a sort of “food malaise” settled over me. I’d go to the shelf, hungry, look at the meager selection, sigh, and walk away. Combined with heat that tends to sap one’s appetite, not to mention work days that often find me so busy I don’t remember to eat lunch until it’s already dinner time, my caloric intake shriveled to almost nothing.

Poor Helmi, when she came to visit, I forgot that normal people actually eat lunch and more than a few times she had to gently remind me that she was hungry and was it alright if she made a sandwich? Sorry for that Helmi!

But while my stomach shrank my energy level began to soar. I’ve begun waking up…friends, brace yourselves…early. I’m talking “before sunrise” early. Yes, me, the girl who used to joke that she didn’t know there were two six o’clocks in the day. I wake up – BING – and I’m ready to go. Prez is still sawing logs and I’m already drinking tea and typing away. I know what you’re thinking but I haven’t cracked, I haven’t gone bush, I just have more energy. Way, way more energy. It’s very wrong but I’m getting addicted to it.

And though I’m not overweight, even when I am stuffing my gullet and sleeping until noon, unnecessary pounds have vanished from my frame. Scales have never held much attraction for me – muscle weighs more than fat, remember that ladies – so I have a pair of pants, made of a completely non-stretch material, I use as my yardstick to tell if I need to take a break from the potato chips I pack away once a month (ladies, you know what I’m talking about). These pants are now very, very loose. This is no small event given that I have a derrière rivaling James Brown’s. Yep, baby got back.

Here’s an average day’s menu:

Breakfast – Bengal tea and two slices of multi grain toast

Lunch – sometimes none but often just a few pieces of fruit

Dinner – very small portion of whatever Prez cooks. (2 pieces of tuna, rice, and salad, for example)

Snacks – minimal, maybe a piece of cheese or a few crackers.

Desserts – occasionally a small bowl of ice cream or some licorice.

So here I am, lean and mean, and I love it. To quote Mr. Brown, “I feel good!” No surprise, I’ve known for years that eating less is one of the keys to health. In fact, an excerpt from Science Daily says, “For nearly 70 years scientists have known that caloric restriction prolongs life. In everything from yeast to primates, a significant decrease in calories can extend lifespan by as much as one-third.” One third? That’s a heck of a lot more life! But when there’s lots of yummy, scrummy, tasty treats at one’s fingertips what’s a girl to do?

The question is: now that I’m feeling the effects of minimal consumption, what will I do when I head north for my visit in October? Hmmmm. Honestly, the thought of feeling full and tired and bloated, no matter how delicious the fare, leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Spring rolls or spring out of bed in the morning? Full tummy or full of life? Super size or just plain super?

Well, dear Nutters, I have come to the conclusion that while I will still partake of BC’s fine food offerings, the portions will remain small, tiny in fact. Of course, I will still be free to satisfy my darker needs…and by “darker” I refer to chocolate – nectar of the gods.

Oh, and martini’s. Lots and lots of martinis.

Instead of binging, I will focus my new energy on connecting with what I really miss most, namely friends and family. And shopping. (Don’t tell Prez about the shopping part though, he’s already in a cold sweat picturing me and my Visa alone in the big city).

So there’s my guilty secret, laid bare for all the world – well, a small segment of the world – to see. Go on then, laugh.

QUESTION: Is less more?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess