What happens on the farm

My parents are farmers.  They have a small organic farm in Hawaii, and that is where I am now.

The farm is paradise.  Hot, insect infested, weed filled, dirty, hard-work paradise.

On the farm the ants are the size of cockroaches, and the cockroaches are the size of rats, and the rats are the size of dogs, and the local dogs go feral and take down human sized goats.

On the farm, and in Hawaii in general, things attract dirt like a politician attracts sycophants.  Whites quickly become pale red-yellow.  When you take of your shoes at the end of the day you can see the pattern of the straps, not from your tan line, but from the dust in your pores.  Banana sap dripped on your clothes will never, ever come out.  Iron rich red dirt rubbed into your clothes will never, ever come out.  Papaya sap dripped on your clothes will eat a hole in the fabric.  The air is so moist that paint grows mildew as fast as you can repaint it.  In wet winters clothes hung in closets mold.

But I love it.  At least in small doses.

So for now I enjoy my wild, untamed paradise, and in a few weeks I look forward to returning to civilisation.


  1. I’m waiting for the part where you explain why this is Paradise….

    But it doesn’t matter what I think of it. What matters is that you love it… in small doses at least. Enjoy!

  2. Kathy P says

    In the first and third photos, you look like a fairy against those giant leaves. Thank goodness you posted the one with you feeding the chooks or I’d have started to wonder.
    I’m glad you’re having a good time.

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