Crusade to senselessness

The days come and go. Nothing and nobody to remember. Nothing happens. The hostel is full of Germans who have met here to start a semester abroad in Hawaii. I drive around Oahu with some of them for a day in a hire car. We are offered a Mustang convertible because, once again, we don’t have the right small car. Unfortunately it’s suitable for four, there are five of us. Licked the bonnet for nothing. I feel sick from the previous evening. An American soldier had talked to me for too long on the beach about Bush and Iraq.

Oahu is a small world, smaller than I thought. Beautiful beaches on the Northshore, some snorkelling. We lose our way on the way to the beach from “Lost”.
Rain follows sun again and again. Forgot my towel on a beach, nothing to keep. A towel seller says the Tradewinds have gone. Kailua doesn’t want to save me either.

Back to Honolulu in the evening. International Food Market as usual. Quick restoration for the night. My dear roommates have finally turned the place into the ultimate pigsty. Even the smell is authentic. The same spectacle every evening before they set off: smelling, wrinkling their noses, applying perfume. “Oh man, I got no more clothes.” Pissed pants lie all around the loo. The room is a sea of empty beer cans.

We take the car to the university neighbourhood. A German has rented a house with four friends. A 24th birthday party. Lots and lots of alcohol. A Berlin woman touts how good she is in bed. I give her a red stamp for her forehead. The police could come, but they don’t. 100 Germans in Hawaii. 100 names, nothing to remember. I feel old. I am, relatively speaking. Everyone is surprised when I reply: “Me, studying? I finished six years ago.” Courting roosters and clucking hens. More alcohol. There are hundreds of neatly lined-up empty beer bottles on the walls of an empty room. Germans in Hawaii.

We head into town around one o’clock. We would have made it onto page one of the Honolulu News if we had met the police on the way. Everyone had several beers with them. Drinking, 100 illegal lemmings roam Honolulu. Not even the road is a destination, it’s a crusade to futility. Where to? No idea. In between, wobbly jerks mess up the city centre. Not just behind bushes. And the lemmings are getting fewer and fewer.

We arrive at Mad Dogs just before two. Fuck-me biatch hip hop from the bottom drawer. The audience matches the sound. I have to grin at the sight of a few hoppers. Do you want to hop or stagger, you pigtail quail? An Irishman who’s been kicked out of the hostel jokes: “You also hate niggas, do you?” I politely point out to him that such jokes are not very funny towards Germans. Within a second, his face mutates into a red gorilla grimace. He is on the verge of beating me up. A real sense of humour is priceless.

I go home. On the street in front of a police car lies a bloodied drunkard brother. We care a lot. I only want one thing: to spew all this filth onto the internet. Time for contrasts to the crusade to senselessness.