Harvey Flea, our adventurer extraoridinaire
This is the online home of Harvey Flea, the world’s first travel writer who is also a mosquito. With humor, fun, and buckets of adventure, Harvey trots the globe. Read Harvey’s bio here.
Harvey also welcomes essays from his friends. These include Grumpy Retired Travel Writer Lady, Yuri the gloomy Moldovan, and Archibald Chops. For more information on the cast, see Adventure Strike Team.
It’s been hard to get in touch with Harvey lately, but he’s not on vacation.
Instead, Harvey has been slaving over his memoirs…sort of.
“I see myself as creating a new genre,” Harvey says. “It’s part memoir, yes, because it recounts events from my life. But it’s also mystery, because as my biggest fans know, I’m an amateur sleuth. So it’s the mystery memoir. Or maybe memorial mystery. I haven’t decided yet.”
More news will be forthcoming as we wrangle details out of our friend, so stay tuned.
This weekend, I go to Florida. I am very, very excited, because ever since I was boy, I want to see pink flamingo stand on one foot.
Moldova not have pink flamingo, especially pink flamingo that stand on one foot. It is not that I not love my pet rat, My pet rat is wonderful. But I want to see pink flamingo too.
So I go to Florida, only I am not lucky. Never lucky. I go to Puerto Rico, I see hurricane. I go to get award at work, I get stuck in lift. I come to Florida, I get dengue fever from mosquito.
Harvey say, "This not me!"
So Harvey tell me when he read this that I have to tell you that he does not give dengue fever, that it is other type of mosquito that give dengue fever, that it is not fault of Harvey. I think it is very funny that I have dengue and my boss is mosquito. Ha ha. But Harvey not laughing. So I tell you, and I tell you the truth, that Harvey is not dengue mosquito. But don’t stand too close anyway, just in case.
I saw pink flamingo on one leg!
But you no care about Harvey, yes? You want to hear about Florida and pink flamingo. At my hotel, there is pink flamingo, but I never meet pink flamingo. I see pink flamingo from my bedroom. He is in pool area. He stand on one foot! But I stay in bedroom the whole time I am in Florida, which is more than weekend, because I am so sick with Harvey fever, I cannot go home.
I move my eyes, they hurt. I move my legs, they hurt. I move my neck, it hurt.
But doctor come visit. She is pretty doctor. I not understand doctor well when she talk to me. I not understand her #A because my head hurt too much to hear well. #B, she have Florida accent. #C, she very pretty, so I prefer to look and not hear.
But I do hear when she say dengue is also called break dance fever. I think it is that. Yes, I am sure. It is good name, very good name. Because I am very broken.
You know what really funny thing is? Break dance fever is not popular in United States. It is new here. Very, very, very, very few people get it. Just me, and very few other people. So I am what you call “early adopted,” yes?
And I have rash. Itchy, red rash, so maybe I am lucky, yes? I not meet the pink flamingo, I become pink flamingo instead.
I try to stand on one foot, like pink flamingo down in the pool area, but I fall, or maybe it is break dance.
Cheese!
Finally the last day in Florida, I feel better. I have to go to airport, but before I go, I take camera. I want to take picture of pink flamingo. The only picture of pink flamingo I have so far is of me.
So I go to pool. Yes, you already know what happen, because you know me, and I am unlucky.
The pink flamingo is gone. Maybe he die from dengue break dance fever too?
So I ask at desk. “Where is pink flamingo?” I hold my camera up in air so clerk know why I want to see pink flamingo.
The clerk no say anything for second, then says, “Excuse me?”
Where is flamingo?
“The pink flamingo,” I say, really slow and loud, because I have tiny accent and maybe clerk not understand. Then to make really clear which pink flamingo I mean, I try to stand on one leg.
Bad idea. I am still really weak from dengue “Harvey” fever, so I almost fall. “There is pink flamingo in the pool area, yes?”
The clerk shakes head. “Uh, no sir, there are no flamingos at this hotel, pink or otherwise.”
“Oh,” I say. Then I laugh, because maybe clerk think I am crazy. “Ha ha. Okay, I go home now.”
And I do, very fast, because the clerk, he look at me funny.
So I go to Florida. Maybe I am lucky. Okay, I don’t get tan, but I do get color. And I do see flamingo, even though he is not there. But maybe that is good enough.
I have to ask Harvey if he do break dance. But not in person. But I will telephone. Just in case. I don’t want to get more dengue and see flamingo in Moldova. In Florida, is okay. In Moldova, is crazy.
First off, to whomever stole my e-mail password and completely dashed my abilities to get my job done over the past month, I would like to say…
Phooey! I would like to say a lot more, but I always said that people who use profanities don’t know how to express themselves, so I won’t stoop that low. But when I get home, I’ll get Grouchy Retired Travel Writer Lady to spew profanities at you because she’s already stooped low. Mainly from osteoporosis. But also because she has the mouth of a sailor. (I know this because I have to edit out the naughties from her submissions.)
Argedley bargledey!
So phooey!
It has been a difficult few weeks. My long-awaited trip to Nauru has been eye-opening, but it’s a tough place to be at times. Take the day that Booby the bird, whom I met right after my arrival, gave me a tour.
He took me to his favorite restaurant, which happens to be his restaurant. It’s not really a restaurant, per se, but don’t tell that to Booby. He get’s offended. It’s actually a de facto dump along the northern coast, but why split hairs? People dump their garbage and Booby made a business out of it. How…entrepreneurial.
Yes, that’s the word I’ll use. Entrepreneurial.
On the face of it, Booby’s…restaurant has some things going for it. It has a marvellous ocean view. The service is very friendly. (Booby and his other bird friends bend over backwards to be nice. Or maybe they’re spilling over backwards because of all the beer they drink before noon. But again, don’t ask Booby for details on this. He’ll get offended.) And the menu changes according to what’s locally available.
That’s normally a good thing, if you want the freshest food out there. There’s just one little glitch. Nauru has to import 90% of its food. So what’s locally available doesn’t come in pods, peels or shells. It comes in cans. Take my lunch at Booby’s place as an example.
“What are you up for grubbing?” said Booby.
I ignored the ignoble way he referred to eating. “What do you recommend?” I said. (Travel tip: Always get the local suggestions if you want an authentic experience.)
“There’s canned ham, canned pineapple, canned chicken…”
“Do you have a light, white wine to go with any of that?”
At this, Booby looked confused. He wrinkled his brow. “Does that come in a can?”
So let’s just say that rotating fare doesn’t equate with freshness on Nauru.
It’s not that Nauruans are foodie schlubs. It’s that there’s isn’t much place to grow anything on the island. Eighty percent of the land was wrecked by phosphate mining. At only eight square miles, Nauru doesn’t have much room left over. So they import. And you can never get the freshest and best when you have to bring in your daily bread from Australia.
I asked Booby about how he coped. He just shrugged. It’s what everyone is used to. Put the checkered tablecloth out and make the best of it.
“At least no one’s eating me,” Booby said. He slapped his thighs and snorted.
But the story get’s more difficult, as I saw during my tour around Nauru. (Quite literally, I might add. Nauru is a round atoll, and the habitable, non-phosphate-mined portion runs in a strip of land around the edge of the island). Many Nauruans are, well, quite chubby. Ninety percent, according to some statistics. And diabetes is worse here than anywhere else in the world. Forty percent of Nauruans have diabetes.
“So, Booby, what do people do to control their diabetes if they can’t get their hands on good food?”
Booby shrugged. “They don’t.”
I always try to find the good wherever I go. This is not to say it isn’t hard to live on Nauru. although it dying comes rather easily. (See the above statistics). But still, I don’t want to leave the impression when I travel to poor countries that I suffered the whole time I was there. So despite the power outages, despite the water shortages (I used wipey naps from the airplane for some of my baths), despite the canned fare, I fell in love with…
Duuuuuuuck!
Coconuts. They grow cocunts on Nauru. They have for years. And coconuts are admittedly wonderful. Where would Hula dancers be without them? But they’re kind of hard (and by hard, I mean impossible) for mosquitoes to crack open. So travelling somewhere where coconuts abound and where my tour guide has a beak was great. I had lots of coconut. Lots and lots of coconut. Every day, morning, noon, tea time and night.
I never want to see a ruddy coconut again.
“You’re looking chubby,” Booby told me on my last day. “You shouldn’t have gorged on so much coconut. Atoll you so.” He slapped his thighs and snorted.
That was my joke. But, on second thought, Booby can keep it.
Want me to fill out taxes? I fill out taxes!
So now I am in Alabama. Normally I travel weekends, but not this week. This week, I take April 14 off, and 15 too.
So now I am in Alabama. At airport. Waiting for airplane to take me to Georgia. People always say southerners in U.S. are friendly and cheerful, but many today not look happy. Why? April is Spring. They should be happy, no?
Then I hear pretty stewardess talk to other pretty stewardess. She looks stressed. She says “I hate the arse.”
I am surprised. I see her arse (I not look. I just see. I promise.) Pretty stewardess’ arse is nice.
“Down with the arse,” says pretty stewardess number 2.
Funny. I thought pretty ladies liked arses…how you say? Perky.
“Ill have to fill out the dang forms tonight after my flight,” says pretty stewardess number 1. So many pretty stewardesses in America. In Moldova, stewardesses look angry. “I hope I get a better rebate than last year.”
Arse? Fill out? Get rebate for fill out arse?
Variety is spice of life. And I.R.S. has variety of tax forms.
Oh! Ha ha ha. I feel so stupid, I giggle out loud. Ha ha. Of course. I.R.S., not arse. April 15 is tomorrow.
I still feel so stupid, I say in loud voice to pretty stewardesses 1 and 2, “I.R.S., not arse. You have to do taxes!”
Stewardesses number 1 and 2 look at me, look surprised. Stewardess number 1 says, “Sweetie, I don’t get half of what you’re sayin’, but, yes. I have to do my taxes. And the I.R.S. is an arse.”
No, I think she understands me real good.
“I am accountant,” I say. I point at my face in case my accent is hard to, how she put it? “get”. “I can do taxes. Want me to do taxes?”
Stewardness number 2 smile real big. “Why, honey, that is the sweetest, most darling pick-up line I have ever heard. Of course you can do my taxes.”
Pick-up line? What is that? I smile and pretty stewardesses 1 and 2 sit next to me, one on right, and one on left, only number 2 was on right, and number 1 was on left, okay?
They pull messy papers from bag. This will be fun!
“Where are you from, sweetie?” pretty stewardess number 1 says.
“I am from Moldova but I take seminar on U.S. tax forms.”
They look at me funny.
“Moldova? You sure you know how to fill out these forms?” says stewardess number 2.
“Yes! I take seminar. For fun.”
They look confused, but stewardess number 2 gives papers.
Muffled crying.
“Well, sweetie, as long as you can do ‘em better’n me. And anyone can do them better’n me,” says stewardess number 2. Or maybe stewardess number 1. Now I am confused. “Our flight leaves in an hour. Will that be enough time for you?”
“One hour. Yes. Plenty,” I say. “Why you not do taxes sooner? It is fun.”
“Honeycakes, I’m glad you think so,” says stewardess number…pretty.
So I finish taxes. Very easy. American taxes are fun. When I give papers to pretty stewardesses, old lady near us looks at me.
“”Excuse me, young man,” she says.
“You can call me honeycakes,” I say. Old lady looks surprised. “Or sweetie.” Still surprised. It is okay. I am more southern than she is maybe.
“I overheard you were an accountant,” old lady says.
“Yes, yes! I do your taxes?”
“Thank you so much. I left it till the last minute. I was going to do them on the plane, but I hate doing taxes.”
“No, no. Taxes, they are fun.”
Old lady looked surprised again, then she smiles. “I hate to ask this, but would you mind terribly helping my daugher with hers too?”
“Yes!” America in springtime! I come more in Spring from now on.
“Leigh Ann!” old lady screams loud. “This fine young man can help you do your taxes.”
Suddenly, no one is talking. Everyone look at me. I’m famous. I smile. “Make line. I do taxes.”
The more the happier!
Southern Americans are very friendly. Grandmothers kissed me and gave me food. And almost everyone wanted to pay me! For filling out paper! Pay me to have fun! I say no. I can not accept , but they insist.
One problem. There is saying my grandmother used to say: “Have fun, and time will kick you in the arse.”
Or, in this case, the I.R.S.
This expression means that taxes were so fun, I did not see time. I did not hear stewardess call my name. I did not see airplane go bye bye.
Bye bye.
Yes! I have so much fun, I miss airplane.
But it is okay. I meet many nice people. They call me “honey,” and “sweetcakes,” and “sweetie.” Old ladies want to marry me. They give me food. And put money in my pocket.
So much, I can stay in hotel. Tomorrow, I take airplane.
Do you not love April 15?
I finally fly in to Nauru
What would my first glimpse of Nauru offer me as I prepared to land? Would this island republic in the Pacific show me its emerald blue waters? Would I see the paradise that Nauru could be? Or would my first impression be of its devastated limestone remains? Would the damage from its phosphate mining be my first postcard?
Neither, apparently. I couldn’t see a thing, what with all the sweat and dust in my eyes after island hopping from Australia. I don’t even know how I managed to find the place, I was flying so blind.
Menem Hotel is one of two hotel in Nauru
All I know is that by the time I got to Nauru, I was in desperate need of soaking my wings in the Menem Hotel pool while sipping a chilled Chardonnay.
Or the imported Australian beer, if that’s all that was available.
Or God forbid, water.
I landed on the beach. The ocean breeze almost smashed me into a palm tree. After catching my breath, I looked around to gather my bearings.
Nauru's eight square miles.
I had no idea where in Nauru I landed, which was hardly a big deal. Nauru is eight square miles. A band of grass circles the island. Follow the band, and eventually you’ll bump into whatever you’re looking for since no one lives in the center of the island.
Digging my feet into the sand of a new travel destination always reinvigorates me. Nauru’s steamy sand is no exception, so I chose to hold off my visit to the pool. It was time to explore.
I knew from my reading that Nauru’s interior, known as Topside, is in bad shape. For years, phosphate mining had led to Nauru’s boom. But it also destroyed the landscape. Nauru is in bad shape for oh, so many reasons. One is that much of its tiny land is a wasteland. They can’t even grow food on it. People have used the word “moonscape” to describe the mining site. But people always exaggerate, right?
This was forest before phosphate mining took over.
Wrong. Gray limestone jutted out of the land. The whole terrain was gray. Pitted. Miles and miles of it. Eighty percent of Nauru was mined. Eighty percent is now a pockmarked mess. I zoomed up to get an aerial view and get some respite from the powder that hung in the air. No one was below.
Then I looked closer. There was one odd animal. I squinted. It was obviously one of those strange creatures that inhabit this part of the world. Saw a bunch of oddball wildlife in Australia. And here was another one, one I had never seen before. It had the butt of a bird and the head of a…
I got in closer. Was that a…? No, it couldn’t be.
A beer can?
Poop made this place rich.
The creature belched. His head fell off and rolled in a limestone pockmark. I took a closer look. It was a beer can from Australia. Courage Draught. Nauru imports all of its food, including beer.
I looked up at the bird. Just an everyday bird after all. He burped again.
“Bit early to be drinking beer, don’t you think?” I asked.
“Ooooh, dessert,” he said and lunged his beak at me.
Crap, crap, crap. I ducked beneath a little jut of limestone, then the bird started laughing.
“Just teasing you. We here in Nauru prefer our food canned. I don’t eat fresh food if I can help it.” His guffaw was cut short by another belch. Suddenly he looked at me, alert.
“You’re new around here. What are you up to?” he asked. “Not going to be causing any trouble, are you?”
“No, no, no, no,” I said. I shook my head really hard so he could know how emphatic I was being. “Not at all.”
“Good, ’cause that’s my job.” He guffawed again. “So what are you doing here then?”
“I’m a travel writer doing a story on Nauru.”
“A travel writer. Like, you’re going to put my name in a newspaper, or book, or something? I’ll be famous.”
Excellent. When you’re a writer, it can be very easy to get others on your side, as long as they want to taste fame.
“If you’re willing to answer a few questions,” I said.
“My pleasure.” The bird sat down on a hole. It kind of looked like he was sitting on a toilet. I tried not to laugh.
“My name is Harvey Flea,” I said.
“My name’s Booby. I’m from a long line of Blue-footed Boobies.” He started to sniff. “It was my ancestors that made this island great.”
“Really?” Were they in the beer import business?
“Poop.”
“Excuse me?”
Bird guano fueled Nauru's phosphate industry.
“Poop. It was their poop that created the phosphate,” he said. He lifted his eyes to the sun looking majestic. Then he burped again.
“Wow, that’s really,” I said. “Wow, no words.”
“And now look at me,” Booby shook his head. “Handsome as ever.” He laughed again. “Just kidding. No clue who my ancestors were. I’ll take you to my favorite pub. I’ll introduce you to some of the locals.”
Booby’s “favorite pub” was a polluted shoreline. Garbage lay strewn everywhere.
It was pretty clear from this heap why fourty percent of Nauruans have diabetes and ninety percent are overweight. There wasn’t a lick of fresh food tossed here, none that I could see. There were cans, containers of processed sludge and their ilk.
I had read about this, but seeing it first hand made my tummy cry.
There was something else that bothered me here. Nauru has some huge problems. It’s running out of money, its water supply is poor, rain is scarce, its environment is in shambles, the population is dying out. These problems loomed large and had difficult solutions. But this dump should be easy to fix. All anyone had to do was show up with a plastic bag and pick up the trash.
“Hey, Booby,” I said before he picked up a half-empty can of soda. “Doesn’t all this trash bother you?”
“Don’t you believe it,” Booby said. “It’s a crying shame. Can’t help tourism.” He pecked open a can can of what looked like spam.
“So why don’t you guys clean it up?”
Booby and his friends all swivelled their heads toward me. They looked stunned.
“Well, Harvey, I don’t know,” Booby said. “We didn’t put it here. It’s not our fault.” The other birds nodded.
Maybe it was the humid heat, maybe it was my long trip, maybe it was seeing such a beautiful island wallowing in messes whose faults were sometimes hard to pinpoint. But suddenly my head felt like exploding and I realized I’d better head to the hotel for a rest.
“Booby, I’ll catch up with you tomorrow,” I said. “Maybe you can show me around?”
Booby nodded his beak, which was stuck to a tin.
I shrugged. At least the Nauruans are nice.