At home on the island
Hilo is a quiet town for the most part, in the sleepy island style. For the typical tourist hustle, you have to go to the western side of the Big Island, to Kona. About a week ago, I did just that with my friend K. Entering Kailua (you're forgiven for not knowing what to call this town -- Kailua, Kona, Kailua-Kona are finally all acceptable), I saw the familiar overpriced kitsch-and-sarong shops, restaurants and hotels all cramped together. And people! Suddenly I remembered words like 'throng', 'congestion'... but as much as I do miss a crowded sidewalk, that day we had another mission, to play tourists at Pu'uhonua o Honaunau, several miles south of Kailua. Pu'uhonua means 'place of refuge', and this site once offered sanctuary to criminals sentenced to death. The great wall dates back to the 1500s, and the sea turtles basking in the cove and abundance of coconut trees are lovely, but frankly the reconstructed elements -- the Hale o Keawe, which housed the bones of ali'i (chiefs) and concentrated their mana (power), and the ki'i, carved figures, seem tailored for photo opps more than any cultural edification. That said, it's a lovely park, and only $5 a vehicle, and I'm told it's the image of paradise at sunset.
The real attraction, though, doesn't cost a thing, except the price of snorkel equipment. When I snorkeled in Honaunau Bay it was the first time in over three years, and by far the best snorkeling I've ever had. When I first went underwater, I sputtered up immediately with surprise at a green sea turtle not five feet away from me. Angelfish, eels, so many other fish I couldn't identify, sea urchins punctuating the coral -- I have never been so aware of life and movement and color. All of this several feet from the beach! Right there! I'd forgotten, too, how the fish and sea life move rhythmically with the waves, and how one starts to do the same after a few minutes, unconsciously. The literal submersion lent itself to a more visceral feeling of connection than I'd found in the state park next door, as did, in a different way, the laid-back, local visitors. Visors and fanny packs were conspicously absent, as was the ubiquitous Hawaiian shirt -- just families hanging out in the shade, chatting, drinking and watching their keiki fool around on the sand. I felt like a participant in the scene rather than an observer. After nine months living here, I'm ready for the balance to tip that way.
This past weekend I did some adventuring closer to home, in the district of Puna, not even half an hour from Hilo. First up, more snorkeling in a tide pond or 'champagne pond' in Kapoho; many private properties in this area have their own geothermally heated ponds, which are crystal clear and quite calm. The pond couldn't have been more of a contrast to my Little Mermaid adventure the week before; while fish and crabs went about their business, there was no bulbous coral or dramatic colors. Instead, looking towards the bottom, I felt a deep, alert stillness. Spiked vines slipped into the water from the unmanicured land, and old palm fronds, stripped of leaves, rested like skeletons on the pond floor. The detritus revealed a green, mossy sheen when the sun rippled through the water. After the activity of my last venture into the water, the quiet felt eerie.
Driving around Puna on route 137, the coastal road, the watchful feeling remained with me. Vines roped themselves heavily around trees, weighing their branches, while larger trees towered overhead, spreading out in a canopy that shaded the bush. In many places, particularly around the former town of Kalapana (destroyed by a lava flow in 1990), the foliage has grown over lava rock. The reality of the volcanoes is unavoidable on this island; I'd had to swim around similar rocks in Honaunau Bay. Here, they frame the island -- they are its very edges -- as I saw to dramatic effect in MacKenzie State Park, where dark blue water churned itself into aquamarine as it crashed repeatedly against the black seacliffs. I've read somewhere that there are no rivers and streams in Puna, despite its lush rainforest climate, because the land is simply too new -- all the water is absorbed into the porous rock. Perhaps this is the source of the ephemeral presence that haunted me as we traveled farther down the road. I'll admit it, I was spooked. K. told me that apparently the back roads of Puna are haunted by night marchers, the ghosts of Hawaiian warriors who walk through ancient battle fields on the night of Huaka'ipo, or the 27th phase of the moon. I'm not about to endorse a ghost story, but I'm led to wonder if the youth of the land here somehow exaggerates its presence in the mind. Or perhaps my mind was preoccupied by my own ghost stories, my own origins on this island, how far away that seems now.
The real attraction, though, doesn't cost a thing, except the price of snorkel equipment. When I snorkeled in Honaunau Bay it was the first time in over three years, and by far the best snorkeling I've ever had. When I first went underwater, I sputtered up immediately with surprise at a green sea turtle not five feet away from me. Angelfish, eels, so many other fish I couldn't identify, sea urchins punctuating the coral -- I have never been so aware of life and movement and color. All of this several feet from the beach! Right there! I'd forgotten, too, how the fish and sea life move rhythmically with the waves, and how one starts to do the same after a few minutes, unconsciously. The literal submersion lent itself to a more visceral feeling of connection than I'd found in the state park next door, as did, in a different way, the laid-back, local visitors. Visors and fanny packs were conspicously absent, as was the ubiquitous Hawaiian shirt -- just families hanging out in the shade, chatting, drinking and watching their keiki fool around on the sand. I felt like a participant in the scene rather than an observer. After nine months living here, I'm ready for the balance to tip that way.
This past weekend I did some adventuring closer to home, in the district of Puna, not even half an hour from Hilo. First up, more snorkeling in a tide pond or 'champagne pond' in Kapoho; many private properties in this area have their own geothermally heated ponds, which are crystal clear and quite calm. The pond couldn't have been more of a contrast to my Little Mermaid adventure the week before; while fish and crabs went about their business, there was no bulbous coral or dramatic colors. Instead, looking towards the bottom, I felt a deep, alert stillness. Spiked vines slipped into the water from the unmanicured land, and old palm fronds, stripped of leaves, rested like skeletons on the pond floor. The detritus revealed a green, mossy sheen when the sun rippled through the water. After the activity of my last venture into the water, the quiet felt eerie.
Driving around Puna on route 137, the coastal road, the watchful feeling remained with me. Vines roped themselves heavily around trees, weighing their branches, while larger trees towered overhead, spreading out in a canopy that shaded the bush. In many places, particularly around the former town of Kalapana (destroyed by a lava flow in 1990), the foliage has grown over lava rock. The reality of the volcanoes is unavoidable on this island; I'd had to swim around similar rocks in Honaunau Bay. Here, they frame the island -- they are its very edges -- as I saw to dramatic effect in MacKenzie State Park, where dark blue water churned itself into aquamarine as it crashed repeatedly against the black seacliffs. I've read somewhere that there are no rivers and streams in Puna, despite its lush rainforest climate, because the land is simply too new -- all the water is absorbed into the porous rock. Perhaps this is the source of the ephemeral presence that haunted me as we traveled farther down the road. I'll admit it, I was spooked. K. told me that apparently the back roads of Puna are haunted by night marchers, the ghosts of Hawaiian warriors who walk through ancient battle fields on the night of Huaka'ipo, or the 27th phase of the moon. I'm not about to endorse a ghost story, but I'm led to wonder if the youth of the land here somehow exaggerates its presence in the mind. Or perhaps my mind was preoccupied by my own ghost stories, my own origins on this island, how far away that seems now.
posted by HB at 11:01 AM
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