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Historical/Travel (Big Island, Hawaii)
Infiniti
Magazine (Premier
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The landscape in the windshield was
bleak – a windy plain of sharp
a’a lava and bent kiawe trees.
A place where the air blows with an almost
desperate breath of heat.
Yet among the desolation, the struggle for life, was
the sublime splendor of a massive sky, cloudless and
pure. With a strong Hawaiian sun pressing up against
my face, I could see tiny white observation domes balancing
13,000 feet above on the broad tee of Mauna Kea. And
below, an ocean turned black from the deepest shades
of blue.
The strip of land sprawled in front of me boasts the
island's largest acreage of resort lands, and holds one
of the state's densest concentrations of viewable relics:
fish ponds still creasing with tiny dorsal fins, petroglyphs
chiseled into the black lava rock, meticulously preserved
heiaus. Kona was once the playground for Hawaiian royalty,
and these ancient remains attest to the lengths Hawaiians
went to change a barren landscape for the comfort of
kings.
Fifteen minutes up the highway, I saw a tiny green sign
pointing to Anaeho'omalu, a point of land where the Outrigger
Waikoloa Resort now sits. I approached via asphalt lined
with palm trees and eased into guest parking. I was here
to explore rumors of an ancient fishpond.
I tunneled down a grand staircase and out onto well-snipped
grass, which led to the blue shape of a swimming pool.
I threaded a path past the pink-roasted tourists who
were reclined happily under the sun. Beyond the pool
was a hedge defining the borders of two massive fishponds.
The ponds were once used to grow an assortment of aquatic
edibles, like mullet ('anae) that were raised for the
benefit of chiefs or nobles whenever they happened to
visit the region. I delighted in the fact that Anaeho'omalu
had survived centuries as a symbol of rejuvenation, and
that today's upscale travelers use this same spot to
refresh themselves.
On the way out, I noticed a small signboard directing
my attention to the "King's Trail and Petroglyphs
Site." Several feet from the parking lot I found
a scar in the lava that ran in either direction. The
trail is historically referred to as Ala Kahakai, and
it travels the length of the Kona and Kohala Coasts,
from the southern tip of South Point to the northern
fringes of Pololu.
I picked my way delicately from rock to rock, not wanting
to disturb the footpath of the ancients. Etched into
the smooth lava was an image, an attempt to leave a story
by a man, much like myself, about his life. I bent down
and placed my hand on the indentation left behind in
the lava. The ebony rock was a solar sponge mopping the
heat. I traced the grooves with my fingers, almost feeling
the blows once made by rock striking rock.
Back on the highway, I curved through a colonial roundabout
and took a detour toward a sign promising a historical
park. A hundred yards down the asphalt trail, I came
to a platter-sized pock in the rocks where bone and coral
had been rubbed and shaped into fishhooks. I stood among
the hollowed-out stones, feeling a firm, erratic wind
from the saddle between Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa. The
wind was at a loss for which way it wanted to go next,
as was I, so I unfolded my map of the Big Island. A place
called Puako, a few miles away, was highlighted in red,
and I recalled the literature preaching its significance.
Puako is on the National Register of Historic Places.
And you can't miss it, as a sign the size of a garage
door near the entrance warns against taking petroglyph
rubbings or disturbing any rocks. I hiked the rough,
1.4-mile wooded trail and found there was something,
though not quite tangible, demanding my reverence. I
continued cautiously, creeping along the trail, to a
parting in the trees where a twisted wooden fence guarded
a sea of basalt. Etched into this pillowy rock is one
of the largest concentrations of petroglyphs on the Kohala
Coast. Stick figures posed like Egyptians, next to swirling
shapes with indecipherable meanings.
I retraced my steps to the car and moved on, up toward
the northern fringes of the Kohala Coast. At Pu'ukohola,
or literally, whale hill — tucked into a crook
in the land, where the northwest tip of Kohala juts off
at an odd angle — I came upon a massive gathering
of stones piled into the shape of a heiau. The walls
looked as if a mathematician had placed each rock — the
tidy corners and beveled edges. Its remarkable preservation
made me wonder if it had been abandoned just the day
before.
The area is managed under the seal of the U.S. Department
of the Interior. As I ambled toward the heiau, I read
the historical fine print of Pu'ukohola. In 1790, King
Kamehameha was responsible for this contribution to the
landscape. But the Warrior King didn't choose it on a
whim. A famous seer by the name of Kapoukahi had a vision
of Kamehameha building a heiau on the hill of the whale
and dedicating it to his war god, Kuka'ilimoku. With
this in mind, Kamehameha set to work. Special heiau rocks
were passed along a human conveyor belt that stretched
from Pololu, some 20 miles away. Kamehameha himself was
said to have sweated side by side with the assemblage
of laborers. The following summer, the final stone was
put in place and the heiau was almost complete, except
for a sacrifice to Kuka'ilimoku. In making arrangements
for his dedication, the Warrior King devised a brilliant
plan: invite his chief rival and cousin, Keoua, as a
guest and introduce him to his doom. For reasons not
entirely known, Keoua agreed. Perhaps he had been intrigued
by the months of work for the veneration of Kuka'ilimoku.
Or perhaps it was his way of accepting his cousin's fate
as king. Regardless, Keoua showed up with a small brigade
of companions and all were promptly sacrificed. Roughly
19 years later, Kamehameha the Great realized his destiny
and united all of the Hawaiian Islands under his rule.
I stood at the base of this great heiau imagining the
events that transpired in the late 1700s — the
sounds, the smells, the daily movements of the ancients — as
sunlight slipped below the distant frame of Haleakala.
Near Hawi, only a handful of miles from road's end and
the official confluence of the Kohala and Hamakua Coasts,
I gripped the steering wheel and turned down an aged
road in the general direction of the Warrior King's birthplace.
The road turned into a muddy track that paralleled the
sea, and a kolea, or golden plover, high-stepped along
in search of bugs. The late-afternoon light was skipping
off the tops of the setting waves, illuminating sea spray
rising above the coast.
I crept along, eyes readied for any sign of heiau rocks.
A tiny home had been carved into a ten-foot-wide strip
of land where the road skirted some coastal rocks. Its
tin roof was flapping to the rhythm of a Pacific coast
gale. Torn tarpaulin was fluttering like linen set to
dry. A fork announced that a heiau called Mo'okini was
uphill in one direction and that the birthplace of a
king was a bit further along. Evening was slowly spreading
out across the landscape. And I knew that I had time
for just one more sighting.
The grass field in front of Kamehameha's birthplace was
empty. No sounds, no cars, no people. I walked the entire
length of the outer wall, and peered at the world within.
The second wall, the original structure, contained several
stick structures, a few clumps of grass and a glimpse
into the island's past. This heiau was different than
all the others — rustic and dilapidated in a marvelous,
historic kind of way. In 1758, this was the spot where
the man who would unify a kingdom was born.
Dusk began to envelop the Kohala Coast. And with it,
I knew that my time of discovery and exaltation was at
an end. As I retreated back to the highway and drove
past Pu'ukohola, I looked south across the length of
shoreline and could barely make out the little cubes
of white separated by pieces of jagged coast. From this
vantage, I could sense history taking shape. Tourism
and preservation have historically struggled to get along.
And seeing all the empty spaces in between, where development
had yet to take root, I realized that the future might
hold a surprise in terms of which will support the other. |
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