In search of ancient Hawai’i
Story and photos by Eric Lindberg

Look past the Spam, the bamboo, and staged wildlife encounters and you’ll see evidence of what the first Polynesians saw.

The kahlua pig is unearthed after baking for hours at a Hawai’ian lu’au.

Hot air from Pu’u O’o Crater rises 500 feet and whips through the doors-off sightseeing helicopter as I point my camera down at the bubbling calderas, steaming craters and hardened lava fields of Hawai’i Volcanoes National Park and imagine the raw, centuries-old past when these remote islands were rising from the ocean.

Hawai’i is the world’s most isolated populated archipelago, and the landscape is still changing, sometimes violently.

Transformation of Hawai’ian culture is just as dramatic, with the islands sounding, smelling and tasting vastly different from when the first Polynesians arrived 1,500 years ago, or when Captain Cook sailed into these waters in 1778, or even when G.I.s disembarked 60 years ago.

The search begins

I’ve come to the state’s two youngest islands, Hawai’i and Maui, in search of the old traditions and rhythms, and to see how they coexist with modern-day Hawai’i. My quest begins in a place less subject to change than probably anywhere else in the islands—the ocean.

At 7 p.m. on a moonless night, I’m standing on the dive platform of the Hula Kai, anchored 50 yards off Hawai’i’s Kona Coast. In front of us, the well-lit Sheraton Keauhou Bay illuminates the shoreline, but out here, the sea is as dark as the sky above. The black water at my feet doesn’t bother me as much as the thought of the enormous creatures I’m about to join down there.

Molten lava glows inside Pu’u O’o Crater at Volcanoes National Park.

Zipping my wetsuit and strapping on mask and snorkel, I jump in and paddle to a large floating ring where a dozen other snorkelers hang face down in the water. Floodlights on the ring illuminate the water below us, creating a brightly lit undersea stage.

After five minutes of grasping the ring while gazing down into an otherwise empty patch of sea, I spot a huge form with 14-foot wingspan gliding out of the murk and swimming directly under our float. The first giant manta ray of the evening has arrived.

Soon three more join to feed on microscopic plankton attracted to the light, and for the next hour we witness a timeless underwater ballet at close range as they arc and somersault while funneling food into their gaping mouths.

Manta rays were plying these waters when the first Polynesian seafarers arrived centuries ago and today they still follow the ageless rhythms of their ancestors.

Island royalty

The morning after my manta ray encounter, a 20-minute drive up the road takes me to Pu’uhonua o Honaunau National Historic Park, the largest of these coastal sites. Built around A.D. 1550, this complex of heiaus and fishponds was an important residence for royal chiefs. Today it’s a peaceful place where honu (green sea turtles) come to sun on the sand and some of the island’s best snorkeling awaits along the rocky shoreline.

From the Kona Coast, I drive to Hilo and the wet side of the island for a more recent slice of old Hawai’i. The walkable downtown district is a hodgepodge of building styles from the sugar plantation era of the early 1900s. Today it’s home to restaurants, hip boutiques, and surf shops. But the prize for most atmospheric shopping experience goes to Hilo Farmer’s Market.

Every Wednesday and Friday East meets West island-style as Hawai’ian aunties, sun-bronzed surfers, Laotian ladies, dreadlocked hippies, and pale tourists mingle among the lilikoi (passion fruit) jelly, strawberry papayas, and macadamia nut goat’s cheese. The market has a clear link to the past in the many Japanese and Filipino vendors who can trace their island roots back more than a century to when their ancestors arrived to labor in the sugar cane fields.

I wander, taste samples, and leave with a couple of apple bananas and some smoked ahi (tuna) for the drive north.

All of the tropical fruits now found in Hawai’i were actually imported here from other places.

GI Spam and other newcomers

I continue my search for local food with a connection to Hawai’i’s past at Mr. Ed’s Bakery in Honomu, where I find two local delicacies whose origins pre-date present-day tourism. Spam was introduced by G.I.s during World War II and today more Spam is consumed here per capita than in any other state. A surprisingly tasty island twist on the processed meat is Spam musubi—cold steamed rice and a slice of marinated Spam wrapped in seaweed. It’s even served in local McDonald’s and Burger Kings. For dessert, I enjoy another island favorite, manju, a sweet bun filled with bean paste that originally arrived with the Japanese in the late 1800s.

My culinary expedition ends further up the road in Honoka’a with Portuguese malasadas at Tex Drive In. Brought to Hawai’i more than 125 years ago by Portuguese laborers, these celebrated donuts are made plain or filled with guava, pineapple, mango, or custard. Locals drive for miles to get them warm from the oven.

Several times daily as I drive the island, I spot the Indian mongoose, a weasel-like critter that wasn’t here when the first Europeans arrived. Sugar plantation owners in 1883 imported the mongoose to control rats. The plan backfired because mongooses slept at night when the rats were active. The mongoose developed a taste for local birds and their eggs, silencing the melody of birdcalls that longtime residents grew up with. Now they lose sleep from the shriek of coqui frogs, which arrived here in the late 1980s and now numbers in the hundreds of thousands. And that’s not all. The miniscule amphibians eat native insects that pollinate plants and provide food for Hawai’i’s remaining native birds.

The goddess of fire

The road back to the airport leads past Volcanoes National Park. It’s here with my feet on the ground that I encounter a tortured landscape of sculpted lava and hardy plant life not seen from helicopter-height. Walking a path along the rim of Kilauea Caldera, I find several offerings of fruit and flowers to Pele, the goddess of fire and volcanoes in Hawai’ian religion. According to legend, she lives in Halema’uma’u Crater within the caldera. Although officially abolished in 1819, the religion’s observances almost 200 years later are clear evidence that the beliefs of the ancient ones continue today.

An offering to Pele, Goddess of Fire and Volcanoes, lies along the rim of Kilauea Caldera in Volcanoes National Park.

The next evening the sun is sinking fast into the sea off the Maui coast. Grass-skirted maidens and bare-chested men sway beneath a flaming sky while waves crash on the beach and soft trade winds rustle the palm trees. Seemingly endless all-you-can-eat buffet tables loaded with dozens of island specialties beckon the hungry. What’s not to like about a lu’au?

The origin of the lu’au goes back to ancient times when Hawai’ians would gather to celebrate important occasions such as the birth of a child, a war victory, or a good harvest. Lu’aus were also a way to honor the gods while sharing a feast with family and friends.

Although touristy, lu’aus today can be a lot of fun. While some are big outdoor parties with lots of drink and entertainment, others aim to present an authentic Hawai’ian cultural experience. I’ve chosen Old Lahaina Lu’au for their evening program focusing solely on Hawai’ian traditions. A pig has been baking underground all day and the unearthing ritual is part of the entertainment. For the next 90 minutes, we feast on native dishes such as Kahlua pig, poke (fish ceviche), taro, yam, and a variety of seafood, then settle back for a sensual evening of hula, song, and dance that tells the story of Hawai’i beginning with the first arrivals centuries ago.

The road to Hana

The next morning, I’m on a 52-mile winding drive that passes through an Eden-like jungle of flowering trees, waterfalls, and infinite variations on the color green before arriving in Hana on the east coast. This lush landscape explodes with banana trees, ferns, vines, and dozens of other plant species, none of them native. Newcomers brought them here hoping to turn the island into their own version of horticultural heaven.

My early departure gives me a jump on the day-trippers, and I have the road to myself much of the morning. Locals make this drive in less than two hours but friends encourage me to slow down and enjoy the journey. A bumpy dirt lane off the highway leads to Honomanu Bay, and I’m poking around the rocky shoreline when a pickup truck rumbles up with four tattooed locals. Two wade into the bay with hand nets and start stalking large mullet swimming at the surface while their buddies on the beach whistle and point toward the fish. In the end, the mullet escape and the men return to the beach with empty nets, but no one seems disappointed. Take away the truck and this could be Hawai’i of a century ago.

Closer to Hana, roadside stands appear with fresh fruit, coconuts, and the best banana bread I’ve ever eaten. Some stands are unattended and on the honor system with bunches of apple bananas and piles of papayas; take what you like and leave money in the box. I stop at the Hana Farms stand just outside of town to celebrate journey’s end with a white pineapple, papaya, and lilikoi smoothie. It’s every bit as delicious as the surrounding scenery but I remind myself that none of these sweet tropical fruits are native. When the first Polynesian sailors arrived, there were few edible plants here. These early arrivals brought taro, yams, coconuts, and sugarcane, the first of hundreds of alien species.

Seven hours and 59 bridges after starting my journey, I roll into Hana. It’s here that the rain finally slows me down. From the deck of my ocean-view cottage at Travaasa Hana Resort, I watch squalls move off the sea and engulf the coast. Within minutes, they pass and the sun returns. These short-lived showers are part of life in Hana, and like the waves and tides, they punctuate the days with reminders that nature remains in charge here, just as it was when the first mariners arrived on these shores.

The road continues beyond Hana, and an hour after leaving town, I’m up a trail and deep inside a bamboo forest in Haleakala National Park. It may be the most eerily musical place I’ve ever set foot in. Like an enormous wind chime, giant stalks of bamboo knock and clatter together, their green leafy tops swaying in the trade winds 60 feet overhead. Yet even these colossal grasses, nestled perfectly into this hushed glade pierced by amber shafts of sunlight, are invaders. When Chinese laborers came here in 1852 to work the sugar cane fields, they brought the bamboo for building materials and as a food source. The Chinese are long gone but the bamboo has made itself at home by starving out other plants and creating a monoculture similar to a grass lawn.

Yet along with the luaus, helicopter rides, and staged wildlife encounters, some things remain constant across the centuries. The ‘aina, or land, is still sacred both to native Hawai’ians and new arrivals. Wind, rain, and sunlight still flow ceaselessly around the islands and slowly sculpt the landscape. Boats and roads and aerial tours are just another way to experience what’s been here all along, in ways that the ancient ones never dreamed possible.

Eric Lindberg (www.ericlindberg.com) is a freelance writer and photographer based in Lakewood, Colo. He is the 2011 Travel Photographer of the Year, Society of American Travel Writers.

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