Unfinished business

The Menehune Fishpond is an ancient mystery.
Caroline is a beautiful addition to the landscape.

Poipu, Kauai, Hawai'i, Nov. 20, 2015—There are old stories here in Hawai'i about a race of industrious little people who live in the jungles far out of sight of modern civilization. These Menehune, as they are known, are credited with accomplishing remarkable feats during the course of a single night. What they could not complete while the rest of the world was sleeping remained unfinished and abandoned, according to the mythology. These pint-size Polynesians are thought to be descendants of the original inhabitants of the lost continent of Mu. In addition to their remarkable strength and abilities as craftsmen and artisans, they are rumored to possess supernatural powers. At one point, piggy-bank statues of these strong, unibrowed dwarves—who dined on bananas and fish—were handed out to children as a promotion for a local bank. Nowadays, the Menehune are discussed mostly in the context of the 'Alekoko Fishpond, which supposedly was constructed by this lost race of Hawaiian gnomes.

Kilauea Point National Wildlife Refuge

The celebrated Kauai rains visited us with a vengeance just after I had proclaimed in my last post that we hadn't seen a drop of moisture since our arrival. In some ways the rains were a blessing, because I had received a deep cut from the razor sharp coral on one of my feet the day before. After reading about the potentially serious consequences of a reef cut, we took no shortcuts in attending to the wound. Peroxide, colloidal silver, and some savage bandages, coupled with a strict protocol of keeping the wound dry and protected, have facilitated satisfactory healing so far. Waking up to a downpour, and with the doppler radar showing giant blobs of green over the entire island, a day of sightseeing seemed in order. We decided to head all the way up to the North Shore, though we would come to regret this decision later on.

The hillside is covered with boobies! (All the white specks)

While the Menehune Fishpond was mostly unremarkable in its jungle setting, other visitors were quick to point out that the bluff just beyond it was where George Clooney looked over the island landscape during a pivotal scene in The Descendants. Some say if you look closely during that scene, you can see several Menehune peeking out from the jungle flora. For us, the little people remained as well hidden as the legion of wild pigs that is rumored to cover the island.

Pig meat is a big thing here, but no one really says where it comes from. During our drive past the northern most point on the Hawaiian island chain toward the Na'Pali coast to the west, we passed a house in the Hanalei colony that was decorated with the jawbone of many swine.  Apparently many of the locals hunt the wild pigs for sport or as a source of food, and many of the local restaurants serve pig meat as a barbecue item. Caroline enjoyed a rasher of tasty barbecue swine on her eggs Benedict at the Kountry Kitchen at Kapaa. The restaurant is renowned for its meat items. Given my recent choice to eliminate most meat from my diet, I settled for an omelet. 

This point designates the northern-most
point in the Hawaii archipelago. Moku'ae'ae
Island, uninhabited except for birds, is visible
at the top of the photo.

Several miles up the road we made it to Kilauea Point National Wildlife Refuge. A defunct lighthouse exists at the bird sanctuary, which is dotted with boobies, Nēnē, Frigate Birds, and Albatross—also known as Gooney Birds due to their ungraceful behavior while landing. The entire point stank of bird droppings, but it was great to see that the Hawaiians were preserving their flora and fauna. Earlier in the week, just before I was laid open by the coral, we came across an endangered Monk Seal on the beach. These animals were nearly hunted to extinction, and now an army of volunteers works diligently to ensure that the animals are unmolested. The Monk Seal had been cordoned off by one of the volunteers on Poipu Beach. Apparently people mistake their lethargy for illness. I guess an encounter with an angry Monk Seal is nothing to see up close, despite their friendly dog-like countenances. 

Earlier in the week we had come across other instances of the Hawaiians working to preserve their culture and their traditions. Just across the street from where we are staying, the Hawaiians have preserved ancient walls of lava as a tribute to Jonah Kuhio Kalanianaole, also known as "Prince Kuhio." The prince was raised in the nearby community of Koloa, and the park paying tribute to his character honors his work in preserving the heritage and strength of the people of Hawai'i. He was elected as Hawaii's first Congressional delegate and served 10 consecutive terms. While in Congress, Prince Kuhio initiated the Hawaiian Homes Commission Act, which provided locations for native Hawaiians to homestead. He served from 1903 until his death in 1922.

A monument to Prince Kuhio, Hawaii's first Congressional
delegate bears testament to the Prince's good works in
a small park near his home community of Koloa.

The road to Ke'e Beach on the Na'Pali coast is narrow and treacherous. The pounding rain didn't help things. We had pondered going to the extremely snooty St. Regis resort on Princeville for an afternoon cocktail and tapas, but the filthy vibe of the filthy rich drove us away. It was a good thing, too. The rains would soon come with a vengeance. On our way back, a pair of traffic accidents literally stopped traffic along the entire northern coast for three hours. We enjoyed local radio, which helped drown out the pounding of the rain and the curses of the motorists who were stopped dead on the only major road connecting the entire northern coastline. As the landscape around us began filling with water, I began to worry about the ability of our compact vehicle to make it through the lower regions of the island if they became flooded. 

A Monk Seal enjoys Poipu Beach along with
the hundreds of tourists sunning themselves.

My paranoia was on track. Kauai is home to Mt. Waialeale, the wettest spot on Earth, which averages 460 inches of rain each year. The mountain was off to our right, and rivers of rainwater were being disgorged from the jungles and into the sea all around us. The pounding rain was relentless and the rental car's windshield wipers did precious little to keep up with the deluge. Being from the desert, the idea of a "dangerous rain" seemed ludicrous, but here we were, right in the middle of one. It was easy to see why cars were crashing into one another and the frustration level of motorists was at its peak.

We inched along a few feet at a time before coming to a halt over and over again for the better part of two hours. During that time we covered about four miles. Both of us needed to pee, so we made a quick decision to detour out of our traffic predicament to find a bathroom. We got back on the highway just a few cars behind where we had started.

A few hours later, in complete darkness and under a driving rain so intense that it was nearly impossible to see, I crept back toward our condominium, staying close to the center of the road, which remained barely above water. Suddenly I understood why so many locals drive huge four-wheel drive vehicles with several inches of lift. 

Despite injury and rain, a good time was had
by all.

Just before our safe return, we passed a local crematory, which was hosting a funeral. The activities had begun earlier in the day while we were leaving. The ceremonies were continuing hours later after sunset. It's hard to imagine that death on such a small, close-knit island is taken for granted, and in some ways the traditions remind us of Native American practices back home. Death touches an entire community—rain or shine.

Strangely enough, while wading through this surreal day, I managed to keep my injured foot dry. Apparently the Menehune had constructed a tiny wall of lava rock around it that repelled the advancing waters.

See you on down the road.