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.

Lessons learned from the Spouting Horn

Poipu, Kauai, Hawai'i, Nov. 18, 2015—There is a natural ebb and flow to life here in Hawai'i. Thanks to the marvels of modern technology, I have downloaded an App onto my phone that tells me when the tides are coming in and going out. I don't understand how all of this fits together, yet, but we have learned enough to stay out of the water at the edges of tidal extremes. During such periods, the waves are fierce and the water is murky. The sharp lava rocks that ring the coastline can punish the flesh of the unwary. For a man such as me who has the grace of a manatee, this is not so bad if I am in the water, but at the horizon of sea and air, I am essentially useless when the big waves are up, and I am tossed like bag of potatoes onto the rocks and raked back out to sea again afterward. The human body can only take so much of this, and I am not eager to test the breaking point.

The Nēnē is Hawai'i's state bird

They have put out a sign at our condominium complex stating that this part of the island has been inundated by parakeets. The birds are larger than the parakeets we are accustomed to in pet shops on the mainland, and they more closely resemble cockatiels. They are a brilliant green with bright orange beaks. When they roost, they unleash a cacophony of bird chatter, and they poop vigorously on the cars in the parking lot, and this apparently is a problem.

According to the notice, the county health department has deemed the poop a health hazard and has instructed the "victims" of parakeet infestations to unceremoniously kill as many of the noisy little bastards as possible. The condominium complex has opted for a different approach—air horns to drive away the flocks at sunset. Personally, I am pleased with this strategy, but not all of the residents agree. Last night, as the birds were congregating, our neighbor lamented their arrival.

"The poop!" he said with disgust.

We have no idea what kind of tree this
is, but they are beautiful and remind us
of home.

The complex's dumpster corral lies just at the edge of the parking area, which has been denuded of branches during the past couple of days to prevent the fugitive birds from roosting. The amount of bird poop seems trivial when compared to the small mountains of garbage produced each night by humans roosting in our condominium complex, but I held my tongue.

"I like the birds," I said.

The man regarded me as if I were bird poop and changed the subject, which reminds me....

Earlier in the day on one of the nearby resort beaches, we came across a large woman sprawled out on her lawn chair enjoying the sun. She had pulled her knees up towards her ears, as if she were about to give birth. Her porcine private parts had overwhelmed the small strip of tropical colored fabric comprising her bikini bottom, and her flesh was oozing out like a sea cucumber emerging from a void in the reef. It was impossible not to stare in awe.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" she chirped.

"Ummm..." was the best I could answer. Suddenly I wished I had an air horn.

Ahoy mates!

The visibility for snorkeling was poor on this day,
but we still had a lot of fun!

We awoke at the crack of dawn to meet Cap'n Andy for a boat ride to the Na'pali coast, which is regarded by many as one of the most beautiful coastlines in the world. Anyone who has seen Jurassic Park or the remake of King Kong has seen the area. It does not disappoint. The surf was incredibly high, so we would be unable to snorkel on the coast, which is located on the northwest tip of Kauai. Cap'n Andy stopped off the southern coast to provide us with an opportunity to get off the boat, but the water was cloudy and visibility was low, so there wasn't much to see. One woman dropped her mask and snorkel in the choppy water, so I dove about 20 feet down to retrieve it. The pressure at that depth was hard on the ears, but I was able to equalize the pressure just enough to avoid crippling pain and a busted ear drum. Another man inhaled a bunch of sea water and Cap'n Andy's crew had to drag him back onto the boat while he coughed and sputtered helplessly. The unfortunate man joined the gaggle of lesbians who had opted to enjoy wine instead of taking the plunge.

Yes, it's a baby dolphin with its mother. It
seems like any kind of baby animal is cute,
well, except for baby parakeets, according
to some people's opinions.

Later during the cruise, Cap'n Andy expertly guided the catamaran over the roiling waters and we enjoyed a good jump or two over some deep troughs between waves at the front of the boat. Two pods of spinner dolphins guided us during part of our journey, and Cap'n Andy's crew prepared a stellar lunch, which was served just in time to stave off the sea sickness. During the ride back in, most people jockeyed to "get their money's worth" of liquor, but we remained satisfied with sobriety. Being from the desert, any ride on a boat is a good one. Cap'n Andy had given us a great day.

The Spouting Horn

Just up the coast is a natural spectacle known as the Spouting Horn. The relentless waves have carved out a hole under a lava shelf that magnifies the action of the waves. At regular intervals, the unsettled ocean spouts through the hole and creates a magnificent fountain that is accompanied by a high-pitched raspy moan reminiscent of a dying man's last breath.

The spouting horn seemed to be a popular destination for the blue-haired visitors to Kauai, which seemed a little creepy to me after listening to its song. Many of these visitors aggressively positioned themselves along the chain link fence overlooking the natural wonder so they could earnestly hold their iPads over the top of the fence to capture the perfect shot. It's strange to watch people taking photos with iPads. I can't help but wonder why these people don't buy cameras? There are plenty of good ones out there, and they aren't even very expensive. They take better photos than an iPad, too, and aren't as cumbersome. But I digress.

I shooed an old man away after he had taken 20 or so shots with his iPad. While Caroline tried her best to capture the perfect sea water eruption, I tried my best to mimic the sound of the Spouting Horn during each geyser event. My seemingly disembodied voice, with its low hollow death rattle, and my open mouth, with its gritted teeth and tongue curled over my lower lip toward the ground—like a tiki statue warning trespassers away from kapu territory—was repulsive to the other visitors, and soon we had the place to ourselves.

There are those who find the Spouting Horn on Kauai
a little bit unsettling.

The Spouting Horn used to have a companion that produced an even more magnificent show. However, about 100 years ago, when sugar cane plantations were introduced to the island, the horn vexed the Sugar Baron because it was depositing salt-water spray on his crops, reducing their productivity. The industrious Sugar Baron used steam-powered muscle to widen the natural hole into a huge square scar that remains to this day as a testament to the greed of Men and the might of Industry. We keep the things we like if they are profitable, but we eradicate the things we don't without batting an eye. To Papa Sugar, the original Spouting Horn was just another parakeet.

Playing Chicken

The Nēnē is the Hawaiian state bird, and Caroline was fortunate enough to see one while I was out getting a massage. As it turns out, the masseuse happened to have come from Santa Fe and had trained our former next-door-neighbor back home in the healing arts as well. It's a small world.

I am not ashamed to say that Kauai is also home to some of the most beautiful cocks I have ever seen. Chickens run wild all over the island. Strangely enough, the locals seems to tolerate them more than they tolerate parakeets. The island is also lousy with feral cats. At nightfall, immense herds of wild felines come slinking out of the jungle and clamber into every dumpster corral. We have seen cars swerving to run over the cats, but we have yet to see a dead one. Dead chickens are everywhere on the highways and shoulders, but no one seems to eat them. And the grocery stores all sell eggs. With so many wild chickens here, I'd figure out a way to locate their nests for a constant supply of fresh eggs if I had more time here. I guess there are several people who are already doing just that. Kauai is one of the most expensive islands in the archipelago.

Before our arrival here, everyone cautioned us about the rain.

If you're looking for cock, there's no better place
than Hawai'i.

"Kauai is a beautiful place to visit as long as it doesn't rain," they told us. So far we haven't had a drop.

There is an ebb and a flow to this place. On one hand there are shoot-to-kill orders for parakeets, but wild chickens seem to enjoy immunity, even though they poop just as much as their wild green cousins. Thankfully, everyone seems to agree that turtles are sacrosanct. And while the Na'Pali coast gets eroded at a staggering rate each year due to the incessant pounding of the surf, the turtles and the Nēnē remain as a constant reminder of the fragility of our world, and how fortunate we are to live in it.

See you on down the road.