Spirit of Aloha | Features | January/February 2008

At Home Among Fire-Knife Dancers
By: Rita Ariyoshi

Photos courtesy of Polynesian Cultural Center

How the Polynesian Cultural Center came to be

I don’t recall exactly how I got started with the Polynesian Cultural Center, but we go way back. It wasn’t love at first sight. The place was so touristy: a fake volcano belching flames, fire-knife dancers also belching flames and tour buses just plain belching. The PCC is run by the Mormon Church and I am not Mormon. I have great admiration for the faith, but also a love of red wine and Coca-Cola, although not together.

Every time I had Mainland guests, I took them to the PCC. I could count on their applause. They loved the fake volcano, the fire-knife dancers, the Pageant of the Canoes, the boat rides along the lagoon, the IMAX Theater. They even loved the lū‘au with its un-Hawaiian macaroni salad. The evening show went off with the precision of a Broadway production, the gardens bloomed eternally immaculate, and something was always going on just over the bridge or beyond the next coconut grove. Drums echoed across the water, someone was perched precariously in a coconut tree, a wahine with hips of butter was teaching hula, someone else prepared and shared poi, and everyone danced and sang. They did it with joy, and, sappy and sentimental as it sounds, love. It was obvious. It was contagious. I fell under its spell. I wrote two books about the center, which sold very well in the PCC’s gift shops.

All this led to one of the most satisfying experiences of my life, when PCC marketing executive Sunshine Barrett, with whom I had worked before, asked me to collaborate on a history of the PCC. I agreed. I would be working with David Hanneman and Lanier Britsch, both church members, historians and writers who had already compiled an impressive mountain of material, Lani working from Utah and David from his office at Brigham Young University Hawai‘i. That was in 2004. The book is due out in March 2008.

In the course of writing the book, David and I talked to many people who were involved with the center from its very beginnings, when it was just an idea, a prophetic word from an elder. We listened to the wood carvers, roof thatchers, kapa pounders, and other chiefs and artisans who journeyed from Tonga, Samoa, Fiji, Tahiti, Aotearoa (New Zealand), the Marquesas and Rapa Nui (Easter Island) to join their Hawaiian brothers and sisters in creating a showplace for Polynesian culture..

I learned how these earnest people created real villages with authentic culture. The Easter Islanders even conducted an ancient “eye-placing ritual” to complete the moai, the two-ton statues in the center’s Rapa Nui exhibit. Be­fore journeying to Hawai‘i, the carvers of the enormous moai dove to the ocean floor at Rapa Nui to bring up the best white coral and shells for the eyes. Alejandra Tuki Adolfo, who first came to the PCC as a student in 1992, explained that this traditional ceremony is considered a sacred birthing, since it is be­lieved the moai come out of darkness and, with their new eyes, can pierce the veil of death.

Merewalesi Racule, who came to the center with her father, Isireli, when she was 14, remembered the Fijians building their village. “We went up to the moun­tains to get the fern leaves. We used fern leaves instead of the pili grass of the Ha­wai­ian houses. I remember the reeds came from Fiji. We used ferns for the thatch and also the sides of the walls. It is a unique craftsmanship. If you drive up the Wilson Tunnel you will see some ferns on the side of the hill. Those are the kinds of ferns.”

The attention to detail, the determination to get it right both materially and spiritually, intrigued me. To prepare for our interviews, David and I would lay out our tape recorder, note­books, pens and Kleenex, since every interview inevitably dissolved into tears.

The stories and reminiscences would start with laughter, then the eyes would fill and a catch come into the voice, and the tears would flow—because the building of this place meant so much to every person whose hands shaped it. They worked, often without pay, for love of their culture, their fellow man and God.

Mauga Tapusoa, one of the builders of the Samoan Village, recalled the early days. “We started every activity with prayer,” he recalls. “We always gather­ed to­gether and knelt down or sang a song and prayed that we would feel the spirit of unity and love and the spirit of preparation would come to us.”

Vaimanino Tofa, who also worked on the Samoan Village, said, “We didn’t know each other until we worked to­gether. Through our work, a great love bonded us. We built the Samoan Vil­lage as beautiful as we could because we’re really proud of our culture.”

Therese Terooatea Cummings, who was born on the Tahitian island of Raia­tea, told of her days as a student working at the center. “For the first time, I knew how Samoans look, and how Ha­waiians look. I found out they look like me. We learned each other’s dance and language. We were a big family. I think God brought us here to be brothers and sisters. That was one of the greatest delights.”

Percy TeHira looked at his rough, strong workman’s hands as he spoke about being called from New Zealand to help build the Maori Village. “I was privileged to be on the team, to put my hand to any of its tools, its wood. That was a great blessing.

“Mine was just a small part,” he says, “but when I worked on the Maori Vil­lage, it was as though I was representing all the people before me, generations of people. I felt the spirit of my people. I couldn’t work long enough. I would finish work late at night or early in the morning just to be around it and to feel the spirit. This time is very special to me, almost sacred. Well, it is sacred. Late one night in the Maori Village, I could feel the presence of my mother as I was working. She had passed away in 1958. I paused, closed my eyes and said a little prayer.”

Faith and love are the glue holding the Polynesian Cultural Center together. This is why it works so well, why it is now the leading paid visitor attraction in Hawai‘i, even though it never opens on Sunday or serves a single mai tai.

The center was initially conceived as a way to provide jobs for students from the far-flung Pacific Isles who needed financial assistance and might not otherwise be able to afford an education. In its wisdom, the church also brought chiefs and traditional practitioners to the center to serve as counselors and surrogate parents for the young people.

Raymond Mariteragi first came to H­awai‘i in 1963 from Papeete, Tahiti. He was 17 years old. He said, “On the week­ends, after school and work, we would be invited to the chief’s home. The chief and his wife were father and mother figures. I was so young to be so far from home. And things were so different here. At home we still did our own cooking over an open fire. I went to the beach to gather firewood and build the fire. That was my duty. We didn’t have an icebox, so we made fresh food every day. We raised chickens, pigs. I had to kill the chickens. Every time we went swimming, it was understood we were to come home with fish. Once a week, we bought a block of ice and looked for lemons and made ice water with lemon juice. We had everything fresh. I came to Hawai‘i and I see an oven. I see an icebox. Now we eat something after it’s two or three days old.”

The adjustment to life in Hawai‘i was sometimes difficult.

The adjustment to life in Hawai‘i was sometimes difficult. Marquesan student Brian O’Connor said, “I was born in a green valley on the island of Hiva Oa. There were no houses in the valley but ours. When I was 4 days old, my mother placed me on the bow of the canoe and paddled away from our valley to present me to my grandparents two valleys away.

“I used to ask older people in the family to teach me all kinds of things: the ancient meanings of words, the old names, who was the best warrior of each valley, the old words for specific ideas. My grandmother was descended from a lost tribe. They were all killed. She never talked too much. She just did things. She recognized spirits in rocks and trees. She healed us with her medicines and rubbed our skin with coconut. I was never frightened as a child, when I could have died so many times. I was riding a horse at 3 years old, hanging onto its hair. I was chased by bulls when I was 6, and chased by sharks when I was catching lobsters. I killed my first goat at 6. My father held it down and I cut its throat. If you can’t hunt in the Marquesas, you don’t live. It wasn’t until I went to France as a missionary that I learned there are mean people who use knives on other people. And I found when I left home that we are known as savages.”

Like Brian, many students bring their traditional knowledge and skills with them. Others, raised in more contemporary milieus, don’t discover or embrace their heritage until they get to the center. Brian’s older sister, Tekura, admitted that when she arrived, she knew little about her own culture. She said, “When I came here to school, they asked me, ‘What do you know?’ The answer was, ‘Very little.’ I had to go back home and learn my culture and history. I had to ask the elders about the legends, and I had to improve my dancing. I used to hate to dance. I was like a stick. The dances of the Marquesas are unique.”

Like Brian, many students bring their traditional knowledge and skills with them. Others, raised in more contemporary milieus, don’t discover or embrace their heritage until they get to the center. Brian’s older sister, Tekura, admitted that when she arrived, she knew little about her own culture. She said, “When I came here to school, they asked me, ‘What do you know?’ The answer was, ‘Very little.’ I had to go back home and learn my culture and history. I had to ask the elders about the legends, and I had to improve my dancing. I used to hate to dance. I was like a stick. The dances of the Marquesas are unique.”

Hard work was expected and, when performed together, became a kind of prayer. Fuatino Su‘apa‘ia Koahou, who came from Samoa to contribute her knowledge, looked back from the vantage point of her 82 years. She told how in Hawai‘i the women covered themselves from head to foot and wore knee-high rubber boots even in the heat of day when they went into the sugar-cane fields because the cane leaves had sharp edges with tiny, needlelike hairs. High school students joined their elders and enthusiastically pitched in, doing the hard, dirty work. Auntie Fuatino continued, “In the morning while it was still dark, we’d catch the truck to Hale­‘iwa to pick up the sugar-cane leaves to weave for thatching. We sat on the truck until the sun came up, then we filled up the truck with lau [leaves]. The Samoan sisters and brothers, especially the old ladies, would do the weaving. First, they’d fold leaves around a stick and put the sticks in stacks in the truck.”

Lusse Tapusoa Magalei, one of 10 chil­dren of Mauga Tapusoa and his wife, Fa‘ane‘e, said, “When we picked lau on rainy rays, our feet sank in the mud, sometimes up to the thigh, and we’d have to call someone to pull the old ladies out and carry them.”

David Hanneman and I heard enough tales to fill several volumes and we en­joyed the richness of each one. “Talk story” is a noble Hawaiian tradition, and Lily Kama was one of its most gifted practitioners. Lily, who was also a renowned Hawaiian quilt artist, said, “People wanted legends of Hawai‘i, so I used to tell stories about Pele and the Islands—and, oh, how they enjoyed it.” Auntie Lily shared her stories with all who came to the center and visited the Hawaiian Village. There she would settle on her lauhala mat, take a deep breath, smile and be­gin: “Pele was known as the goddess of fire and she lived on the island of Ha­wai‘i in the center of the crater. Now, she was always so busy with her fire that one night she got tired. So she went up on the mountain. She wondered what she could do. And coming from afar she heard music, the most beautiful music, and she thought, oh, this is coming from the island of Kaua‘i, I’m going over there to investigate. And so there she appeared. She stood in the distance. And, oh, she saw the most handsome young man she’d ever seen.”

The stories we heard in getting ready to write our book lifted us out of ourselves, reminding us of the preciousness of our place in the world, these beautiful green and blessed Islands isolated in the deep, blue ocean. I loved listening to the gentle voices, the sweetness in the tell­ing. Often David and I and our subjects sat in the shade of coconut palms or beneath a thatched roof and wiled away the time while the windward sun peaked then dipped behind the Ko‘olau Mountains.

Sometimes I was at the center from morning to night, arriving long before it was open to the public, when the elders and young people were preparing their villages for the day, stringing hibiscus on coconut ribs, sweeping the cool interiors, lovingly arranging the artifacts for display. It was all done with a quiet sense of purpose, albeit a languid one.

Once the gates opened at noon and the guests poured in, the energy changed. The air became charged with determination and competitiveness. Doggone it, the tourists had their tickets in their perspiring hands and they were going to see every village, ride the canoes, photograph the pageants from the best coconut-stump seats and shop for souvenirs.

It would take about an hour for languidness to seep back in, to slow everyone down so that each moment became vivid and important. The drums thundering in the Tongan Village could wait until the young man finished husking his coconut in the Samoan Village.

Into the second hour, the tourists were wearing flowers in their hair or lau­hala visors and headbands they had woven themselves. They had pineapple boats filled with watermelon sherbet un­der their belts and were laughing and applauding, their faces pink with happiness and too much sun. By the end of the day they had made new friends and were vowing to come back someday.

Coming back was easy for David Han­neman. He lives nearby in Lä‘ie. I came all the way from Hawai‘i Kai. But I never minded the long drive home along the Windward Coast, the dazzling stretch of beach at Hau‘ula, the quiet ironwood shade of Kahana Bay with its ancient fishponds and the valleys of Kualoa Ranch, the most dramatically beautiful on O‘ahu.

I grieved when the book was finished.

RITA ARIYOSHI, a frequent contributor to SPIRIT OF ALOHA, is a multiple winner of Lowell Thomas Travel Jour­nal­ism awards and a recipient of the Push­cart Prize for Literature.

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