Spirit of Aloha | Features | March/April 2007

In the Footsteps of Hi‘iaka
By Joana Varawa

Looking for the spirit ghosts of Pele’s sister

The first time I danced hula before a crowd of fellow Islanders, I knew I had discovered the love of my life. I didn’t really know how to dance, but I felt above the world with my first steps. I must have looked resplendent in a white ho­lokü and crimson ‘ōhi‘a lei. The crowd cheered. I was in heaven. Even though I didn’t know it then, I think now that I was inspired by Hi‘iaka, the fern-robed goddess of hula. That was years ago, yet I still feel that rush of pure joy as I dance. Hi‘iaka is my role model, a port in a trade-wind storm. Whenever I feel wimpy or fearful, I consider her accomplishments.

Hi‘iaka is the favorite younger sister of Pele, the volcano incarnate. When we dance a Pele dance, it is in the name of Hi‘iaka. They are members of a powerful family of gods embodied in the great storms that accompany volcanic events. Thunder, lightning, steam, red-stained clouds and heavy dark clouds generate the life that is to come out of the fiery magma Pele releases from the Earth’s belly. This is the legend.

In the old story, Pele imperiously sends Hi‘iaka from Kïlauea on Hawai‘i to Kaua‘i to bring back Pele’s lover, the handsome chief Lohi‘au. It is a long and dangerous journey. The terrain Hi‘iaka must cross is guarded by fierce mo‘o (giant reptiles) and huge sharks, which live in the forest and in rivers, pools and sea crossings. Bad stuff. Before she leaves, she is given a magic pa‘u (skirt) of palai fern, mana (supernatural power) and, just in case, the ability to summon her astonishing family to protect her.

Ever since I heard the story of Hi‘i­a­ka’s epic journey, I’ve wanted to retrace her footsteps. When the opportunity comes, I dance at the chance. Hi‘iaka had a family of gods and a lace fern skirt. I take a credit card, plane tickets and rental car reservations. The modern traveler moves in another kind of Ha­wai‘i, but, if I’m fortunate, I still might find places where Hi‘iaka’s spirit lingers.

When I land in Kona, the air is saturated with volcanic smoke that drifts westward. It blankets the side of the island where there is little wind. It’s an immediate reminder that I have entered Pele’s domain. Driving up the long slope of Mauna Loa to Kïlauea, I en­counter rolling green pastures that blend into a stark lava landscape and I think: Pele is present in every rock and cinder. At her home in the crater of Hale­ma‘uma‘u, I recall the time I blithely hiked the Kïlauea caldera floor and quickly lost the trail because an earthquake had knocked down the trail markers. What was to be a simple hour-long jaunt from Volcano House to the parking lot in the caldera turned into a sweat-inducing, dangerous odyssey across unmarked ground, where I knew I could break through the lava crust at any step. When I finally arrived at what I thought to be my destination, I was standing on the fissured edge of the abyss of the crater, looking at a parking lot directly opposite it. Only 1,100 yards separated me from civilization, but those 1,100 yards were impassable. It was my first lesson of humility in the realm of Pele.

To begin my current quest, I stop for coffee in Volcano Vil­lage. Here I open Nathaniel Emerson’s classic book, Pele and Hi‘iaka, and read Hi‘iaka’s lovely chant in praise of a bevy of beautiful women weaving ‘ōhi‘a lehua lei at Waiā­kea. This looks promising, for there is a Waiākea on the map and even something called Hi‘iaka’s gardens. I dis­cover, alas, there are no lehua groves, no Hi‘iaka’s gardens, and the closest thing is the Waiākea Agricultural Research Sta­tion, where, at the en­trance, two friend­ly local men are guarding a patch of newly laid cement. They invite me to inscribe my name in the ce­ment, before it sets. I scratch a scrawny ‘ōhi‘a. They tell me that the only mo‘o to worry about in these parts are teenagers who party on lonely roads. Below me, the sea is a blur of blue at the end of a long, straight road. I consider walking that far and wonder what Hi‘iaka did when she got tired, or if she got tired. When I reach the shoreline at Puna in a place called Hā‘ena, the surf, pounding against the shiny black lava, spumes up a flying foam. This is the place Hi‘iaka and Hōpoe danced what might have been the first hula: ‘Ami i kai o Nanahuki (dance to the sea at Nana­huki). The smooth, sun-warmed pāhoehoe lava is a welcoming dance floor. The sound of the crashing waves and the scent of salt-laden spray have not changed since those ladies graced this shore.

I get in touch with Eric, a hunter friend who knows the back country. We head up the Saddle Road between Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea in search of a kïpuka, an island of old vegetation surrounded by more recent lava flows. Here I hope to see something of the ‘ōhi‘a lehua and tree-fern forest that formed the stage for Hi‘iaka’s classic battle with the mo‘o of Pana‘ewa, who assumed the form of fog, heavy rain and entangling vegetation to entrap her.

At the 21-mile marker, we pull off and head mauka. Eric takes the lead with his bow in hand, and I dawdle along, ad­miring the scarlet ‘ōhi‘a blossoms and fantastic shapes frozen in the lava. Above me, floating serenely in the cloud-dotted sky, are the dark flank of Mauna Loa and the sand-colored cinder cones of Mauna Kea. Clouds drift, then coalesce and spill torrents of rain, then pass on. As the sun shifts, creating new shadows, the rocks change expressions. Only the drifting clouds and changing shadows signal the passage of time. At the overlook to Waipi‘o Valley I look down the dizzying cliff at the mouth of the river, where Hi‘iaka met and killed the shark Maka‘ukiu. Wai­pi‘o Valley was once the home of several thousand Hawaiians, and the residence of their highest chiefs. Here, fertile taro plantations, watered by upland streams that flowed down to the valley, fed them. In the soft afternoon light, a distant waterfall flows into a fecund lo‘i. Nearby, the flash of a white egret landing in the viridian glow of the patch of kalo, taro, is clearly visible. The surf along the scalloped shoreline looks like lace edging cobalt satin, and the long shadow of Haleakalā, seen from across the channel, is almost invisible in the mist rising from the sea.

Hi‘iaka crossed the ‘Alenuihāhā Chan­nel by canoe, eluded the advances of an amorous canoe paddler in Hāna, and traveled the windward coast of Maui. When she reached ‘Iāo Valley, she was hungry and asked the ruling chief for traditional hospitality. He ignored her, so Hi‘iaka caught his soul, as it flitted around and outside his body, and smashed it against the rock known as Pahalele. ‘Iāo Valley, once the sacred home of the high chiefs of Maui, is now a state park, and its trails have been made safe for visitors. Yet, even with the iron railings and asphalt, I feel the dangerous beauty of these steep, water-carved cliffs and succulent valleys. A needlelike peak, the phallus of Kanaloa, god of the sea, rises directly out of the valley floor. The river that created this inaccessible landscape flows in bubbling pools that have been temporarily dammed by local boys. Laughing and showing off, they remind me of Lohi‘au as they plunge into the frothing water.

As I head north, I pass a huge rock on the mauka side of the road. Is this Pahalele? It looks like it has been here forever. Now the journey, even by car, be­comes difficult. The coastal road turns into a scary single lane, with blind curves and deep drops down to the ocean. At Kahakuloa, I chat with Mary Costa in her chartreuse-green roadside shack, where she sells “Julia’s Best Ba­nana Bread on the Planet.” We discuss recent changes in the valley and agree that all things are not for the best. The wind is fierce here. It threatens to tear off the car door. Further along, I park in a sandy turnoff at the bottom of a valley, where a sweet-faced boy carrying a surfboard tells me I have arrived at Honokōhau.

No signs along this coast. The wild surf booms on water-polished boulders. An idyllic stream flowing under a stone bridge is trying to maneuver out to sea, ranging against the great combers. Here, Hi‘iaka caught the spirit of a maimed woman fishing on the shoreline, and brought her back to life. At Honolua Bay, staunch women are riding major waves in the Billabong Pro Maui surf contest. (Hi‘iaka’s sister Pele was a surfer, and when someone took off on a wave in front of her she simply flung some lava and turned them into stone.) At Kāpua, near Kā‘anapali, Hi‘iaka changed herself into an old wo­man to elude pursuit. At nearby Kahe­kili Park, I change into a sun worshiper, plop down in the warm sand and gaze across the windswept channel at Moloka‘i.

My flight to O‘ahu is packed with ladies on their way to compete in the Hono­lulu Marathon. Their high-pitch­ed, excited talk reminds me of a bird colony. My route takes me against the flow of traffic and I set off for the headland where Hi‘iaka came ashore and greeted her relative, Makapu‘u. When Pele’s family traveled through the Is­lands on their way to find a home in Kïlauea, they left uncles and cousins behind as lava and rock formations. Hi‘iaka always paid a courtesy call. A jewel­like bay, with turquoise water, sweeps out from the base of Makapu‘u. Hi‘iaka must have felt the peace that I feel here and, like her, I continue up the coast. How beautiful the Ko‘olau mountains are, as the sun outlines their plunging ridges and sculpts them with a golden glow. In hula, we often dance Hi‘iaka’s chanted plaint describing the smiting rains and mired trails of the Ko‘olau. Today, the sun is shining and the way is clear.

At Kualoa Park, there is an inviting ex­panse of grassy lawn with picnic tables and kamani trees. When Hi‘iaka came this way, the giant lizard Mokoli‘i reared up to prevent her passage, but she threw his tail in the shallows and his body on the trail. His body became the state highway and his tail the small conical island just offshore. Further on I meet The Crouching Lion, a restaurant (although there are no lions in Hawai‘i), which used to be called The Crouching Dog (dogs are plentiful), and which is really named Kauhi‘ïmakaokalani (the watchtower of heaven). Here, Kauhi, a relative, implores Hi‘iaka to release him from his cliff and let him go with her. Unmoved by the tears in his stony eyes, she tells him to stay where he is and travels on. Kauhi struggles to get free of the cliff, but cannot. He is left crouching at the opening to Kahana Valley. The thick, green vegetation and cool fragrant breezes of this splendid valley are a balm to the hectic pace of city life. It is no wonder that the Hawaiian word for shade, shelter and peace—malu—is the same.

The first thing that greets me when I land at Lïhu‘e on Kaua‘i is an anxious momma hen trying to get her chicks across the hot asphalt of the parking lot. Wild chickens, ubiquitous on Kaua‘i, have been around a very long time. Since everyone knows how tough they are, they manage to stay out of the cooking pot. And they flourish. They may have clucked along with Hi‘iaka long ago. I drive to Wailua, where the Wailua River enters the sea across a sand bar, which is exposed at low tide and forms a natural crossing. This is where Hi‘iaka demanded a clear passage in a ringing chant that I know and often chant my­self, so that I feel closer to the goddess. As I cross the sand bar, a flight of sand­er­lings explodes at my feet, in a ringing calligraphy of black and white wings. The lichen-encrusted stones of the heiau are behind me. The knowledge that there are petroglyph-carved boulders buried in the sand of the shoreline deepens the feeling that the past blends with the present.

But it is at Keālia that the past emerges from the mists of time. This is where Hi‘iaka healed a sick woman with prayer, and magically cooked the taro leaves offered to her as a meal by the woman’s husband. Long ago, Keālia was famous as the place where salt was evaporated at the seashore. I ask a local construction worker where the salt pans are. He points to a grove of ironwood trees. “They were once over there, but now they’re gone,” he says. I cross the highway and slip under a pasture fence to walk to the grove. A small wild pig lies dead under the trees. This is the first wild pig I’ve ever seen, and it must have just died: there is no smell and no flies. An unblemished wild pig was the traditional offering at the hula altar. I cannot believe that finding this pig is an accident.

Hanalei Valley is an unmarred ripple of green taro plantations backed by the stunning bulk of Nāmolokama. The lush waters of Wai‘ale‘ale drain down the mountainside in frothing, silvery falls that water the plantations and then become the Hanalei River. I search the place where it enters the sea for the stone that is said to be the body of a mo‘o that Hi‘iaka killed when he wouldn’t let her cross. At the beach park, sitting near the slow green river on a white plastic chair, I see a tall, spotlessly dressed Hawaiian man, wearing a diamond earring. He could be an older Lohi‘au, resting after his adventures. His name is Kaleo, and he invites me to sit with him. Our conversation takes us back 60 years, across a long stretch of memory. “I come here every day,” he says. “I have to come here to find my­self. It’s where I belong.”

I ask him about the big rock that’s partially covered by sand at the river’s mouth. He says that when the sand is taken by the surf the rock is 6 feet high. We think it could be the transformed mo‘o. “That rock is special,” he says. “There’s just something about that rock.”

The road ends. I begin the slippery climb up to KauluoLaka, the altar to Laka, and KauluPaoa, where Lohi‘au’s close friend taught hula. The trail is muddy and overgrown. Banks of laua‘e fern, shiny green ti leaves, hala with green fruit and kukui trees adorn the path. Far below, the sea glistens and rolls in serried folds from the horizon. At the top of the trail is the hula platform; on the mountain wall is the altar. To offer my respect to all that surrounds me, I chant a traditional oli that de­scribes Pele and Hi‘iaka’s visit to Lāna‘i, my island home.

High on the towering cliff above me is where Hi‘iaka saw the spirit ghost of Lohi‘au, who had died before she could reach him. She climbed the mountain, found his body in a cave guarded by mo‘o and, with chanted prayer and herbal medicine, restored him to life. I cannot follow her any farther, so I sit on a rock in the sun and contemplate my journey. Places flashed by as if in a dream. I traveled the windward coasts of four Hawaiian islands and gazed at their most sacred places. I wonder what it was like to make this journey on foot and by canoe, protected only by spiritual and natural powers. I do not know what has protected me, but I’ve been safe and my journey has been easy.

Leaving KauluoLaka, I go back down the damp, leaf-strewn path to the sea. The surf roars, the tide is high. I turn to look at Lohi‘au’s house, nearly hidden by thick vines and succulent leaves. The narrow trail up and around the house platform is dangerous. Twisted vine roots and broken branches tangle the path. At the top I decide not to go on the platform. Would Hi‘iaka like me poking around her boyfriend’s house? At that exact moment I stumble on a dry branch and I’m hit in the head by a heavy stick. Is this a sign? Or just time to end my journey?

JOANA VARAWA studied hula on Lāna‘i with kumu hula Elaine Kaopuiki and chanted for her hālau at the Merrie Monarch Festival in Hilo in the early 1980s. She entered a Kamehameha Chant Competition, with a chant of her own composition honoring Kalalau Valley, and came in next to last. She is the editor of The Lāna‘i Times, has been a resident of Lāna‘i since 1977, and is the author of many books and published stories. She still dances.

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