Born to the Land

Comprising only 260 squaremiles, the island is as complex as it is compact. Its western two-thirds, on the windward or dry side, is arid and its depleted, scrub-like vegetation is the result of decades of cattle grazing and failed pineapple cultivation. The largest landowner on the island is Molokai Ranch; with 70,000 acres the company owns most of the western and central regions of Molokai. But not all is bleak on the island’s western half, for it’s there one finds Papohaku Beach, the stunning two-mile long beach of fine coral sand where Jonathan gets his surfing lesson.

A half-forgotten vestige of old Hawaii, Molokai is a comparatively unspoiled sliver of Polynesia. Its 7,000 inhabitants are primarily of Hawaiian ancestry, making it the only island in the state where natives form the majority. The Hawaiian language has managed to survive here, after almost being eradicated when the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbour made it “un-American” for Hawaiians not to speak English. In fact, Hawaiian speakers on Molokai have tripled over the past decade.

“Molokai is a Hawaiian Island trying to remain a Hawaiian Island,” said Clifford Nae’ole, a well-known Hawaiian historian who Ispoke with during a stopover in Maui. “On Molokai people don’t look to be wealthy, they look to be content. They have learned from the mistakes of the other islands in their quest for development.”

The people of Molokai are called “Kanaka Maoli”—born on the land. “They practice being Hawaiian every day. They are able to work with the tools and create the ancient beads of their ancestors of hundreds of years ago. They are practicing life the way it was.”

Upon landing at Ho’olehua Airport, we’re met by our driver, a jovial middle-aged woman known to us as “Auntie,” a general Hawaiian term used out of respect. As she delivers us to our hotel for the first night, she advises us that “there no use driving faster then 30 miles per hour on Molokai. It won’t get you there faster than you need to be.”

In Molokai, “Time is whenever you decide to show up.” At least according to a local saying.

Located at Mile Marker 3 on Route 450, the Hotel Molokai is one of the island’s seven hotels. After dropping us off, Auntie makes sure that we settle into our room quickly and that we take possession of our rented four-wheel-drive Jeep, a necessity on Molokai’s dirt side roads and steep mountain passes.

Nearby to our west, nestled on Molokai’s south shore, is Kaunakakai, a sleepy town of around 2,000 people. It’s the Rome of the island in that all roads lead to it: to the west is Route 460, to the north is Route 470 and running to the east is Route 450. Rush hour only lasts for a few minutes and to handle it thereareahalf-dozen stop signs. There are no traffic lights in Kaunakakai—in fact, there are no traffic lights anywhere on the island. As Molokai’s only major settlement it is simply referred to as “the town.”

The town’s business district, which runs along Ala Malama Street, is a mere three blocks, populated by about two dozen locally owned businesses. Constructed during the 1930s, it reminded me of street scapes on New Zealand’s South Island: rich in character and devoid of the bland sameness of North American strip malls, each store-front reflecting its owner’s idiosyncrasies.

“If you need a frying pan, band-aid, hardware and maybe some fuel for a camp stove, you’re going to find them in the grocery store,” says Franklin, a transplanted mainlander I bump into on the strip. “There isn’t any Home Depot. There is only one franchise, which is a Subway. There was a Kentucky Fried Chicken for a while but that didn’t make it. What can I say, it’s perfect.”

This entry was posted on Tuesday, December 20th, 2005 at 9:48 pm and is filed under Features. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a comment, or trackback from your own site. Add to del.icio.us.