(Continued from Day 6)
This was our final day in Hawaii, and we checked out of the lovely Hilton Waikoloa Village after enjoying its amenities a bit more. I don’t think I mentioned that they have quite an impressive collection of artwork.
Our plane did not leave until nearly 9 o’clock at night, however, so we once again ventured south, to catch some sights we passed by on our return from Volcanoes National Park.
Click on the map for more detail. You will be able to zoom in and out, and move around.
At Kailua Kona (where the Walmart is) we diverted from Route 11 to take in the sights along Ali’I Drive, which hugs the coast (between the pink pins on the map). From there we found our way to Kealakekua Bay State Historical Park (green pin). There we explored another heiau, not that we were seeking out places of human sacrifice, you understand. Both heiaus had this puzzling warning sign:
I mean, I get the part about not damaging the structure, or stealing rocks for souvenirs. But don’t wrap the rocks? What’s with that?
We live in a new era: Twenty years ago I would have puzzled over the problem for a few minutes and moved on, but today I’ve become accustomed to finding answers, even when they don’t really matter, because they're usually only a few clicks (not klicks) away. Sure enough, I learned that tourists have been wrapping heiau rocks in ti leaves (not tea leaves) for good luck, a custom offensive to the Hawaiians and apparently with no historical basis older than a bad surfer movie from the 80s.
Across Kealakekua Bay is a monument to Captain James Cook, near the spot where he was killed by the Hawaiians in 1779. In keeping with the tradition of making tourist access difficult, it is accessible only by a steep and difficult climb or an hour-long swim. Or, you can contribute to the thriving local kayak-rental business and get there in 30 minutes. We chose to take advantage of the camera’s zoom feature.
To reach our next stop, Pu’uhonua o Honaunau (aqua pin), we travelled down Highway 160. Well, perhaps “highway” is a bit of an exaggeration, but it got us there, and was a huge improvement over yesterday’s dirt trail. It looks desolate, but once or twice we had the opportunity to appreciate the recent widening that you can see in the photo, which made it a 1½-lane road and much more comfortable when meeting another vehicle head-on.
Pu’uhonua o Honaunau was a Place of Refuge. The early Hawaiians lived under an oppressive set of regulations—the kapu system—that governed every detail of life. Not that the laws could compete in sheer number with our legal system today, but the penalty for even the smallest infraction was often death. Catch a woman eating a coconut, or a banana? Men and women eating together? A commoner who allowed the shadow of one of the elite to fall on him? Death. Shark bait. Human sacrifice. Torture-of-the-month. Death by clubbing, strangling, drowning, or being burnt alive.
Or you could be fast. Outrun your pursuers and get to a Place of Refuge, perform certain rituals under the auspices of the local priest—and you could go home: forgiven, safe, and free. A bit hard on the women and children, but it saved the strong and agile men for more days of work and fighting.
Statues of the gods.
Today Pu’uhonua o Honaunau is a refuge of a different sort.
Before heading back north, we took a brief detour to St. Benedict’s Catholic Church (yellow pin), known as the Painted Church, thanks to the efforts of its priest at the turn of the 20th century. It didn’t feel right to take pictures, so we bought a postcard instead.
It was a rather remarkable week in that the only rain we experienced fell on this day. Hilo, after all, gets rained on some 275 days each year. But the only consequence for us was spending rather more time than we had planned at Discovery Antiques (red pin) while waiting for a respite sufficient to let us dash for the car with some hope of not having to change clothes before boarding the plane. We’d only gone in for another sampling of Tropical Dreams ice cream, and that’s all we bought, but the assortment of old and odd items kept us entertained during the wait. Uncle Jay would have loved it.
Finding ourselves back at Kona much too early to go to the airport, we passed the time exploring the King’s Trail back at Waikoloa, looking for petroglyphs.
Finally, having stretched the glorious week as far as we thought reasonable, we returned to the tiny Kona airport, where we had a snack and waited. And waited. And finally read, in a local newspaper, about the discovery and killing of Osama bin Laden. And bought honey made from the blossoms of the ohia tree, after being assured it wouldn’t be confiscated before we boarded the plane.
In addition to the regular security line, Kona also has an agricultural inspection. This did not surprise me, as I’ve become accustomed to such concerns when re-entering the United States. Not that we had ever left the U.S. on this trip, though at times I wondered. I could not stop myself from mentally adding up the cost of our souvenirs for the Customs form….
The flight from Kona was pleasant and uneventful, and we landed in Los Angeles in plenty of time to negotiate the long walk through construction to our connecting flight. That, too, was fine, and with plenty of time in Minneapolis before our final leg, we relaxed at Ike's, enjoying their fine shrimp. It's fun to travel with someone who knows the airports and the best places to eat!
Did I say we had plenty of time? We were to have more than we'd bargained for, though we didn't get any more shrimp out of it. We had boarded our flight to Orlando and appeared to be on our way when the pilot announced that a leak had been spotted in the hydraulic system. The good news was that it could be fixed right at the gate, and there was no need to cancel the flight. But it would take time, and did we want to stay on the plane or return to the terminal? That's the first time I've ever been on a flight where democracy ruled: the passengers could all get off, or all stay on, but nothing in between, so we voted. Back to the terminal it was.
We waited. And waited. And waited, not wanting to get too far from the gate area. I struck up a conversation with a woman whose husband was chasing their young daughter around, talking with her, soothing her, reassuring her. It was a good lesson in reserving judgement on other people’s parenting: this little child, who appeared to be mildly spoiled, was in reality autistic, and had done exceedingly well up to the point where we got off the plane. If flight disruptions upset ordinary, adult passengers, what must they do to a child for whom any change from the expected is traumatic? I’ve seen adult passengers behave worse, actually.
I lost track of the little girl and missed how she reacted to what happened next.
Flashing lights. Very loud European-style siren. And the following announcement, also at full volume:
May I have your attention please. May I have your attention please. A fire alarm has been detected in this area of the airport. The fire department is investigating this alarm. Please be alert for signs of fire and evacuate the terminal if necessary. The fire department will provide additional direction over this paging system as required.
Repeat. And repeat. (“Pete and Repeat were sitting in a boat. Pete jumped out. Who was left?” “Repeat.” “Pete and Repeat were in a boat….”)
Eventually we were shooed back into the plane. I’m convinced the exasperated pilot finally spluttered, “Get those people back onto the plane before someone makes them evacuate the airport!” Good decision.
Our friendly neighbors were waiting for us when at last we arrived in Orlando, and the final leg of our journey was pleasant and timely. Our luggage (and its contents) made it in good shape, albeit with the “TSA was here” note inside that I’ve come to expect. Back in the days when the people we would visit smoked, I’d wash even our clean clothes upon returning home. Now I’m back to doing it again. Sure, the TSA folks wear gloves, but they don’t change them between suitcases. Call me paranoid, but it makes me feel better, like washing new clothes straight from the store.
As always, it was good to get home, and back to the business of life. Someone asked me if our vacation was restful, and I replied, "Restful? Of course not. Vacations are never restful." But this one was enjoyable, fulfilling, and delightful.
For one who never cared much for travel of any sort, much less overseas—Hawaii may not be out of the country, but it's clearly "overseas"—I'm coming to see that it can be worthwhile, fun, and more affordable than I thought. I'm also getting better at it, as I get more practice. I'm a long way from putting in 10,000 hours, but if that's what it takes to become an expert, maybe I can become reasonably competent on a lesser course of study.
Aloha, Hawaii, and mahalo for your hospitality!
