We got up at 6am, the earliest on the entire trip, and showered quickly. Kenon shouldered his backpack, and me, my waistpouch which was our luggage for the weekend trip. Kenon grumbled considerably that half of it consists cleanser, creams and sunblock for my face. "The bag is going to burst! How come there are 16 bottles of this stuff?!" I reduced it to 12. "Why girls must put so much things on their face?" to which I replied, "Otherwise, we would look like you. You look like a terrorist who made a lousy bomb that set off prematurely onto your face, sparing the eyes where you hid behind the glasses, I'm serious." We laughed it off, and I got away with the 12bottles.
We stowed away the rest of our baggage under the kitchen table of the hostel dormitory and made our way to the front of the quay at the beginning of Ali'i Drive just as the sun rose and colored the pier a shade of rose-gold. We were not sure where to wait for the bus, but had the good fortune to meet another fellow passenger who assured us that we were at the right place.
The bus headed to the highlands, and we rounded the top of the island to the other side in an hour. We had arrived at Honoka'a, an old Western town built in the 1890s and early 1900s. The kind bus driver dropped Kenon and I off at one end of the town, which consisted of wooden shops with charming window panes lining one main street, that a person could finish walking down to the other end in 15minutes. A large cinema made with beige painted wooden planks, was erected near the centre of that street, built in 1930. A few shops further, we found the only inn of Honoka'a, the Honoka'a Club Hotel, with a charming little lobby set a carpark back from the line of shops, and a very cute buggy parked at the side of the entrance. The buggy had a rounded face and was painted bright purple, with beige leather seats and no doors.
Honoka'a was located high up in the mountain and was cool at about 18-20 degrees Celsius in the day. It was a quiet town, and we hardly met a person walking around. The hotel was simple and cottage-like, with a creaking floor made of wooden planks laid above stilts. We found the innkeeper, a charming little lady with oriental features and browned skin, short dark hair, in a colourful loose blouse and khaki shorts, sitting behind her mahogany desk. She welcomed us with a broad smile and leased us a private room with an attached bathroom. She was very friendly, quickly making us feel warm and welcomed at her inn, and took her time showing us to our lodging which was located near the front of the inn.
Our room was very small, but very charming, just like a countryside cottage. There walls were white-washed wooden planks, a small window opened to one side, framed by lace curtains and letting in cold air. A small wooden table with 2 chairs were located just under the window ledge. A small double-bed was placed along one wall, above which, a water-color painting of fishes was displayed. There was a walk-in closet opposite the bed, with no doors, just a simple rod and some hangers set into a depression in the wall. The attached bathroom was tiny, but clean and lined with cold brown tiles. There was plenty of rugs to dry our feet, a hot shower with pale green curtains, and a washbasin with 2 taps. The mirror was located low on the wall, however, and Kenon had to stoop considerably to see his reflection. We placed our backpack in the room, and headed out for brunch.
The charming innkeeper chatted with us continuously and upon finding out that we wanted to head into the Waipi'o Valley, she was surprised and considerably worried that we did not drive. She was so concerned that she decided to drive us a short distance to her friend's house, so that we could each rent a bike from him. Before that, however, she needed to do some grocery shopping from the Farmer's market next door. This market consisted of three stalls only, and were held once a week by the farmers around Honoka'a and near the valley. We were allowed to try the freshly-picked macadamia nuts, hand-processed and unsalted, which tasted really good and fragrant, as well as Papaya-Orange marmalade on home-made walnut bread which I instantly loved, and bought. There were also home-made cakes and steamed rice in banana leaves much like those made by the Malays found at home. Organic vegetables and produce were displayed in the second stall and fresh flowers in the third. Hawaii produced a lot of organically farmed greens and the environment seemed entirely healthy and good for retirees, of which there were many.
We climbed into the back seat of her old Toyota, as the door of the passenger seat in front could not be opened [this was an old problem.] A short drive later, we parked in front of a driveway and sought out Paul, the brazilian man whom we were looking for. Paul was tall and had dark curly hair framing an Aryan face with a tall nose and deep set brown eyes, olive skin, and a strange accent. He was an interesting personnel, having done the Tour De France at least 40 years ago, and then making his way on a bicycle all the way from Brazil to California, where he settled for 20years. After he got married, however, he took his two sons, who were about 8 and 10 years old, and went to Honoka'a where he settled down happily. He did odd jobs and was a mechanic, a plumber, bicycle rental and repair, construction worker etc.
We were led into his bicycle shed, which must be every man's dream to own. It was a large shack, [to my dismay, bigger than my whole apartment in Singapore] which had a stone floor so covered with grease and grime that it was hard to tell by looking, but known by its hard and cold texture. 5 old but top-of-the-line mountains bikes were hung in one corner, with another 3 road bikes along the wall. There was a large pile of mechanical tools neatly placed in a multi-tiered toolbox. A tupperware 1 metre tall by half a meter wide contained a lot of lego pieces. Old couches with holes allowing the stuffing to escape littered the space with a few small chairs, a few tables, an old fridge and lots of odds and ends that were haphazardly placed in the centre. There was a map of Brazil stuck onto the fridge door with magnets as well as a Tour-de-France T shirt on the side. Photographs of Paul and his son were also proudly displayed on the fridge.
I selected a mountain bike, which would be easier as it was hilly country, but Kenon took the road bike. After servicing the bicycles to his satisfaction, Paul left us to our own devise and Kenon and I took off. We stopped at an outdoor cafe along the main road to grab brunch first before starting our journey to the valley. It must be because we were close to the farms that our sandwich was laden with sweet -smelling fresh lettuce, tomatoes, capsicums and cucumbers in a delectable mound.
Cycling past the town onto the highway leading into the valley, our destination was a ranch 7.5miles away, called the Waipi'o on Horseback Ranch [or WOH for short]. Fortunately there were only 2 hills to mount and the rest of the ride was downhill. Free-wheeling down the hills which alternated between small valleys full of bright green foliage dotted with brightly colored small flowers, and rising hills of deciduous trees on one side, and overlooking a cliff down to the ocean on the other side. The sparkling blue sea can be spotted where the bushes parted. A constant breeze and the cool air energized our efforts and we ignored the bright overhead sun, which subsequently resulted in a severe tan of my face and hands which were exposed after the wrists.
An hour later, with stops to take photographs of the beautiful scenery and according to Kenon, waiting for me, we reached our destination. I noticed though, that when we were downhill for 2 consecutive hills, he did not wait for me at all and we could not see each other for a full 10minutes. Stopping at a farm with a big sign of Won H, we cycled up a short gravel road to a carpark. There was a farmhouse in a wide expanse of green hills, which we approached and found a man in his fifties sitting behind a wooden desk, repairing saddles.
We had arrived an hour early and were allowed to roam the fruit garden and around the farm. There was a swing on the front porch of the farm house, cushioned with randomly colored quilts and I sat down to catch my breath. Soon, I was drawn by consistent "baa baa" to a little black sheep in his pen. That sheep was very curious and kept trying to stick his head out of the wire fence to see his foreign visitors. Beyond the sheep was a wide grass plain were several geldings were grazing. Up on another hill, a black bull was sitting cross-legged on the peak, staring placidly at his surroundings.
In the fruit garden, there were chiku trees, lots of pineapple bushes, vines of ripe red tomatos, guava and papaya trees, and a banana tree on which twin branches of fruits were growing. There were also lots of flowers and even a cotton bush entwined with purple morning glory. We met the farmer, who was in his thirties, and had sandy blonde hair. He was very friendly, and on hearing that we were from Singapore, exclaimed that he was in the process of growing a durian tree, to our surprise.
Hawaii used to be a sugar-cane plantation and its economy was almost wholly agricultural. Now that the sugar trade had collapsed [superseeded by Brazilian sugar], Hawaiian farmers were forced to resort to other crops, most notable of which were coffee and macadamia nuts. The volcanic soil, however, coupled with the stable weather and at certain parts where rainfall was reliable, was suitable for growing most types of fruits and vegetables. This was fully made use of, for organic and fair trade goods, most of which was exported back to the US mainland. The other large pillar that supported its economy was of course, tourism.
After resting for an hour in the cool breeze at the farm on the side of the mountain, 2 other couples had come by their respective cars to join our little group. We were offered bananas still in attached to large combs, as well as fresh macadamia nuts with their shells still on. The three farm dogs, mongrels of mixed heritage, were keen to get a bite of the nuts the shells of which we cracked open with a little steel tool on the porch of the farm house.
The morning group of tourists returned in a 4 wheel drive and were chattering happily and excitedly after their horseback ride. It was our turn. Our guide was a sarcastic and extremely humorous cowboy, who spoke with a Texan accent despite being born and bred in Waipi'o Valley. There were two guides, but they introduced themselves as Stacy, both of them, and broke out into a song about how we got two Stacys for the price of one.
We were entertained throughout the whole jeep ride down the rest of the highway into the valley itself and into rivers and mudflats and the wilderness beyond. Only 4-wheel drive vehicles are allowed into the valley, the alternative being to walk. The more than 45 degree angled steep climb down the side of the mountain, however, should have served to warn the happy faces going downhill. At the look-out point at the top of the descending road, we could see the entire valley between two mountains, the peaks of which were so high that they were enshrouded in mist. The valley was actually a bowl, covered on all sides by high mountains, except the sea-ward side which flattened into a black beach, pristine and uncultivated, on which white surf pounded relentlessly.
At the far end opposite the beach, was Hawaii's tallest waterfall. Due to a drier summer this year, however, the waterfall was a miserable tickle. Its height, though, was still inspiring as the whole waterfall could be seen it is entirety, unimpeded. The truck drove straight across rushing rivers and finally reached the stable. We waited anxiously for our mounts as the cowboys brought out the horses. One of the Stacys briefed us on the 5 cardinal rules of western horse-riding, cowboy style which only uses a saddle and ropes, versus the British horse-riding saddle with bit and rod. Kenon and I got ready to be Paniolo and Paniola [which is Hawaiian for cowboy and cowgirl] for the day.
It was a relaxing and pleasant ride through the valley of lush tropical foliage, much like a Malaysian rainforest. The canopy being so tall that sunlight hardly streamed to the bottom. The horses plodded through small streams and even splashed into the rivers sure-footed and probably more stable than a pedestrian. Apart from smelly horse-shit which they were prone to release periodically, as well as large streams of greenish yellow horse urine which forced my horse to ignore all my commands a few times, and stopped, it was very enjoyable. All our horses had different personalities, Kenon's being a leader and mine a polite gentleman. His horse would break into a gallop from time to time and head to the front of the pack, while mine stood aside and allowed everyone else to pass by from time to time. Kenon was enjoying himself thoroughly while I struggled to make my horse catch up, which did not work at all. At least my horse was not an attacker, which one of the other tourist got, her horse insisting on biting other horses' backside when she was not paying attention.
We passed by Taro farms, and fish ponds. There were a few ducks and their ducklings on the farms. We were introduced to the various trees including breadfruit, macadamia, coffee, jackfruit, apple as well as the various crops grown by the local farmers. Waipi'o Valley was chosen by the ancient Hawaiian king as a stronghold against enemies as it was closed on three sides by high mountains whose sides were very steep. The only way to enter the valley was by landing a boat onto a closely guarded rocky shore. The royal line was ended with the last Hawaiian princess who donated the royal coffer to found a school. This valley was still a private property though, and special permission was obtained to allow visitors to certain areas only. The residents were clearly impartial to the visitors and large "No Trespassing" signs were posted everywhere. We could, however, look into the wooden houses, not unlike the Malay stilt houses and see the natives doing daily activities.
It was a very interesting experience, and we were continually entertained by our silly guides and between that and busying ourselves controlling the horses, two hours easily passed. We returned the horses to the stable and as we got into the jeep, it started to rain. Cold wet drops pelted us for a short while, and while we headed up the steep mountainside back to the farm, we saw many unhappy faces, red and panting, climbing up that hill. Stacy called out to a balding man in his forties, who had stopped and rested on bended knees, "Just four more miles to go!" even though the entire road was less than a mile [Stacy had earlier explained that it was always one mile down, and ten miles up], and then joked to the rest of us sitting in the car, "That poor chap started out as a teenager!" to which we all laughed.
Amidst that cold pelting rain, we hurried to hide under the farmhouse's roof. Staring dismally at each other, there was no way we could ride our bicycles uphill in that cold rain, we were already feeling chilled to our bones. Fortunately, after everyone had left, cowboy Stacy noted that we were still hanging around the farm. The three farm hands offered to give us a ride back to Honoka'a for which we were very grateful.
The rain continued to fall, and the sky was gray when we got back to town. Quickly, we paddled back to Paul's house to return the bicycle and hurried back to our room for a hot shower. The rain stopped by the time we finished showering and rested a short while, and following the directions of our innkeeper, we ate at an Italian Pizzeria. Actually, we did not have a choice, as all the other shops were closed. There were only 3 eateries in the town anyway. Earlier during the day, we were told by a friendly man from the town, whom we met at the Farmer's market, that a concert was being held at the town's theatre tonight. After dinner, we headed to the theatre and paid 10 dollars each to attend the concert.
It was a concert by The Durgas, whoever they were, but the classic rock group played pretty well and we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves in the warm theatre. I was sure the outside temperature was less than 15 degrees Celsius and all the townsfolks were bundled up in woolen jackets and thick scarves. Poor me, who thought Hawaii was tropical, was shivering in only a T shirt and shorts. Kenon is blessed with natural heat resistance and was not affected, much to my annoyance.
We watched the concert and joined the crowd, who had all gone to dance beneath the stage. We danced until we were both exhausted and walked back across the empty town to our room. As we traversed the empty town, a cacophony of insect chirping was heard. I had heard two high pitch beep in rapid succession, like a bird calling, rather frequently, and I suspected this to be from the gecko. It does not go "gecko" afterall, and I told Kenon so.
It was truly a magnificient and resourceful cove. We first visited the black lava beach, with extended to the sea for many irregular miles. We had to hike across uneven black volcanic rock to reach the sea. There were many tidal pools that were rather deep and housed different coloured corals. The water was so still and clear that we could see the fishes and corals clearly, as though dry snorkelling. We also saw small crabs scutter into caves amongst the rocks when they were exposed by the outgoing tide. It was really tempting to strip and jump inside the tidal pool, but we both could not imagine riding wet on the Vespa and managed to refrain.
We then headed back to the village. Walking past the freshwater pond, we walked onto a narrow pebbled path leading to an ancient wooden hut with a thatched roof. Very tall wood carvings of man-like beings were displayed in its yard. Just in front of the house was another part of the bay, with waters like green crystal fringed by black rocks. The rocky bay smoothed into a gray sand beach, with very still waters and hardly any waves. The water was unmoving over smooth pebbles. This was a Honu sanctuary. Even though there were not any turtles resting there at that time, there was a sacred feel to that beach.
