Photo credit: Gerry Feehan
Molokai, Hawaii
The Cessna skirted the steep shoreline, offering us a panoramic view of the world’s highest sea cliffs, then banked hard to port and a few minutes later bounced to a stop on Molokai’s short runway.
I suspected we were in for a quainter Hawaiian experience when booking the rental car a few weeks earlier. “Do you require any paperwork?” I enquired. “Nope,” came the email reply, then simply, “Green Camry, door unlocked, keys under floor mat.” I found the poor thing tucked between two discarded jeeps in a grassy field out beyond the control tower. When I drove back to the terminal to pick up Florence, she took one look at the old clunker and said, “I am not getting in that thing!” Luckily Alamo, the only other option, was open and I managed to rent a real car, one that didn’t smell of decades-old cigarettes and un-combusted fuel, one that actually included a functioning muffler. I steered the rust bucket back between its abandoned companions, quietly replaced the key under the matt and closed the creaky door. When the radio sprung from its disconsolate console I averted my eyes and hurried away.
It was late when we arrived at Kepuhi Beach Resort, just in time to watch the sun disappear into the Pacific, make a sparse dinner and crash after a long travel day. I was up at first light. Coffee in hand I wandered across the sprawling condo complex down to the quiet oceanside pool. Tropical birds sang and palm trees swayed in the peaceful dawn. I peaked in the window of the clubhouse. The lobby was dark, deserted, full of rubble and debris; like a tornado had struck. I looked around. All the adjacent buildings were boarded up. Only the empty lonely pool was open.
We’d been forewarned that Kepuhi Beach Resort was partially abandoned but I wasn’t prepared at that early jet-lagged hour for a post-apocalyptic experience. I hustled back to the condo. “What are we doing here?” I asked a yawning Florence. Yes we were seeking the old remote authentic Hawaii — without traffic jams, tourist traps and corny luaus — but this was a little too real. Then I spotted the poster hanging inside the condo’s front door, ‘Slow down… and let happiness catch up.’ Duly noted.
And thus our ten days on the Friendly Isle went by at a lovely leisurely pace. We explored Molokai slowly by car, moseying from one end to the other and spent long hours strolling deserted beaches where our only companions were spinner dolphins frolicking offshore and endangered Hawaiian monk seals slumbering on-shore.
Molokai has an interesting history. In the 1860s leprosy arrived in the Hawaiian Islands. The people lacked natural immunity and many were infected with this disfiguring disease. King Kamehameha V, the last of Hawaii’s’ ruling monarchs, proclaimed that those who were sick should be exiled to Kalaupapa, a remote peninsula on Molokai’s windy north shore, below the inaccessible sea cliffs we’d flown by. Families were torn apart and the sick left largely to fend for themselves — with only an occasional vessel venturing in to hurriedly drop off provisions. The isolation lasted for almost a century before a simple cure for Hansen’s disease was discovered: antibiotics.
Until recently, tours of the colony were permitted but Covid and the advanced age of the few remaining residents have now made the peninsula off limits to visitors. As consolation, a remarkable lookout hanging high up on the cliffs offers a spectacular view of Kalaupapa jutting into the Pacific.
If you’ve never been to Hawaii I wouldn’t recommend Molokai. It’s hard to get to, extremely quiet, there’s hardly any restaurants and almost no night life. The beaches are remote and the landscape is rather rugged. There are no traffic lights to enjoy. The 8,000 locals are easily outnumbered by the Axis deer and wild turkeys that freely roam the island. But Molokai is friendly, welcoming and genuine. There’s no Hawaiian isle remotely like it.
On our Saturday afternoon visit to the quaint Sugar Cane Museum we were, naturally, the only patrons. Bobby, the long-time volunteer who collected our five dollars and introduced us to the island’s sweet history, was happy to sit on the veranda and extoll the virtues of hunting wild pigs, the elusiveness of the tasty deer population and the proper way to trap and fatten a wild turkey. She’d have gone on indefinitely but eventually noticed the grass needed cutting.
We encountered this friendly personal attitude everywhere we explored. At the 9-hole golf course up island the old gent in the pro shop happily cobbled together an ancient set of left-hand rentals and stuffed them in a carry bag which appeared to have been the former property of Old Tom Morris. The strap broke on the third hole. But what can you expect for 18 bucks — including green fee.
After our relaxing 9 holes it was a short drive to the local macadamia farm for a free tour. With his unkempt hair and questionable teeth, the proprietor had the look of a wildman. But he was nuts about his macadamia trees and explained in great passionate detail about how, where and why these delicious stone fruits grow. His toothless enthusiasm was infectious.
Molokai has a lot of churches: Baptist, Apostolic, Catholic, Latter-Day Saints, Bahai, Seventh Day Adventist — not to mention a multitude of Congregational and Calvary varieties. That’s a lot of spiritual options. Eventually we settled on an Episcopalian which offered an open-air Sunday afternoon ukulele jam, complete with hula dancer — and no preaching.
The lush tropical mountainous part of Molokai is largely inaccessible. No paved roads exist in the upper rain forest. But on the isolated far east end of the Island, down a one-lane highway that serpentines along the coast for twenty kilometers until it simply abruptly ends, is the verdant Halawa Valley. This is where we met Greg Sartorio, a local anthropologist and native celebrity. He welcomed us to his ancestral home with a resounding conch call echoing up the canyon and took us on a long oral journey through Hawaii’s past, from Kingdom to Republic to Statehood. Afterward his enthusiastic son led us on a hike through dense jungle, terraced taro fields and across a turbulent gurgling stream. Eventually we came upon a wahi pana, an ancient sacred meeting place. Toppled volcanic blocks hinted at the altar which had been erected there centuries ago. Tired, dirty and sweating we finally arrived at a gorgeous waterfall where we doffed muddy boots, donned bathing suits and sprang into the pool. A welcoming rainbow played above us in the cool mist of the cascade.
It was a long day. The big chunk of ahi tuna I seared up that evening was mouth-watering. So was the baked sweet potato and Hawaiian butter (giant avocado) mushed with salsa verde. All local. The only thing imported was a well-earned glass of pinot noir. As we supped and sipped, we were treated to the most spectacular sunset I’ve ever set my orbs upon. Long after the sun had sunk into the tropical sea, high cirrus clouds reflected orange and red in an array of twisting stretching relaxed brilliance. This place was growing on us.
What used to be the Kepuhi Resort’s golf course has been closed for many years. Something about water rights. So Mother Nature has begun to reclaim her own. The old fairways now offer lovely quiet hiking trails where ocean meets sand meets jungle. With apologies to Mark Twain, the golf here is now a good walk unspoiled.
Two days in Molokai was too much — but ten wasn’t nearly enough. Our flight didn’t depart until 8pm so we had lots of time for a last sunset meal and to parse out our remaining groceries with tall, thin, quiet Robert who lived next door. He was grateful for the foodstuffs but seemed lonely.
It was a short drive to the quiet airport and, with no security, we had plenty of time to just sit and digest our Molokai stay. “Make sure you check on me when you come back,” Robert had said, waving a genuine goodbye. We will.
The passenger seated next to me at the rear of the small plane locked the door hatch, gave a thumbs-up to the guy out on the tarmac — and off we sped down the runway. Things are pretty relaxed on Molokai.
