Hiking in the lush rainforest near Hana Photo credit: Gerry Feehan
Hana, Hawaii
The village of Hana is located on the quiet “windward” side of Maui. Windward is a euphemism for rainy. Precipitation here averages three hundred inches a year. No person of sound judgment would live in a place where an inch of rain in an afternoon is considered a light drizzle.
Most tourists endure the grueling drive to Hana as a day trip, rising early to negotiate the eighty-five kilometer journey with its six-hundred-plus curves, 54 narrow bridges and frustratingly slow traffic. They choke down a fish taco and lemon bar at a roadside Hana food stand then snake back at a snail’s pace in darkness to the dry leeward side of the island, collapsing into bed at a fancy seaside resort, a checkmark on their holiday agenda firmly ticked off.
Some time ago a clever marketer began selling T-shirts with the caption: “I survived the road to Hana!” He is now a millionaire.
I’ve done enough beach holidays to fill a leaky bucket. Watching overweight tourists in undersized beach wear (throngs in thongs) has long since lost its luster. We were looking for a change, an out-of-the-way Hawaiian adventure. There’s hardly a soul living out Hana way. So we decided to spend a week with the free spirits and Vietnam vets.
My search for accommodation in Hana was careful and meticulous. I booked the first place I found on VRBO: Entabeni Cottage. But as is often the case when one ventures off the beaten track, our choice was serendipitous. We had absolute privacy, from the gorgeous ocean view to the solar-heated outdoor shower. The north wall of the cottage consists entirely of glass doors. Each morning we awoke to a 180-degree view of the ocean and the barely discernable sound of waves crashing on the rocky shore hundreds of meters below.
Entabeni means “the place on the hill” in Zulu, explained owner Terry Kristiansen as she toured us in morning sunshine through the horticultural wonder of her amazing garden. We meandered amongst gigantic Cook pine, African tulip and mango trees. She and her husband maintain a tropical nursery. I blushed when she mentioned that some of the flowering plants were viviparous. Two dogs, a cat, a goat, a multitude of chickens and a raucous gaggle of guinea fowl followed our progress.
Terry’s hens lay green eggs – organically of course. Each morning our doorstep was laden with a fresh coop-full of Entabeni’s emerald bounty.
We were warned there’s nothing to do in Hana. Our booking was for seven days. (A renowned friend of mine, Dr. D., asked bluntly: “You’re going to Hana? For a week?”) So I figured we’d better scout out some adventure. We meandered into town and chatted up some locals:
“What do you do out here in Hana?” I asked Tyler, a mixed-blood Hawaiian of Portuguese pedigree.
“Not much” he replied, “sometimes we fish… when it’s not rough.” He looked ruefully out to sea, at whitecaps roiling in a sub-tropical winter storm. A lone humpback whale breached in the distance. I concluded that there’d be no fishing on this trip.
The tail of a whale or a whale of a tale?“Sometimes we drive into town and pick up mail,” offered his cousin, who was high on friendliness but short on wisdom teeth.
“And of course there’s the big meetin’ tonight at the church to vote on the offal plebiscite.”
I’m not sure what offal is but it sounds terrible. I was about to excuse myself, vacate the cottage and head for dry, civilized parts of Maui when Tyler said:
“What we really like is hunting wild boar. We’re going out in the morning. You’re welcome to come along if you don’t mind getting a little muddy.”
My expertise as a hunter is renowned. I once shot a gopher – grazing it only slightly but deeply wounding its pride; and I’ve caught two fish – three if you include the goldfish I netted in my backyard pond. Still I figured “when in Rome” and agreed to meet them in the morning at mile marker 26, near an abandoned, burnt-out pickup truck.
“It’s blue,” offered one of my newfound friends, perhaps to ensure I didn’t wait by a red, abandoned burnt-out pickup truck at mile marker 26.
Terry drove me down at 7am sharp. We hadn’t waited more than a minute when up rolled a banana-yellow Ford crew-cab, loaded to exploding with Hawaiians, hunting dogs and guns. The truck, high on its suspension, teetered on two wheels before finally rocking to a stop. The occupants piled out and cracked a Budweiser. The humans that is. The dogs were content to slurp at the slough that had formed around the old blue pickup during the previous evening’s downpour.
Like most flora and fauna in the Hawaiian Islands, the wild pigs are alien. These invasive, destructive critters are a cross between the small Polynesian variety brought to the islands by the first human inhabitants a thousand years ago and larger European pigs imported in the 1800’s; the result is the large, black, elusive, ornery beasts that Hawaiians love to hunt.
By 7:30 a.m. we were a kilometer deep in the rainforest, up to our knees in muck. The dogs had sniffed out a promising dig. Fresh tracks confirmed that a large sow was nearby. Three hours later we were still zigzagging back and forth over, around and through jungle streams laced with invasive strangler figs and giant eucalyptus trees.
The pigs were clever. On a couple of occasions the dogs bolted excitedly into the impenetrable jungle on a promising scent but near noon, with the tropical sun beating down and steam rising in the heated rainforest, we admitted defeat and called it a day.
“What happens if you get injured in here?” I asked Tyler as we began the slow crawl back to the pickup.
“Hurt is not an option,” he answered, tugging at a rubber boot sunk deep in a wallow of mud.
Back at the truck, with the last of the Budweiser, we celebrated the feral pig’s victory over man.
“Why don’t you and your bride come down to our place tomorrow for Super Bowl,” offered Tyler, “there’ll be plenty of grind and bevvies.”
I assumed he meant food and drink. We arrived fashionably late with a plate full of deviled (green) eggs and a cooler full of cold ones. After the game (you’ll recall the Giants prevailed in a thrilling 21-17 comeback over the Patriots) I asked if it would be okay were I to play my ever-present ukulele. It was in the trunk of the rental car.“That’d be great bra’,” said Tyler, using the term of endearment that forms every second word of Hawaiian pidgin vocabulary.
When I returned a slack guitar and four ukuleles were jamming on the lanai. Uncle Bobby (whose relationship with our hosts I never did quite grasp) was pouring himself a stiff concoction, lighting a smoke and settling into an over-worn armchair for what turned out to be a long night of music and laughter.
Later in the week as we strolled Hana’s streets locals were honking, waving “hey bra’” and inviting us for “grind”. Apparently the “haole” (white people from another place) were a hit.
In closing I offer seven recommendations on how to pass a week in Hana:
- Walk awestruck as Terry guides you through the horticultural wonder that is Entabeni Cottage (while chickens peck at your progress);
- Shower outdoor at night in the rain;
- Crawl on all fours for hours through steep, muddy rainforest with a pack of men and dogs on the hunt for wild boar;
- Enjoy a candle-lit repast of raw sashimi-grade ahi tuna, followed by lightly seared opaka-paka, served with white wine and your favorite fellow human;
- Hike the seven sacred pools to Waimoku Falls or traverse the jagged lava cliffs of Waianapanapa State Park;
- Waste a day shooting close-up photographs of rainbow eucalyptus bark and densely packed bamboo stalks;
- Snorkel at a “clothing optional” black sand beach, oblivious to the nudity of those around you;
- Party with Hawaiian locals at a ukulele jam (and bring your own uke).
Did I say seven things? I guess there’s more to do in Hana than first meets the eye. So get off the beaten track, out of the th(r)ong and seek adventure.
Gerry
