by Dan Millman
“The slothful warrior,” she said. “Definitely has a ring to it.”
I helped her put the groceries away, then headed out the door. I heard Mama Chia call after me, “I’ll meet you at your cabin in about an hour.”
CHAPTER 17
Courage of the Outcast
If I am not for myself,
Who will be for me?
And if I am only for myself,
What am I?
And if not now, when?
—Hillel, Sayings of the Fathers
AS IT TURNED OUT, this hike was nearly as far as the previous one, but in the opposite direction. But this time we hitched a ride part way with a Molokai rancher up a long dirt road, nearly to the ridge, and from there stayed on the trail until it dropped steeply, then climbed again.
Every time Mama Chia started breathing hard, I asked her how she was doing. When I did this the fourth or fifth time, she turned to me and, as close to angry as I’d seen her, said in pidgin English, “You ask how I do one mo’ time and I sen’ you back home wida swift kick! You understan’?”
In the late afternoon, as we cleared a final rise, Mama Chia stopped quickly and put her arm out to halt me. If she hadn’t, the next moment I might have had a short-lived career as a bird. We stood at the edge of a cliff, dropping a thousand feet down to a dramatic view: clouds floated past a blue-green sea, and an albatross glided across the surf far below. My eyes followed the soaring bird until I noticed some kind of settlement, surrounded by tall palms. “Kalaupapa,” she pointed.
“What’s down there?” I asked.
“A key to the elevator.”
I only had a moment to consider this before Mama Chia turned and stepped down into a hole in the earth. As I caught up with her, I found my footing on some kind of hidden stairwell in the cliff face. It was steep and dark. We didn’t talk at all; it was all I could do to stay on my feet.
As she led me down the stairwell, we were treated to a dancing play of light and shadow as beams of sunlight penetrated the holes in this winding staircase. Finally, we emerged from the cliff wall into the sunlight and descended farther, relying on handholds to avert a fatal plunge to the rocks below.
“Only a few people use this trail,” she said.
“I can understand why; are you sure you’re okay—”
“Shooting me a fierce glance, she interrupted. “There’s a mule trail, but it has twenty-six switchbacks. This is quicker.”
We said nothing more until we rounded a steep bend and walked down into a broad valley between the higher ridges, cliffs, and the sea. Lush foliage and rows of trees bordered a small settlement ahead, and, beyond that, sand and water. Orderly rows of barracklike apartments, simple and sparse, and some small cottages stood by the sea amidst the palm trees. Even in this sheltered cove, the settlement was more spartan than luxurious—more like an army outpost than a vacation getaway.
As we drew closer, I saw a few people outside. Some older women were working in what looked like a garden area; a lone man, also older, was working with some kind of grinding machine—I couldn’t quite make it out from this distance.
As we drew near and walked through the settlement, people looked up at us, with friendly, but often scarred, faces. Most turned toward us and nodded, smiling at Mama Chia—apparently a familiar face here—while others remained intent on their work. “These are the lepers of Molokai,” Mama Chia whispered softly as a warm drizzle passed over us. “First abandoned here, out of fear and ignorance—quarantined and left to die—in 1866. In 1873, Father Damien came here and served this community until he contracted the disease and died sixteen years later,” she said, “when I was seven years old.”
“He died of the disease? It’s catching?”
“Yes, but it’s not easy to catch; I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Despite her assurance, I was worried about it. Lepers! I had only seen them portrayed in biblical movies, when Jesus performed healing miracles. He wasn’t concerned about catching anything—after all, he was Jesus. But I was … worried.
“There are conventional doctors who serve these people,” she said quietly as we walked into the village. “Though the lepers are, for the most part, full-blooded Hawaiians, many are Christian and don’t believe in huna medicine. But there are a few I counsel. These are the people who have had unusual dreams or experiences—things their doctors don’t understand.”
Trying not to stare, I saw a few people with obvious disfigurements. One woman sat in a chair, reading; she had only a tiny stump for a leg. A man was missing both hands, but that didn’t stop him from grinding something with an electric tool. “He makes fine jewelry—silver dolphins,” Mama Chia said.
More people emerged from their bungalows as word of our arrival spread. The youngest person I saw was in his forties. His head was bandaged. An older woman with scraggly hair came up to us and smiled; there were sores on her face, and she was missing a few teeth.
“Aloha,” she said to Mama Chia, then to me. Her smile was bright, friendly, and curious. To Mama Chia, she gestured with her head toward me. “Who dis kane [man]?”
“He’s come make kokua [help],” Mama Chia replied in her best pidgin English. “My packhorse,” she added proudly, pointing to me and generating a beaming, if fragmented, smile from the crone. “Maybe he stay a few days, help out—only way I get these good looking boys out of my hair,” she added for good measure. The old woman laughed and said something in Hawaiian. Mama Chia raised her eyebrows and laughed heartily at this.
Puzzled, I turned to Mama Chia. “Did you say we’re staying a few days?” That was the first I’d heard of it.
“We’re not staying; you are.”
“You want me to stay here a few days? Is this really necessary?”
Mama Chia looked at me a little sadly, but said nothing. I felt ashamed, but I had absolutely no desire to stay here.
“Look, I know you mean well, and it might be good for me and all that, and there are people who like to do this kind of thing—like that Father Damien—but the truth is, I’ve never been the type to hang around hospitals or soup kitchens. I respect people who do those things, but it’s just not my calling, you know?”
She gave me that look again, and the silent treatment.
“Mama Chia,” I tried to explain, “I jump backward if someone sneezes in my direction. I don’t like to hang around illnesses. And you’re suggesting I stay here and mingle with lepers?”
“Absolutely,” she said, and turned toward a cottage down on the beach. I followed her to some kind of central building, a dining hall.
Just before we stepped inside, she said to me, “Except for the doctors and priests, visitors here are not common. Your eyes will be a mirror for these people; they are sensitive to you. If you look at them with fear and revulsion, that is how they will see themselves. Do you understand?”
Before I could answer, we were surrounded by several men and women who rose from their food, obviously glad to see Mama Chia, who took her backpack from me and brought out a package of nuts and what looked like some kind of fruitcake she had baked. “This is for Tia,” she said. “Where’s Tia?”
People were coming up to me, too. “Aloha,” said one woman, touching me lightly on the shoulder. I tried not to shrink back, and I noticed both her hands looked normal. “Aloha,” I answered, smiling on the outside.
Just then, I noticed people making way for a woman, the youngest I had seen here—in her late thirties, I guessed. She looked about six months pregnant. It was a sight to watch her and Mama Chia attempt to hug. Smiling, they approached each other warily, leaning sideways, like two blimps trying to dock.
Tia actually looked very pretty, even with a crippled hand and a bandaged arm. Mama Chia then gave her the cake. “This is for you—and the baby,” she said.
“Mahalo!” Tia said, laughing, then turned to me. “This is your new boyfriend?” she asked Mama Chia.
“No,” she declared. “You know my boyfriends ar
e better looking—and younger.” They laughed again.
“He insisted on coming here to help out in the garden for a few days; he’s a strong boy and was glad to hear the rule that volunteers work until dark.” Mama Chia turned toward me, and with a flourish said, “Tia, this fella named Dan.”
Tia hugged me warmly. Then she turned back to Mama Chia: “I’m so glad to see you!” With another hug—they had it down now—she walked off to show Mama Chia’s cake to the others.
We sat down to eat. A woman offered me a tray of fresh fruit; she was very gracious, but I couldn’t help noticing that she had only one eye on a scarred face. I wasn’t very hungry, and I was about to tell her so, when I looked up into her one eye. And we made some kind of contact; her eye was so clear, and bright—for a moment, I think I saw her soul in there, and it looked just like mine. I accepted what she offered. “Mahalo,” I said.
LATER, WHILE MAMA CHIA and I sat alone on two old wooden chairs, I asked her, “Why was that woman Tia so grateful for a cake?”
She laughed, “That wasn’t about the cake—though I do make wonderful cakes. She was grateful because I’ve found a home for her baby.”
“You what?”
She looked at me as if I were very dense, and she was going to have to move her lips very slowly. “Did you notice that there are no children here? None are allowed, because of the disease. Children born of lepers do not usually have the disease, but they are more susceptible, so they cannot live here. That’s perhaps the saddest thing of all, because these people have a special affection for children. Two months before the birth of a child, the woman must leave, have it elsewhere, and say good-bye.”
“You mean Tia won’t see her child—she has to give it up?”
“Yes, but I found a family not too far away. She’ll be able to visit her child; that’s what she’s so happy about.” Mama Chia stood abruptly. “I have people to see, and things to do, so I’ll see you around.”
“Wait a minute! I didn’t say I was staying.”
“Well, are you?”
I didn’t answer right away. We walked in silence, down toward some bungalows, and the beach area a few hundred yards further. Then I asked, “Do you come here to teach them?”
“No, to learn from them.” She paused, searching for words. “These are ordinary people, Dan. Were it not for their disease, they would have been working in the cane fields, selling insurance, practicing medicine, working in banks—whatever other people do. I don’t want to idealize them; they have the typical problems and same fears as anyone else.
“But courage is like a muscle; it gets stronger with practice. People don’t test their spirit until they’re faced with adversity. These people have faced some of the hardest emotional as well as physical battles: Ostracized by fearful people, they live in a village without the laughter of children. The word ‘leper’ has become synonymous for ‘one who is turned away from,’—a pariah—abandoned by the world. Few have faced as much, and few have shown such spirit.
“I’m attracted anywhere there’s a lot of spirit. That’s why I’ve taken special interest in these people—not as a healer—as a friend.”
“Aren’t they the same thing?”
“Yes,” she smiled. “I suppose they are.”
“Well, I guess I can be a friend, too. I’ll stay—but just for a few days.”
“If you grit your teeth and just put in your time, you’ll have wasted it. This week is about opening your heart—as much as you can.”
“A week? I thought you said a few days!”
“Aloha,” she said, tossing me a bottle of sunscreen and heading off to visit a nearby settlement. Shaking my head, I turned and walked back down toward the row of cottages, thinking about adversity, and about spirit.
I found my way to the main hall, and entered. It turned out to be the infirmary, full of strange smells and people in beds, behind curtains. A very lean, emaciated man about Mama Chia’s age took me by the arm. “Come,” he said, releasing my arm as we left the infirmary, indicating I should follow him.
Then he pointed to another larger, barrack-style building. “Where you eat. Later,” he said. Then, pointing to himself, he added, “My name—Manoa.”
“Aloha,” I said. “Glad to meet you, Manoa.” Not sure he understood me, I pointed to myself and said, “Dan.”
He extended a stump with three fingers to shake hands; I hesitated only a moment. He smiled warmly, nodding as if he understood, then gestured for me to follow.
We walked to a large plot of earth, now being cleared. Someone else greeted me, handed me a hoe, and pointed to a section of earth. That was that.
I spent the rest of that day, until nightfall, working in the garden. Disorientating as it was, I felt glad to have a clear task to do—to be helping out—giving something for a change.
MANOA SHOWED ME where I’d sleep; at least I had my own room. I slept well and woke up hungry.
In the main dining hall, I sat across from some people who smiled at me but spoke mostly to one another in Hawaiian with a bit of pidgin English. Everyone at my table was friendly, handing me food again and again, while I tried to ignore their lesions.
That day, we—the gardening crew and I—made good progress, turning and breaking the soul, as rainsqualls passed over and were gone. I was careful to wear the sunscreen, and someone had loaned me a wide-brimmed hat.
The first few days were the hardest—the strangeness of being alone in this different world. The residents seemed to understand this. Another day passed in that garden. I was getting used to the routine.
Though nothing changed outwardly, something shifted inside me. As the people of this colony had come to accept their lives, I came to accept them, too, not as “lepers,” but as people. I stopped being an observer and started to feel a sense of community.
After this, I was able to tune in to a special camaraderie here, born of isolation; from their own suffering came a deeper compassion for the pain of the world.
THE NEXT MORNING, returning from the latrine area, I saw an old man with twisted, deformed feet making his way across the compound, trembling as he leaned on a pair of crutches. Just then, one of the crutches broke and he fell. I ran over to help him up. He waved me off, muttering something and smiling a toothless smile, then stood up by himself. Holding the broken crutch in one hand, he hobbled on the other one off toward the infirmary.
There was no more work to be done in the garden until the seed arrived, but I was able to find plenty to do—in fact, I was busy morning till night, carrying water, helping change bandages. Someone even asked me to cut his hair, which I botched, but he didn’t seem to mind at all.
All the while we chattered and laughed, only half understanding each other. These were among the most satisfying days I’d ever spent—lending a helping hand. And on the fifth day a wave of compassion washed over me—like nothing I had experienced before. Ever. And I understood Mama Chia’s purpose. On that day I stopped worrying about getting “tainted” by the disease, and started wanting, really wanting, to be of service, in any way I could.
My heart was opening. I searched for something more I could contribute. I couldn’t teach gymnastics; most of them were too old. I didn’t have any other special skills that I knew of. Then, as I walked past a peaceful area just off the central compound, it came to me: I’d help make a pond. That was it! Something of beauty I could leave behind.
I’d worked for a landscape gardener one summer and had learned the basics. I found out that the community had some bags of concrete stored in a shed and all the tools we’d need. A picture formed in my mind: the vision of a beautiful, serene pond, a place to sit and meditate, or just take a brief rest. The ocean was just a few hundred yards away, but this pond would be special.
I showed a sketch to Manoa; he showed it to some of the others. They agreed it was a good idea, and a few men and I began digging.
THE NEXT DAY, just when we were ready to mix the concrete, Mama Chia showed up.
“Well, Dan,” she said, “a week has passed. I hope you’ve stayed out of mischief.”
“It hasn’t been a week already, has it?”
“Yes. One week.”
“Well, you see … look, we’re right in the middle of a project—can you come back in a few days?”
“I don’t know,” she said shaking her head. “We have other things to do—your training …”
“Yes I know, but I’d really like to finish this.”
Mama Chia sighed and shrugged her shoulders. “Then we may not have time for a special technique to get in touch with—”
“Just a few more days!”
“Have it your way,” she said, turning toward one of the bungalows. I caught a glimpse of her face. She looked positively smug. I only gave it a moment’s reflection before lifting another bag of concrete.
