Kaua'i Me a River

by JoAnn Bassett

  “Well, have a great time with Hatch,” said Farrah. “And don’t worry about that meeting at the lawyer’s. Whatever it is—it is, right? When are you coming home?”

  “After the meeting. I think the flight’s at five o’clock.”

  “Give me a shout when you’re back, okay?”

  A customer came in and Farrah leaned in and gave me a quick hug. I darted out the back. No matter what happened in Kaua'i, I knew my true ohana was right there on Maui.

  CHAPTER 4

  On Monday morning the plane left bright and early. We flew into Honolulu and then caught a flight to Lihue. We arrived in Kaua'i at eight in the morning. Most of our fellow passengers spent the short flight pecking away on computers so I figured the first flight of the day must cater to people going over on business. When we landed, Hatch and I exchanged a glance before racing across the street to the rental car building. Everything moves slow on the neighbor islands, including the rental car lines.

  “Who’d you book the car from?” I said as we sprinted down the row of rental car kiosks.

  “Oh man. I knew there was something I forgot.”

  We screeched to a halt. I looked around and noticed chickens in the airport parking lot.

  “Look,” I said. “Someone’s chickens escaped.”

  We started at the first counter and worked our way down asking each clerk if they had any cars available and if they offered kama’aina rates. We ended up with a nondescript white Nissan Altima. Hatch got a discount because he was a local firefighter. My Auntie Mana used to say, ‘You don’t ask, you don’t get.’ Locals are never shy about asking for deals and special favors. It’s as much an island tradition as shooting the thumb and pinkie shaka sign instead of waving.

  “It’s too early to check into our room,” said Hatch. “You want to do some sightseeing?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Since we’re staying in Poipu let’s check out the West Side. If we get back to the hotel around three they should have the room ready.”

  We headed west on Highway 50 toward Waimea Canyon, but Hatch first wanted to stop and see the ‘Spouting Horn’ in Lawa’i Bay. We knew we were at the right place when we saw three tour busses lined up in the parking lot. We got out and there were chickens pecking in the grass strip next to the lot.

  “What’s with the chickens?” Hatch said.

  I shook my head. “No clue. Chickens running around like this on Maui would be teriyaki by now.”

  The locals had fashioned a make-shift craft fair with a gauntlet of tarp-covered tables on the path to view the sight. At first I looked away as I marched past table after table of hand-made jewelry and cheesy souvenirs, but about halfway down something caught my eye. It was a glass Christmas ornament decorated with a glittery sun, moon, and stars. Three cut crystals had been tied on the hanging string about an inch apart. A shaft of light hit the crystals creating a scattering of tiny rainbows on the ground. It looked handmade, but it was tough to tell if it had been made locally or in a sweatshop in China.

  “I’ll bet Farrah would love this,” I said.

  “It’s pretty. But what is it?”

  “It’s a Christmas ornament.”

  “But it’s June. Christmas is six months away.”

  As a firefighter, Hatch lives almost exclusively in the present. The bell sounds and off they go. They don’t plan ahead, they react when needed. Although they’re constantly training so they’ll be effective when the call comes, their everyday work life is pretty much dictated moment to moment.

  “Believe me, she’ll love it. She’ll hang it in her window until it’s time to put up her Christmas tree.”

  I bought the ornament and we continued toward the fenced shoreline.

  The “Spouting Horn” is a blowhole in a lava tube formed when volcanoes were still erupting on Kaua'i. The tube runs all the way to the ocean. Every few minutes the waves force water and air through a shelf in the tube and create an upward spray of water that looks like a geyser. A posted sign describing the site said water can shoot as high as fifty feet, but it looked like only half that high to me.

  What got my attention was the weird moaning and sighing sounds coming from the blowhole.

  “You hear that?” said Hatch. “Sounds kinda sexy.”

  I gave him a playful dig to the ribs. “How does your mind work? You probably think a tsunami siren sounds sexy.”

  A perky tour guide waving a yellow plastic flower on the end of a stick motioned to a cluster of tourists. They trotted over to where we were standing.

  “This blowhole is one example of the ingenuity of the ancient Hawaiians to make sense of their world,” she said. “The early inhabitants lost many people to the undertow in this area. They figured this stretch of coastline along Lawa’i Bay must be guarded by a giant mo’o or lizard. The belief was that anyone who came down here to fish or swim would get killed by the mo’o and so they stayed away. One day a man named Liko bravely went into the bay. It didn’t take long for the mo’o to spot him and go after him. But Liko was quick. He swam to the lava tube and popped to the surface through a hole in the roof of the tube. The giant mo’o followed but got stuck because the hole was too small for the enormous lizard to get through. The sounds you hear are the groans of the trapped mo’o. See his steamy breath spraying from the hole? He’s still there, wrestling to free himself from his agonizing fate.”

  “Still think it sounds sexy?” I whispered to Hatch.

  “Maybe it does to an enormous girl lizard,” he said with a wink.

  After the Spouting Horn we doubled back and made our way to Highway 530 and then on to Highway 50, the main south-to-west road on Kaua'i.

  We approached the town of Waimea. Waimea is a funky little town that reminded me of Pa’ia back home. It has a stately columned bank, but the rest of the town is mostly aging wooden buildings that appear to have seen their share of termites. As we drove through town I noticed a bright yellow clapboard building with “Toto’s Shave Ice” painted on the side. In case there was any question of what they were selling, there was also a five-foot high wooden tent with a painted rainbow shave ice cone on each side.

  “I love shave ice,” said Hatch. “Let’s get some after I check out this front tire. The light’s been on since we picked up the car and I don’t want a flat in the middle of nowhere.”

  We pulled into a gas station. Hatch got out and went to find someone with a tire gauge. I got out to stretch my legs. Hatch returned and a few minutes later a guy came out wiping his hands on a purple rag.

  “You got a problem with the tire?” he said. A patch on his shirt said, Keoni.

  “Yeah,” Hatch said, pointing to the offending tire. “Can I use your gauge?”

  “No problem, man. I do it.”

  Hatch beat the guy to the ground in an attempt to unscrew the valve stem cap before Keoni could get there.

  “Man, it’s cool,” said Keoni in a somewhat offended tone. “I do stuff like this all day.”

  Hatch stood by looking uncomfortable with another man doing ‘man things’ for him.

  “You need a little air. I’ll fill it.”

  Keoni pulled the air hose out and began filling the tire. When he finished, Hatch nodded toward the yellow building across the street. “Is that Toto’s Shave Ice any good?” he said.

  Keoni stood up “We got two Toto’s, ya know. Old one and new one.”.

  “Two? They must be doing good to have two.”

  “Nah. Totally different people own ‘em.”

  “But how can they have the same name?”

  “Okay, so way back when, this girl Toto starts up a shave ice shop when she gets outta high school. She gets herself a special ice shaver that makes the ice real soft, almost like snow, eh? Everybody love it. They put her place in the tourist books and lots of people come here for the best shave ice on the whole island. Maybe the best anywhere.”

  Hatch nodded.

  The guy pointed to our windshield. “Yo
u want I clean your window for you?”

  “Nah, that’s okay. It’s a rental. We live on Maui. We just came over for a visit.”

  “You want I give you good price on a map?”

  “Mahalo, but we don’t need a map,” said Hatch. “Kaua'i is pretty easy. Pretty much one big loop.”

  “True dat,” said the guy. “So anyways, after a few years Toto decides she wants to go to college. You know, to get her education. So she sells the shave ice store and goes off to be a teacher. When she comes back she starts teaching at the high school. But things are tough over here, ya know? The kids can’t get jobs or nothin’ and they fall into bad ways. Like drugs and all that. So she figure if she starts up another shave ice it will give the high school kids someplace to work and make money. She calls the new place Toto’s Anuenue Shave Ice.” He grinned. “Get it?”

  Hatch looked confused. “Not really.”

  “It’s like a joke, man. Anuenue is the Hawaiian word for ‘rainbow’ but it also sounds like ‘new-new” in English. So everybody call tell which Toto’s is which. She one smart girl, that Auntie Toto.”

  “Which one do you recommend?” I chimed in.

  “They both good, but I mostly go to Toto’s Anuenue because she got the school kids working there and she got all the flavors I like. Lots of ‘em.”

  “Where’s Toto’s Anuenue?”

  “Down there by the bank.” He pointed to the stately columned building we’d driven past on our way into town. “It’s right across. You can’t miss it.”

  “Mahalo,” I said.

  “Hey, Keoni, can I ask one more thing?” said Hatch. “What’s with the chickens everywhere?”

  “Those chickens?” Keoni pointed to a couple of hens and a brightly-colored rooster pecking in the weeds.

  “Yeah,” said Hatch. “Everywhere we go on this island we see wild chickens.”

  “Kaua'i is known for the moa, man. They come from fighting stock. When Hurricane Iniki ripped the island apart in 1992, everything got leveled. Lots of guys who raised fighting cocks had their cages blown away and the birds got loose. But those birds are tough; they survived. Now we got moa everywhere.”

  “But they’re chickens,” Hatch said. “Why didn’t they end up on somebody’s hibachi?”

  “Oh, some people tried. No good. Like I say, man, those chickens are tough. And they got worms and stuff. Nobody around here eats those buggahs.”

  Hatch pulled a few dollar bills from his wallet but Keoni waved it off. “My pleasure, bro. Bes’ thing you can do for me is give a good tip to those kids working down at the shave ice.”

  We thanked him and drove down to Toto’s Anuenue. Sure enough, there were two high-school age girls working at the shop. One was at the counter and the other was operating the ice machine.

  “Aloha,” said the counter girl as we pulled the door closed behind us. “Welcome to Toto’s. What can I get for you today?”

  I looked at the menu board. The gas station guy was right. Auntie Toto had every possible flavor of shave ice. Some were stand-bys, like papaya, blue raspberry and cherry. But some were pretty off-the-wall, like cotton candy and butterscotch.

  “How many flavors have you got?” said Hatch.

  “About fifty. But most people get ‘rainbow’,” said the girl. “I can make a shave ice rainbow with any flavors you want. Go ahead and pick. But first, do you want ice cream or azuki bean at the bottom?”

  The shave ice machine was whirring away in the background.

  “Azuki bean,” I said. “I haven’t had that in years.”

  Hatch ordered two rainbows, one with beans and one with macadamia nut ice cream. We took our treats outside and sat on a narrow wooden bench in front. Waimea bustled around us. We watched people going to the bank, trucks delivering boxes to the liquor store next door, and mothers pushing strollers in the park across the street. And chickens. At least a dozen chickens pecked in the shade of the towering trees in the park.

  “You know,” I said. “We’re eating dessert and we haven’t even had lunch yet,” I said.

  “I thought this was lunch,” said Hatch shoveling shave ice into his mouth with a red-striped plastic straw-spoon. “Back in LA we had snow cones at the beach but these are better.”

  “That’s because Hawaii shave ice is different. The ice is shaved rather than just crushed. The syrup sticks to it better. You know, Hawaiian shave ice actually originated in Japan a thousand years ago,” I said. “The Japanese cane workers brought the idea of shave ice to the islands back in the late 1800’s.”

  “Where’d they get the ice?” said Hatch. “It’s not like they had freezers.”

  “They carried large blocks of ice in the holds of sailing ships. According to Japanese legend, they shaved the ice with ceremonial swords.”

  We finished up and got back on the road. We were headed up to Waimea Canyon—the Grand Canyon of the Pacific—and we still had to make it up the twisty two-lane road that goes to the top.

  When we got to the canyon, the obligatory tour busses had taken up most of the parking lot. The overlooks were jammed with Japanese tourists. It seemed everyone was either taking a photo or posing for a photo. Tour guides chattered and gestured to the crowds like auctioneers.

  After a few minutes the busses honked their horns and the tourists hustled back to the parking lot. With a belch of exhaust the caravan of busses roared away leaving us alone. The wind whistled eerily through the canyon and tossed Hatch’s hair across his forehead.

  I pulled out my phone to take his picture. “Say ‘azuki bean’,” I said and snapped the photo.

  ***

  At four o’clock we finally pulled into the resort Hatch had booked for our two-night stay. I looked over and shot him an ‘are you serious?’ grin. The place was way more la-di-dah than I was expecting.

  The open-air lobby had thirty-foot ceilings and marble floors. Across from the entrance were four immense pillars. Beyond the pillars was a spectacular view of sweeping lawns, golden sand, and waves crashing on the nearby shoreline. On the right side of the lobby a sumptuous bar, complete with koi pond, potted palms and dark rattan furniture beckoned with promises of umbrella drinks in hollowed-out pineapples. A poster showed a smiley local guy posing with his ukulele, announcing live music every night after six p.m.

  Our room was equally posh. It was a two-bedroom, two-bath suite with living room, dining room and full kitchen. The master bedroom had a four-poster king bed draped in yards of dramatic mosquito netting, and the second bedroom had a queen bed with a mattress so far off the ground it had a matching step-stool alongside.

  “Are you expecting guests?” I said.

  Hatch smiled. “No, but this was the last ocean view room available. And what the heck, we might want to try out all the beds. You know, like Little Red Riding Hood and the Three Bears.”

  “I think it was Goldilocks who went from bed to bed,” I said.

  “Hmm, sounds about right. Blonds are known for being bed-hoppers.”

  I’m a few shades down from blond but on behalf of blonds everywhere I shot him some stink eye.

  “Now don’t get all worked up over this place having a kitchen,” Hatch said. “I’m not expecting you to cook.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t mind making breakfast,” I said. “Look at that view.”

  The spacious balcony lanai overlooked a wide vista of sapphire ocean blending into an expanse of blinding cobalt sky. The patio furniture included a small teak table with two heavy teak armchairs. There was also a matching lounge with comfy four-inch-thick cushion.

  “I sometimes forget how calming the ocean can be,” I said. Back home I live in upcountry Maui, far from the beach. The upside of upcountry is it has few tourists, little traffic, and lower housing prices. The downside is there’s no ocean sound, no turtles bobbing their heads up for a peek and no briny smell of fresh air that’s been scrubbed clean after crossing thousands of miles of water.

  In the living room the suite had been d
one up with the expected resort décor: sepia-toned etchings of hula dancers, a floor lamp that looked like a miniature palm tree, and thick blond bamboo furniture with Hawaiian print cushions. If Hatch wanted to play tourist for a couple of days he’d certainly picked the right place to do it. And I was happily tagging along. After all, even though I’d been born in Kaua'i, it was no longer home. I was a visitor. And I was going to take advantage of all the perks that visitors take for granted. For the next couple of days I was going to eat whatever I wanted, drink more adult beverages than I should, and lie around until my body begged to be vertical.

  “The website said this place has a two million-dollar workout facility,” Hatch said. “Want to go check it out?”

  “Not hardly.”

  While Hatch went to do his body good, I plopped down on the lanai to catch a few rays. I had two more days to relax before the lawyer meeting in Hanalei. For all I knew, this might be my last few days of idyllic ignorance. On Wednesday I’d be forced to abandon my gauzy made-up family history and embrace the prickly truth about who I was. Worse, I’d have to face the ugly truth about why my mother just had up and died at the tender age of twenty-five.

  CHAPTER 5

  When I awoke Tuesday morning, Hatch was already in the kitchen. I tip-toed toward the bathroom to make myself presentable, but he stepped in front of me before I got there.

  “Two sugars, extra creamer,” he said handing me a cup of coffee.

  “Mahalo,” I said. I could only imagine what I looked like after the three mai tais I’d sucked down at dinner the night before, but Hatch seemed to take my disheveled appearance in stride.

  We sat on the sofa and sipped our coffee. The coffee table was littered with stacks of tourist information Hatch had picked up from a display in the lobby. He picked up a handful of brochures and fanned them out in front of me.

  “How about a helicopter ride?” he said. “You ever been up in a chopper?”