I have always thought that the hippies and flower children of the 60’s and 70’s were akin to the Gypsy nomads of beloved folkloric legends—an unorthodox, slightly rapscallion, and yet romantic brotherhood of the past. I have always wished that I could have met one, but of course I never knew what happened to them after the 60’s and 70’s. Now I know. They are alive and well, in the little town of Paia, Hawaii.
After leaving the town of Paia, the terrain becomes increasingly lush and green, the road begins to twist and turn. The coastline of white beaches once being full of dark tanned sun-worshipers, have now transformed into violent bursts of waves assaulting cliffs and steep rock outcroppings. The road begins to ascend higher in elevation, as I nervously navigate each winding snakelike curve.
The sun is setting and darkness will soon be upon me. The cliffs aside the road now rise some 300 to 400 feet above the agitated watery deep, that continuously dashes upon the sharp rocks below. I can think of better roads to be traveling on in the dark. I try to focus on the forest side of the road and daydream a little, in a feeble attempt to disobey my fear of heights.
As total darkness befalls, I focus on the illumination of the road in front of me that the high beams of the car offer. Although my eyes ache with the strain of being totally focused on the winding road ahead, my brain allows me to notice the few droplets of rain that have begun to spatter onto the windshield.
The few spatters of rain soon turn into hundreds, then thousands of droplets upon the glass. A driving rain now bashes into the windshield, each raindrop bursting into copious particles of mist.
All of a sudden, I drive into what seems to be a car wash of rain, each droplet as big and hitting as hard as small water balloons.
I turn the windshield wipers on high, but still have difficulty in seeing clearly. Looking out the windshield now is like looking through an old Coca-Cola bottle, seeing only blurred light, shapes, and shadows.
The moonless night is as dark as black ink. It is raining so hard that I can only see as far as the hood ornament of my car, and for some reason I am the only car on the road. Even if I were an astronaut that had been marooned on Mars, I don’t think I would feel more isolated or for that matter, forsaken.
The most likely reason that I seem to be the only car on the road, is because I am the only car on the road. No one with any mental wherewithal would be stupid enough to drive this winding precipice road at night.
I creep along at a snail’s pace of five miles per hour. Besides the driving rain, fog begins to swallow the remainder of my visible perception. I roll down the window and poke my head outside for a possible clearer view of things. Great drops of rain pound my eyes, as if they were large watery missiles dropping from the sky. In the second that it takes for me to blink my eyes in response to the assaulting rain, the hair on my head turns into a waterlogged mop. I pull my head back inside and try to dry off with my coat. A chill goads the muscles of my back and neck and I begin to shiver.
Driving almost blind, added to my teeth-chattering from the cold like a WWII machine gun, I decide to turn off the pavement onto the gravel studded shoulder. I turn off the motor and then grasp the emergency brake handle, pulling up with a vigorous yank. The lights on high beam, aim out into the impenetrable befogged night. I sit there in the dark for a moment, staring out into the impasse. Not until my shoulders begin to shiver uncontrollably, do I have the notion of turning off the headlights to preserve the battery.
I stretch out between the two front bucket seats and wrap myself in a half-wet coat. The falling rain beating against the car reminds me of the sound of a popcorn popper. I lay there in the dark and shiver. Against all odds, I fall asleep.
Suddenly, I am awakened to the sound of some ungodly reoccurring screeching. I spring open like a gangster’s switchblade, bumping my head on the visor in reaction to being roused so abruptly. A brown tropical grouse is perched on the hood of the car, proudly caterwauling out his or her mating call, repeating it over and over. While it is true that I am no bird expert, I cannot imagine any creation under heaven becoming carnally aroused by such a brutal, irritating love cry.
I honk the horn at the bird in retaliation. The feathered fowl abandons its quest for courtship with much discontent, and flutters off. What a vicious way to meet the morning!
For a moment I sit there reeling and dazed, and then my anatomy begins to ache. My shivering last night has given way to sweating profusely from the humidity this morning. I feel as though I have been folded up and stuffed into a small duffel bag, and I am sure that my knees will be permanently locked at the forty-five-degree position. I painstakingly open and close my hands for a moment, allowing life-giving blood to seep into my fingers. I reach over and clasp the door handle and grunt, whine, and moan my way out of the car.
The pounding rain must have stopped sometime during the night, leaving a blanket of warm dampness everywhere. Through the tops of the trees above, I can see a faintly lit blue sky. The watch on my wrist sounds an alarm: it is six o’clock in the morning.
I now become aware of the sound of rumbling water, emanating from somewhere inside the rain forest next to my tropical rest stop. I approach the wet and abundant frondescence of the forest. I can just make out a slight whisper of a trail, inviting me entry inside its sultry silence.
I try to peer inside the forest as best as I can, but I cannot see from where the sounds of running water flow. After a fleeting moment of uneasiness, I timidly advance within the cornucopia of greenery. As I move each massive elephantine leaf from my path, great beads of water roll off of the impermeable foliage, onto my head.
As I step deeper into the rain forest, the sound of the running water becomes more like a roar. I push aside some kind of huge leaf, and a beautiful waterfall appears before me. In fact, as I raise my eyes heavenward to see from where the water originates, I see three smaller additional waterfalls coming out of the green hillside above the first one. This poetical assemblage of waterfalls creates such a phantasm of mist that it has given birth to a rainbow, thanks to some help from a glint of morning sun. It is beautiful beyond words, and only God and I alone are privy to its beauty.
The end of the trail I stand upon is in fact a ledge about twenty or thirty feet above the pool that the water falls into. The roar of the water is so loud; I can scarcely hear myself think.
Birds of all kinds cavort freely here, as if nature has provided them with their own private spa. I think that every plant that is green and every flower that is beautiful has taken root here.
I now find myself sopping wet from the constant hovering mist of the waterfalls. Actually the mist falling down upon me is refreshing, since it feels as though the temperature and humidity both have already reached a hundred.
I am in awe, and have become completely affected by the ambiance granted by this tranquil place. I pause there, meditating on my surroundings with aroused worship.
Without warning, someone pushes into my backbone from behind me, with brutal force. In an instant I am floating in the air, falling toward the pool beneath the falls, being sorrowfully incapable of flight.
The second I plunge into the pool of water, all breath and life is regurgitated from my body, due to the shock of the intense cold. The impact causes me to submerge and descend till I buoyantly hit the rocky bottom of the pool. I am shocked at how cold a Hawaiian waterfall is. I would never have guessed that a tropical pool in paradise could be cold enough to stop my heart.
Suddenly, I come to my senses. I am treading water in this cold jungle pool only because I was deliberately pushed into it; but by whom? Yes, that is the question, by whom and in heaven’s name why?
I float there in place in the cold water, motioning my arms intermittently just enough to keep afloat. I look up above at the ledge I occupied just a few seconds before. I see only that of abundant green rain forest, a camouflage that demands all things be hidden.
Assured that I am once again alone, I swim till I can walk onto dry gr
ound. Climbing onto a large rock, I stand there for a moment, looking around the circumference of this place once again. I stop and stare at the ledge once more, before beginning my difficult task of ascending up the wet slippery slope to the trail.
Reaching the ledge, I immediately look around me for any remaining evidence of the aggressor. Here, where the trail ends in morass and soggy ground, I find unfamiliar footprints, quite unlike my own. Following these curious footprints with my eyes, I notice that they soon veer off into the thickness of the green forest, only after a short distance down the pathway.
I begin the mind game of quizzing myself. How intent is this person in achieving his rascality? Has he finished his mischief, or is he lying in wait for me somewhere down the trail? The thought of my ensuing meddling stranger that I have been searching for enters my head and begins to ruffle my mind. Could he have been the one that pushed me? The questioning thought enfeebles me.
I slowly begin the journey down the trail, paranoid of the movement of every fluttering minute insect, distrustful of every leaf that moves. What seems like an eternity of time to finally reach the road where the car is parked is in reality a quickly passing three or four minutes.
Once on the road, I wearily move towards the car in a waddle of small minced steps. I turn my back towards the car, stick out and position my rump onto the car door, and relax my back against the vehicle.
I have experienced a crumpled night’s rest in a compact car and a serious morning bedewing in a cold waterfall pool. None of the Hawaii brochures that I have read promised such an exhilarating Aloha experience. I guess I am just one of the lucky ones.
The road seems to be asleep from activity for the moment, exempt of all motion of traffic. I decide to take advantage of the absence of traffic. With great zeal I hurriedly change my clothes alongside the car, my adrenaline-fuelled zeal being enhanced by the possibility of future sightseers that might drop by.
Just as I snap and zip my trousers, early morning rubbernecked tourists, in a telltale red rental jeep, slowly dawdles by. Mom and Dad gawk-n-smile while their little children point-n-stare, as if I were an attraction in some kind of jungle theme park.
With warm clothes put on and the withdrawal of all spectators, I feel refreshed and have been granted a new spirit of optimism. As I open the car door to the driver seat, I notice a little wooden sign about fifty yards ahead alongside the road. I don’t recall seeing any such sign there last night; its existence most likely shrouded by the pounding rain and fog of the night.
§
TWENTY TWO
‘Hana eight miles,’ the sign reads. I didn’t realize I was so close to my destination. I finally drive my car back onto the road, and am on my way once again.
The wheels of my car turn only a hundred yards or so, when I see another sign. ‘Palapalo Ho'omau Church Cemetery,’ and then under that ‘Charles Lindbergh’s grave.’
I excitedly turn left onto the little gravel road, the little boy’s feeling of adventure exploding inside of me.
There at the end of the road, hedged on three sides by thick palms, dwells a little church I used to believe could only be found in fairy tails. I sit in the car for a moment and take in this hidden place of charm.
Winding placed rocks guide the passage to the front door of the small house of worship. This little hidden, holy retreat is absolutely quaint. The walls of this little sanctum appear to have been made of white course coral. The roof, gables, and eves have been imbued with vivid and flaunting chartreuse green. Although the little church’s character of color has the tendency to startle your eye, it is a quiet and peaceful windswept place, well suited for the calling of eternal rest.
I step out of the car and walk up to the beginning of the winding rock walkway. There where the walkway begins, a huge fig tree wears a welcome sign for all visitors to see.
‘You are welcome to enter this church in a spirit of reverence befitting any place of worship. Those who wish to walk on the surrounding paths are asked not to step on the graves or disturb stones or flowers, out of respect for the deceased and consideration for the feelings of their relatives.’
I smile at the charm of the sign, then walk carefully to the red front door of the church, one rock at a time. The door is locked, so I stand there on the porch of the church and read the bulletin board, nailed onto the door.
Announcements of the small community’s life and death are found here, along with birth announcements, wedding showers, garage sales, and funerals. Also found here, is a small map of the cemetery’s citizenry. On this little red weathered and bedraggled church door, I find directions to Charles Lindbergh’s final resting place.
I find myself anxiously in awe of the moment; to actually be able to visit someone famous from the past, even if it is only paying a visit to their grave. Funny, but I feel a measure of guilt as well as grief. It is as if I have been invited to meet someone of great importance, only to arrive grossly too late.
My shadow creates a partial eclipse over Charles A Lindbergh’s gravestone, as I walk onto his estate of eternal repose.
Here, exiled to a remote piece of paradise, surrounded by grass, an inscription is found written on a flat grave marker made of smoothed polished granite.
Charles A. Lindbergh
Born Michigan 1902 Died Maui 1974
“If I take the wings of the morning,
and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea.”
Such a small token of remembrance, for a man that had such an impact on humanity, I think to myself.
Suddenly I feel faint with hunger. I realize I haven’t eaten for at least eighteen hours. I walk back to the car and head on to Hana. As I enter into the little village of Hana, a dozen brightly painted plantation-house style shops crowd around a village green-lawn park.
On one side of the street a little bright yellow plantation house abides, with a worn shabby-chic sign identifying it as the First Hawaiian bank. Next to the bank is Hasegawas General Store, which looks to be the only grocery store in Hana. Across the street from Hasegawas is the Hana Theater, the building encrusted with palm trees and large tropical ferns. Now playing ‘Gone with the Wind,’ the marquee announces.
I’m thinking that it must take a very long period of time for movies to arrive here, or that this is a theater that just shows old movies.
Next to the theater is Blue Ginger Café. I see that an open sign has been hung on the screen door. I am famished, so I park and eagerly go inside and sit down.
The ceiling fan above the counter slowly rotates, which seems remarkable to me, since a hundred years of cobwebs have amassed and attached themselves to the fixture as their eternal resting place.
Still staring at the gossamer spectacular above my head, I hear a soft voice from behind the counter.
“Good morning, may I help you?” A smiling petite young lady says, speaking with an adorable Polynesian accent.
“Good morning! I’m starving, what do you recommend this morning?” The young lady smiles, then points the way over to the breakfast menu hung on the wall.
Some of the things on the menu I am pretty sure I recognize, while others I have never heard of.
“I think I will have the Portuguese sausage and eggs, please. You know what, I feel adventurous this morning. I think I will take a chance and try a Musobe also, whatever it is.” I smile whimsically, trying hard to be amusing and cute.
I seem to have wasted my morning mirth on the young lady waiting on me. She simply writes down the order and gives it to the fry cook. I guess this is as good a time as any to realize that my charm and charisma may not hold a universal appeal, and that I may not be acclaimed as adorable and charming everywhere I travel. It must be something to do with the language barrier, I explain to myself.
Each table in this little café wears a noisily colored plastic tablecloth cover, creating a pleasant festive mood. It may be a little too festive for a mainlander that has just spent the night in his car, but it is definitely chee
rful. I choose a table that has a plastic cover painted with bright orange, yellow, and green fruit. I take a load off and wait to be served.
It seems I am the only customer in this little restaurant this morning. I sit there alone meditating on what I might say to the person who comes to the door of the Lindbergh home, if I should be fortunate enough to find it.
Stuffed and satisfied I walk over to the counter and ask for directions to the famous Charles Lindbergh family home. The young lady quietly writes down the direction on a piece of paper, as if she had been asked to do this many times before. Humbly and sweetly, she hands the directions to me without saying a word. After I complement her on the food and service, I am on my way.
I travel about three miles out of town, on the same road I traveled into Hana on. As per the instructions, I turn into the first gravel driveway on my left, just after passing mile marker three. There before me, stands a rock A-framed house with a wood shingled roof. It is not at all what I expected. It is not the place I imagined that the famous Charles Lindbergh would have spent his final days.
I shut off the ignition and listen to the silence. My stomach is churning enough to generate hydroelectricity. I feel that I, along with the butterflies now occupying my stomach, are about to ride a rubber raft over the top of the Hoover dam. I sit there, frozen in the car for an embarrassing length of time.
I have interviewed quite a few people in my short career as a journalist, but it seems that it has never been someone of this importance, at least to me.
A middle-aged lady peers out from a large picture window in front of the house. Now that my obvious presence has been made evident, the thought of flight is out of the question.
For whatever reason I have traveled here, and for whatever questions can be answered here, the answers and reasons reside within the walls of that little rock house.
Do I have the journalistic wherewithal to make this a success, I worry to myself? I guess it is a little late to be asking that question. I should have asked that question long before I drove into this driveway, I tell myself. I will try to gather all of the knowledge, training, and skill those four years of college and six months of journalism experience will grant me, and hope that it is enough to accomplish my objective.
Wyatt, Richard Page 20
