Hawaii: Molokai Is Not For Sale
By Allison Devereaux

Conducting an interview with a warrior of the Makahiki Games requires some patience.   Seated behind the wheel of his pick-up truck, Hanohano Naehu wears a red cape draped over his thick, sun-kissed shoulders.  He stops in the middle of the road each time he meets a friend driving a dusty truck in the opposite direction.  In what is known as a traffic jam on Molokai, vehicles line up behind the two trucks and simply wait for the conversation to end.  On this 260 square mile spit of earth with 8000 inhabitants and only one main road extending east to west, the only place to be is where you are. 

I am covering the Makahiki Games for one of the three local newspapers on Molokai, where I am a visiting intern.  Issues of the newspaper I work for arrive on the island every Wednesday, jammed under the seats of a passenger plane flying in from Maui.  I have seen the newspaper perform many functions here – as fish wrap, to keep ice cream cool while transporting it from the store to home and spread across a mango field to keep the soil in place.  I once commented that a friend was carrying two issues of the newspaper under his arm as he passed by.  “For the pizza coupons!” was his reply. 

***

Hano and I met the previous evening when he strode up to me and launched into an explanation of the Makahiki Games.  Molokai, the last island to claim a majority Hawaiian population, still honours this tradition dating back to when wartime extended for nine months of the year.  Battles ceased from December to February, and this peaceful period was an opportunity for harvesting and feasting. The ten events – including arm wrestling, chicken fighting, and rock throwing – challenge speed, strength, and agility.  The Games once helped warriors keep their edge by competing against each other during peacetime.  “I’m going to win the games,” Hano assured me with a wink.

Under the lights of the Kaunakakai Ballpark adults fluctuated between serious and friendly competition as they moved throughout the events.  Men vied for the title of ‘Ano Koa Ki’eki’ Kane, and the women for ‘Ano Koa Ki’eki’e Wahine.  During the huki huki, or “pull pull,” Skye Leimana Ritte-Camara, Miss Molokai 2006, was moments from losing the tug-of-war match and abruptly let go of the rope.  Her opponent tumbled to the ground.  “You can’t just drop the rope, Leimana!” an elder called out with gentle sternness, “you can really hurt her.”  Leimana apologized immediately, her eyes cast downward as she ran a hand along the top of her smooth, black hair.  When she looked up, the girl met her square in the eye and responded with sincerity, “I forgive you.”

The competition continued as a group of keiki, or children, gathered behind the batting cage.  Within seconds of seating myself amidst their tornado, a competition for my attention began.  Keiki flopped onto my lap, launched into gymnastic routines, demanded to be photographed, and shoved toys in my face, screaming “Auntie, Auntie!”  My favourite little keiki — wearing pink pyjamas, cowboy boots, and carrying a pink umbrella – spent several minutes playing with my hair and then ran away. Girlie to the core, she returned with a clear plastic fanny pack bursting with toy beauty products.  I put a curler in her shiny black hair and, when she painted her lips with a red plastic lipstick tube, told her she looked stunning. 

“You’re a kid again!” Hano shouted to me as he passed by. 

We all knew that beyond the ballpark lights was complete darkness – no neon signs or crowded roads or even streetlights.  Adults played games rich in tradition, remembering their history alongside neighbours and family.  The sprawling lawn swarmed with children whom nobody and everybody was responsible for.  What my own parents and grandparents mourned – but were never able to fully express to me – was the loss of a simpler time when life felt like that moment right there on a baseball field under the Hawaiian sky. 

The following morning at dawn a sleepy crowd of hundreds gathered to watch the children’s opening ceremonies.  Hano – winner of the adult games, as promised – entered the field wearing a white loincloth.  His thick, tattooed arms hoisted a wooden pole bearing an enormous white banner symbolizing Lono, guardian of rain, agriculture and peace.    A kupuna, or elder, chanted into a microphone as representatives from each district of the island – Kaunakakai, Hoolehua, Mana’e, Maunaloa – marched onto the lawn behind him.  The children wore a rainbow of brightly coloured t-shirts and brought offerings for Lono, such as sweet potatoes and dried fish. 
 
Competition was fierce.  In the excitement people moved off the bleachers to crowd together on the lawn around the games, content to stand in the heat of the afternoon sun.  Dozens of tender hands wrapped around the thick tug-of-war rope. Parents stood inches from the keiki’s (kid's) faces, screaming “PULL! PULL! PULL!”  As the official of the ceremonies, Hano made sure the tug-of-war had an equal amount of keiki on each side of the rope, kicked off the chicken fights, and declared the arm wrestle victor. 

***

After the games wraped up, the crowd moved across the street to the Mitchell Pauole Center – a pavilion with a huge lawn – where community organizations sold laulau plates and cotton candy while musicians strum ukuleles and performers hula dance.  A pair of middle-aged sisters, I met at a luau days before approached me, one of them standing centimetres from my face while yelling about her pheasant hat. 

Under a shady tree at the back of the event, Hano leaned his stocky body against a pick-up truck.  He unceremoniously handed over his leafy, green lei, adjusting it to fit atop my head like a crown.  A circle of men discussed hunting and the feeling of facing a wild boar their size.  “I’m more scared of humans than animals,” an old man said directly to me.  There was no avoiding the fact that I was a haole, a term for a white person that can vary greatly in meaning depending on tone.  “It’s not that I hate you,” one of them said, “I just hate the haole people making the decisions.”  I noded. 

Just as soon as I climbed into the passenger seat of Hano’s truck, a little voice yelled, “Auntie!”  I peered over the edge to see my favourite little keiki from the night before staring up, wide-eyed and grasping for the door handle.  I shot a panicked look to Hano, whose hand freezes.  “It’s okay,” he smiled, removing the key from the ignition as I opened the door and welcomed her onto my lap. 

Today, the little girl inexplicably wears a kimono with her cowboy boots.  From a brown paper bag she presents a bouncy ball and yo-yo, jacks.  We roll out of the truck and hit the sidewalk, bouncing the ball between us for several minutes until she flits away. Hano calls me back to the truck, yelling over its roaring engine that we have only one hour before he needs to board the ferry.  “Do it quickly,” Hano says, recognizing that we both want the interview to be over. 

I have only two questions.  First, I am curious to find out what he was awarded for winning the games.  Last year’s winning kane, or male, got a huge Samoan Crab and two mullets.  Second, I want to lead my story about the games with the Hawaiian equivalent to “on your mark, get set, go!” which Hano shouted over and over again throughout the day.  I need him to spell this out for me.        

             

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