Chicken Skin

Chicken skin.  It’s what Hawaiians use to describe the prickling of the hairs on your arm and the goose pimpling of flesh when something otherworldly is near.

I love a good scare and I’ve always had a fondness for ghost tours.  The ones I did in Boston, Seattle and Savannah were all good, but a tad tame.  This is due in part that in places like Boston and Seattle, we worry about things like liability and law suits.  Hawaiians?  Not so much.  Sure, there was a waiver to sign and a prohibitive ban on children under 18 (excellent policy that most places should enforce), but then the tourguides took us on van to the Northern side of the island where all creepiness seems to occur and marched us into the woods on a rainy and moonless evening over slippery roots, jagged rocks, cliff edges and other naturally occurring lawsuits waiting to happen. 

Now keep in mind all of these tours have a similar hoax element and it’s this:  The orbs.  The tourguides, in the interest of earning tips and adding a heightened sense of creepiness and danger, will all tell you that for whatever reason, ghosts can be captured on your convenient handheld camera.  I am here to tell you that a relatively intelligent person (someone with an IQ greater than that of a turnip) can give you a reason for why you might see orbs in your pictures.  Here’s mine: it’s dark out and it’s got something to do with the reflection of your flash.  But then, I couldn’t leave it there, so I went to wikipedia, the last word on all things important.  Here’s what wikipedia had to say on Orbs:

Orbs – round spheres of light in ghost pictures that can be caused by flash reflection off of reflective surfaces, dust,glass, insects, pollen, moisture, snow, rain, hair, and lens flare.

So I was partly right about the flash.  So clean your lens before going on a ghost tour.  Score 1 for Snarky.  But deduct points because I’m on a tour with a bunch of people who actually believe they have captured ghosts on film.  This is because a tour like this attracts not just tourists, but the kinds of tourists who believe in throwing split salt over your shoulder, not walking under ladders, and voting democratic.  Silly silly people.

So here’s my best “ghost orb.”  I’m calling this orb, “the ghost of health care reform.”  May it rest in the spirit world.  Snark snark.

So I arrive for my tour and immediately chat up Cousin Joe, our black-clad tourguide, while waiting for the rest of crew.  In Hawaii, everyone local is a cousin.  We get talking and Joe seems glad to talk to someone under the age of 40 (which seems to be the demographic of this tour) and I tell him about being a tour guide at Sam Adams.  We trade stories on some of the snarkier things we’ve said to tour guests (none of my mine will be written about here, I love Sam Adams and all of you tourguides), and of course Joe’s are a billion times better than mine because his specialty is the paranormal and you can really, really mess with people.  But I ask him in all seriousness, if he believes in any of this. 

Here was his response (paraphrased): “Most of what we do is for the tourists, yah.  (Islanders always add a hearty ‘yah’ at the end of sentences.  I dig it).  But you let me know if you don’t feel a little chicken skin while we out at Morgan’s Corner.  Those woods, they don’t feel right, yah.”  He shrugs.  Good enough for me.   

Dear readers, I don’t know where I stand on ghosts.  Let’s face it, as humans we’re kinda morons.  We haven’t conclusively proven or disproven the existence of ghosts.  Hell, I mean we’ve claimed to have “proven” things before which were obvious screw ups (the world is flat, the whole universe revolves around us, it’s okay to be around high levels of radiation, and  yes, I’m looking you at, Marie Curie).  I’m just saying.  We’re not the most well informed species.   So who knows.

But here’s where I stand on mythology, legends, and ghost stories. Nerd alert: Love me some mythology.  I’m been a mythology junkie since the age of ten.  I started with the bloody blood Norse legends of Odin and Valhalla, moved on to the Greeks and Romans in my early teen years and then dabbled in Asian, Egyptian, Native American and Indian for awhile.  I love mythology because it’s just amazing the way in which earlier civilizations explained creation, naturally occurring events like storms and fires, and the seasons.  And I’m nerdy, but you knew this already.

Hawaiian mythology is heavily based in honoring one’s ancestors, which is no surprise because Hawaiian culture is so wonderfully steeped in family traditions.  And also no surprise, there’s quite a bit of legends surrounding their natural phenomenon: volcanoes, fire, the ocean, sharks, etc.  In a word: love it.

So back to the actual ghost/legend tour.  There are five spots we’ll be visiting.  Let me just give you a run down of the tour: About twenty-five people, mostly obese middle-aged Midwesterners (you look at the pic below and tell me I’m not accurate), a handful of Japanese tourists (okay, here’s my one and only rant on them.  If the Japanese are so much smarter than we Americans are, please tell me why they are wearing 4 inch heels and mini-skirts/weird overall thingy that ends in a skirt but has suspenders?  We’re going into the woods at night and its raining and when you booked the tour, they only told you two things.  To wear closed toed shoes and a windbreaker and where to show up).  But we can’t leave yet because two people are missing.  Do you want to guess or shall I just tell you?  I’ll just tell you.  It’s Valentine’s Day weekend, obviously, it’s going to be newly weds.

While we wait for the newly weds, I get to talking to the Southern couple in the seat in front of me.  I’m going to call them Todd and Cheryl.  Todd is a nice guy in the insurance business.  His wife, Cheryl has reddish orange frizzy hair and a dramatic kind of demeanor about her (if you look in the pic, they’re the couple all the way over on the right).  She’s the kind of person who would corner you, a total stranger, in a restroom at a wedding and tell you that she’d overheard that the bride had a “bun in the oven.”  Because I’m alone and remind her of the girl her son is dating (“you look just like her, honey and she’s in nursing school,”) she adopts me as her confidant.  She leans over to me and says, “you know, some people think I’m psychic.  I can sense things, you know?  And I’ve seen ghosts, real ghosts.”

“Oh yeah,” I say, interested.  She’s going to make my blog, I can already tell.

“I can read palms and I went to this workshop on auras.  And honey, let me tell you something.  You have a beautiful aura.”

Moral dilemma:  I find it hard to be outright snarky to nice people.  My little snark teeth only really come out at bars when guys are being annoying or, if someone else started the snark fight.  You see, I too have some background knowledge in auras.  Thank you, Stierman, Book Club and Michael Crichton.  I read a good twenty pages on auras.  And I desperately, want to ask this woman if she wants to “fluff” my aura.  I really, really do.

But, I can’t.  So instead I ask politely, “what color is it?”

“Honey, yours is blue.  Very calm and beautiful blue.”

Now, I know she’s full of it.  Snarky auras aren’t calming.  Mine has got to be burgundy or taupe, maybe mustard colored.  Definitely not blue.  I give my snark aura an indignant shake, it’s like a hair toss, which is almost as good as fluffing it, I suppose. 

I smile and Cheryl begins to tell me about the time she knew that her daughter was in a car accident (a minor bang up, nothing serious) and her mother’s instinct woke her up in the middle of the night.  “I have a gift,” she says.  “I just know things.”

Here’s what I know: the newly weds have just arrived.  They are 20 minutes late and they are sporting a suspect looking glow and everyone on the bus hates them.  At least they’re not Wedding Monthly Cover Couple newly weds.  You know, the kind of couple you look at it and think, I’m an ugly cave troll and will never get married or look like that.  (To see the newly weds, look at the group pic over on the left, she’s in the white outfit, he's in green).   They settle in the only available seats behind me and immediately start making out and cooing to each other.  Now, even if the tour is a total bust, I don’t care.  I’m sandwiched between Cheryl the psychic housewife and the oblivious newly weds.  It’s a little snark sandwich. 

Nu’uanu Pali Look Out:

We wind up the windward side of the island towards the Look Out.  And my god, is it windy.  ‘Nu’uanu’ means ‘windy’ and ‘Pali’ means ‘cliffs.’  I’ve been here in the day; it’s got a view of the island not to be missed.  You can see clear across to Chinamen’s Hat, a strange-shaped island rising out of the water.  I came here with Travis and with his mother and both told me it was a pretty different place at night.  They weren’t joking.  At night, the wind pummels the palm fronds and causes them to clatter and there is no end to it.  There are few lights and the shadows of the Koolau Mountains loom large and jagged in the starless sky.

The legend, one of my favorites, goes like this: Back in the time of battle to unite the islands, King Kamehameha the Great stormed the shores of Waikiki with 10,000 men.  They forced the last hold outs, about 1500 men, to jump off the Koolau Mountains.  

Here is my favorite painting of this, I saw it in one of the museums and then bought a bunch of these postcards and sent them to my friends, because I’m creepy.  It was called the ‘Battle of the Falling Fish.’

Now ask yourself, what would cause you to throw yourself, a hardened warrior, off cliffs this sheer and perilous?  I’ll tell you and no it wasn’t just death before dishonor.  If you were captured, even though King Kamehameha didn’t like to sacrifice people, he would offer up captured warriors to the god of war.  There were two preferred methods both involving copious amounts of agony.  The first method would involve the breaking of your shoulders, your eyes would be scooped out and then you’d be left for three days on an altar to think about how much your life sucked.  The other was similar with a slightly different twist: they’d break all the bones in your body, leave you screaming on the altar overnight, and then behead you in the morning.

You wanna guess the year of the battle?  You’d assume it was back in the day, right?  Maybe 1120 or 1349?  Not a chance.  1795.  That’s just 19 years after a bunch of tea-throwing, we’re mad as hell and we’re not gonna stand for taxation without representation so take your stupid white wigs and go home, founding fathers signed the Declaration of Independence.  19 years after that and King Kamehameha was uniting the islands all Braveheart-style.  Makes me kinda proud.

I stood apart from the group, while Joe explained the legend I already knew, and I walked all the way over to the Look Out edge and put my hand on the railing.  The wind was whipping my hair, camera, and jeans into a frenzy.  I wondered, could I do it?  Could I jump if I knew what awaited was abject agony and eventual death?  How would you come out on this?  Could you do it?

This was one of two places where I felt my skin crawl.  Chicken skin.  Excellent.

Kawa'ewa'e Heiau

Pronounced “Hay-OW,” the Heiau was a war temple built sometime in the 12^th century.  It measured about 40 x 20 yards and essentially is made of rocks and bones.  

Here in Cousin Joe in front of the Heiau,, the speckled shape behind him is the mound of rocks and bones:

Hawaiians believed that taking the bones of a loved one (after they were deceased, obviously) and grinding them up and leaving them here or sticking them in the bottom of your canoe or cooking utensils was a great way to honor the dead.

This particular Heiau had a peaceful past, most Heiaus are dedicated to Lono, the god of peace.  This one though has a slight smudge on its past.  It was once the site of human sacrifices by Kamehameha.

Last word on human sacrifices, I promise.  So forget about tossing virgins in the volcano.  The god of war required warriors and warriors were men.  Offering a woman to the god of war was an insult.  Second, the whole point of the sacrifice wasn’t so much the death as it was the suffering, which is why it wasn’t just a quick chop and lop of the head.  Agony and pain was what the god of war required.  Yet another good reason to toss yourself off a cliff in a losing battle.

Now at this point, Joe recounts the story of Kamapua'a, half man and half hog, who can change his shape at will.  

 

Cheryl interrupts him by waving a manicured hand in the hand (I checked them out on the van for you, fake magenta nails that you could gouge an eye out with).  “Excuse me, but what is the difference?”

Joe is confused.  “I’m not sure what you mean,” he says slowly.

Cheryl smiles wide. “Well you said half man, half hog.  Aren’t those one in the same?” 

Every woman in the group sniggers.  Told you that I loved Cheryl.

Morgan’s Corner:

Morgan’s Corner is hands down the most celebrated and haunted area of Hawaii.  I’m dying with anticipation as we’re driving to the Old Pali Road where the famous hairpin awaits.  Behind me, and I’m not exaggerating this, the newly weds are going at it something fierce.  The good news is, it’s raining, large lazy plops of warm tropical rain, not a downpour, but enough to drum the roof of the van as we drive.  So this helps drown out some of the noise behind me.  Bad news: I said some, not all.  Now either, these two are the worst kissers on the planet (I’m talking like fifteen years old and it’s your first kiss and there’s all sorts of awkward maneuvering and noises bad) or, they’re sucking each others fingers.  I don’t know and I’m certainly not turning around to find out. 

Then I hear the unmistakable noise of a zipper being unzipped. 

Yup, this is actually happening in the seat behind me.  Obviously, I can’t turn around as this breaks all treaties of decency and manners, so I go passive aggressive.  I clear my throat very loudly and then slam my back against my seat, just to let them know that I know what everyone else knows: normally, you have to pay double for that kind of action, Cotton.  But I’m not into it.

We pull over, get out at Morgan’s Corner, and we are standing before an enormous, gnarled, ancient tree.  It reminds me of the tree of death in the movies, “Sleepy Hollow” and “300.”  It is the kind of tree you would hang someone on.  I’m just saying.  

Now, there are actually 3 stories worth telling about Morgan’s Corner.  The first one you know because this story is told the world over in many locations.  It was invented by a concerned parent who didn’t want his teenage daughter to go to a Lover’s Lane type destination with some rogue. 

And for those of you who don’t know it, here’s the Hawaiian version: young Hawaiian girl goes out with some upstanding youth stationed at Kaneohe military base.  They go dancing (probably the Charleston or something, it was the 1920ish era, I imagine) and then they go park somewhere to make out.  (Side bar: who the heck makes out in a car anymore?  This legend needs to be updated to a dorm room or something.  But I digress).  The girl protests going any further, guy good naturedly agrees to take her home, and when he goes to start the car, it won’t start.  His manhood on the line, the guy has to go out in the rain for some gas.  He leaves girl in the car.  She starts to hear noises.  Weird scratching/dragging on the roof of the car.  She’s scared and helpless.  Some cop comes along and rescues her from the car, but tells her not to look anywhere except at him.  Of course she glances above the car and her beau is hanging there, gutted.  It’s his foot that’s been banging the top of the car.  Moral of the story: Abstinence.  Or, as I like to think of it.  Always send the guy for gas. 

So yes, this is the Hawaiian version of the man with the hook story and why not set it here under this uber creepy tree. 

Story #2:

We’re in the woods now because obviously we can’t stand in the roadway.  The greenery is so dense here that it blocks out much of the rain and the night sky. I find it hard to breath here, it’s so humid with the plants. 

Joe drops his voice and explains why it’s called Morgan’s Corner.  Morgan was the closest doctor to this place in the road and when people would inevitably flip their cars, he would be the first on the scene.  Now why would people flip their cars, here?  Well for one thing, people are morons.  They drink, they drive like Massholes, they go too fast around curves and lose control.

 OR…they pick up a hitchhiker.  It’s always an older Hawaiian woman in a traditional mu’mu.  Of course, it’s no ordinary woman.  It’s Madame Pele.  Hands down, she is the Goddess Supreme, goddess of fire and the volcanoes.  Often she is a young beautiful jealous hot hot mess with a bunch of supernatural lovers and her exploits always seem to result in a volcano erupting.  In this legend, she’s an old woman come to judge our driving skills.  If she likes you, she just hitchhikes and vanishes.  If she doesn’t, if she feels that maybe you didn’t put your turn signal on fast enough or you’re drinking, she’ll flip your car.  Regardless of the form she’s in, she’s not to be trifled with.  Moral of the story: don’t pick up hitchhikers.  Nothing good ever comes of this.

Story #3: 

And here’s why I have chicken skin again.  Someone was actually murdered right by Morgan’s Corner and it sparked the end of the death penalty in Hawaii.  Creepers.

Two prison escapees, James Majors and John Palakiko, came upon the house of Theresa Wilder, an elderly woman who worked for Dr. James Moran and who lived not far from Morgan’s Corner.  They robbed her and then took their time killing her.  They were sentenced to hang, but the execution was stayed at the last minute because the governor and Hawaiian citizens didn’t want to have the death penalty anymore.  There was a huge public battle waged over it for a couple of years and their sentences were eventually commuted to life in prison and Hawaii doesn’t have a death penalty anymore.  Joe adds that these two men died of mysterious circumstances, but that feels more wishful thinking than truth.

Manoa Cemetery:

Snarky was not scared by the Manoa Cemetery.  Nor impressed.  The one noteworthy thing is that when you drive in, you offer candy at the gate to appease the scores of Chinese immigrant children who died of influenza.  These immigrants came over here to work in the pineapple and sugar cane fields.  The cemetery is beautiful, sits on a hill and overlooks Honolulu.  I’m only including this in the blog, so you don’t feel like I skipped something good.  Really, I think the tour takes you to Manoa after Morgan’s  Corner so you can shake off the creepiness.

And I took a sweet pic of this dragon, which was half covered in rain and half not.  And then I found five dollars.

Manoa Falls:

The last stop.  The newly weds are at it again behind me.  Cheryl tells me about the time she was at a summer cottage and this door slammed behind her and she knew it was a ghost.  Good times.

Now, two things about Manoa Falls.  First, I hike these Falls last year and wrote it about in my blog and described the creepy lizard spirits, the Li, that live in the falls.  Here’s the deal in case you missed it, you’re supposed to float a Ti leaf on the water’s surface.  If it floats, you can swim.  If it sinks, you’re gonna drown and be eaten by some lizard-faced deity.

Joe adds something I didn’t know about Ti leaves.  “Ti leafs can be carried around to ward off spirits.  Their bushes are often planted at cemetery gates to keep the spirits in.  And,” he adds helpfully, “in times of famine, you can chew their roots for sustenance.”

I look at Joe and find no trace of irony in his face.  Times of famine?  Seriously?  Look around you, Joe.  1 in 4 Americans are considered obese.  1 in 3 in this tour group is morbidly obese and the other two are sporting muffin tops.  Hardly, a time of famine.  But thanks for the tip.

Back to creepy lizard-faced deities.  They are much like the sirens of Greek mythology, they can lure you into the water.  And here is a critical difference between men and women:

To lure a man to his death, the lizard will transform into a smoking hot wahine and the man, overcome with lust and desire, will follow her willingly to his watery grave. 

Okay, so I looked all over for a pic of the lizard deities and this is as close as I could come.  It's the Hulk in front of Manoa Falls.  I mean, I dunno, I've never seen a lizard deity, maybe it really does look like Hulk.

To lure a woman to her death, the lizard does not transform into some six-pack sporting dreamboat of a man with a sensitive, yet daring side, who appreciates you for your complicated and fickle nature.  Nope, because women are too smart to fall for this.  The lizard will transform into a drowning child and the woman, overcome with maternal instinct, will try to rescue the child.

Moral(s) of the story: First.  Women are better than men.  We’re givers.  Second, you see a child drowning in a suspicious tropical body of water; you let the little sucker drown.

Final sidebar: Manoa Falls is where they film “Lost” and for those of you who are fanatics, here’s what we saw on our climb down: big lights that lit up the valley, security men crawling all over in yellow rain slickers, the crew, the cast (the tour guide rattled off some of their names, but they weren’t the main ones and I don’t watch the show, so asking me that is like asking me the atomic weight of Selenium, I have no idea), cast trailers, big pieces of important looking equipment covered with plastic tarp, smoking hot sports cars in the private parking lot and a polar bear. 

I’m joking about the polar bear. 

And that concluded the ghost tour, I was pretty pleased with the presence of my chicken skin and wealth of new Hawaiian lore I learned.  I shot the newly weds a perfectly deserved, parting shot of a dirty look, bid good night to Cheryl, and told Joe if he ever found himself in Boston, to head to the Sam Adams Brewery.  I know a couple of good tourgides over there.