The Hawaiian Equivalent of King Richard's Faire

So on Friday, I died and went to geek heaven.

Last year when I lived in Hawaii, I foolishly resisted going to the Polynesian Cultural Center.  I’m not entirely sure why, everyone said it was a good time, but the fact that it was a center for learning about the six Polynesian islands, but was somehow run entirely by Mormons, I don’t know.  This just didn’t feel right to me.  Nothing against Mormons, but it just seemed weird they’d be doing the whole Polynesian thing. But I kept hearing good things and I thought, what the heck, let’s go figure what the Mormon connection is to the Polynesian islands.

Let’s be clear, the Polynesian Cultural Center isn’t all that authentic.  It’s King Richard’s Faire authentic.  The good parts of the culture have been scrubbed down and made palatable and tourist-friendly.  The roots are there and so is the spirit, but let’s just say the average American tourist would rather learn to hula then hear about say, the land struggle in Hawaii with the five ruling estates.  Just saying.  Regardless, it’s wickedly good fun. 

Now here’s where the Mormons really figure in.  The BYU students, most of them are from Samoa, are the performers, the fire dancers, the kings and queens of the luau.  That’s the Mormon connection.  And let’s face it, I’m sure there is all sorts of snarky, hilarity going on behind the scenes and putting up with dumb tourists, but what a totally awesome part-time student job.  I worked at a bookstore in college.  I ordered text books.  These guys get to dance the hula, climb trees, and ride water floats.   

I decided to do the guided tour by a BYU student because I heard this got you into special exhibits, shows and a VIP luau.  VIP food?  Sign me up.  Our tour guide’s name was Manny, he was a Samoan by birth and a BYU senior.  Manny was the s**t.  And here’s how you knew.  He carried a big walking stick and at one point early on in the tour, he shook said stick and said “just call me Tom Bombadil.”  He instantly won my admiration and adoration (at least for the first part of the tour, later he did something borderline unforgivable to me, more on that later).

Here’s Manny aka Snarky’s favorite Tolkien-quoting Samoan :)

FIJI

The first stop was the island of Fiji.  It was a good warm up stop, we all took part in a bamboo stick banging music ritual.  It was led by a man playing the nose flute.  Yup, that’s right, the Nose Flute.  The people of Fiji believed that the breath from the nose was the purest breath, more holy than that which came from your mouth.  This gave me pause, as queen of bi-annual sinus infections, this was difficult to imagine.  Maybe the people of Fiji should come visit me in the winter, check my nose out, and see if they still think that nose breath is holy and pure.  

Fun fact about Fiji that would upset feminists: very much like the pharaohs of Egypt, when the chief passed on, he got to take all of his worldly possessions with him.  This included all of his women: wives, pleasure ladies and servants.  Here was the kicker: there were three ways to send them into the afterlife: clubbing them to death, stoning, or drowning.  The chief got to pick (obviously, he made his wishes known before he passed).  I dunno, this probably inspired some sort of womanly obedience in life, because let’s face it: nobody wants to be clubbed to death like a baby seal.  But I digress.

HAWAI’I:

We learned to hula and not just total crap tourist hula they show you on the beach.  This was nearly an hour demonstration, courtesy of the VIP package.  Consider this heavy-handed foreshadowing for later: I cannot dance.  The sole exception is tango, for some reason that dance clicks with my brain.  For every other dance, I look like a wounded hippo.  The hula was no exception.  All I can say was, I stood in the back and tried not to call attention to myself.  Of course, this would come back to haunt me.  Course it would.

TAHITI:

This was a favorite destination of mine because everything we did here involved food.  First, we learned to make coconut bread.  Excellent.  And then we learned about Poi.  Poi comes from Taro, which is an indigenous root.  It’s considered the Hawaiian potato.  It is bright purple in color and when you grind up the roots, you get poi.  Now poi gets a bad rap and deservedly so.  When you go to a luau, the Islanders think it’s a hoot to put a bunch of poi out.  It tastes like paste.  What they don’t tell you is if you mix it with something (I prefer pork), poi is actually pretty good because it will pick up the flavor of what you mix with it.  The Tahitians flavor poi with coconut milk, which makes it taste delicious.  

Mmm.  Poi.

TONGA:

Here I died and went to snark heaven the first time.  The main event in Tonga was a drum demonstration.  This required audience participation.  Now the Master of the Drums seen here in colorful feathers and in what I’m calling it a gut catcher (which I’m pretty sure is not the native name for it, but just look at it and tell me that its purpose isn’t to catch the gut), gets to pick three guys from the audience.

Master of the Drum Ceremony with Gut Catcher 

His choices are excellent.  You know how when you read a fairy tale, the set up is always the same? You have one beautiful princess, but she’s got a flaw, like maybe she’s not the most virtuous one, so you have the second beautiful princess, but the second princess has a flaw, not like she’s not the sharpest jewel in the crown, and then you have the third princess, who turns out to be the hottest of the three, the smartest of the three and the most virtuous of the three, aka the fairest of them all. This is what is was like here. 

The first drum beater is a shirtless guy from Seattle with long hair, white socks pulled up to his knees and he’s pushing a baby carriage.  Amazing.  The Master of Drum’s second choice is a kilt-wearing Alaskan (I knew he was from Alaska because he was on my tour bus.  Aren’t you jealous?)  This man has got an excellent sense of humor, you would need one to pull off the kilt and white chicken leg combination.   

The third pick is the stunner.  He’s a mild-mannered Japanese tourist.  And he’s wearing the world’s most b**ching fanny pack.  

Now, the Seattle guy goes first.  The Master of the Drums shows him a few uncomplicated beats.  This guy turns out to be a stud drummer and being from Seattle, it’s likely he’s a drummer in some grungy garage band.  Percussion-wise, he’s the most talented, so the Master of the Drums kicks it up a bit, but let’s remember, Seattle is like the first princess.  There’s a better princess coming.

Now here comes Baked Alaska.  Baked Alaska isn’t as rhythmically talented as Seattle, but he’s more daring (he’s wearing a flipping kilt) and clearly has a really good sense of humor.  The Master of the Drum finishes a routine by banging his head against the drum (shown here) and Baked Alaska follows the head bang.  The crowd goes wild.  But again, this is only fairy tale Princess number two.  Clearly, the best is yet to come.

Mild-mannered, fanny-pack sporting Japanese guy looks worried.  The Master of the Drum does a primal scream.  He looks expectantly over at the Tourist.  The Tourist gives a weak, nervous laugh into the mic.  Master of the Drum chides him accordingly and gives another primal scream.  Tourist leans into the mic, a determined look in his gleaming eyes, and he lets loose a yell from the depths of his belly that would make Howard Dean proud.  Crowd erupts into wild applause. 

But Master of the Drum isn’t quite done with this Tourist.  Master of the Drum begins to bang the drum and as he does, he twirls 360 degrees left without missing a beat.  Tourist follows and executes perfectly.  Master of the Drum twirls 360 right.  Now Tourist spins right, but he loses his balance and though I don’t have the right angle for it, I am almost certain that it’s his fanny pack is what knocks the drum loose.  It falls from the stand, begins to roll off the stage, Tourist goes running after it as does Master of the Drum, his face alarmed.  This is beyond hilarious, crowd is rolling because let’s face it: fanny packs are the devil and will get you into all sorts of trouble.  Clearly, this was Princess number three, the fairest of them all.  GAME.  SET.  MATCH. 

Drum Roll, Please (and note the fanny pack)

AOTEROA

Aoeteroa, or New Zealand to the rest of us, is home to the fierce warriors who stick their tongues out and scream a lot.  Even their women are fierce for these are the women of the poi balls.  Now poi balls are bags of poi on ropes that they swing around nun chuck style, only cooler. 

We watch a demonstration involving spears.  And then we get to throw them.  This is fun.  I discover that I am quite good at throwing spears.  I throw my spear even further than the retired cop in our tour.  I win.  I’m also about twenty years younger than the next youngest person in our tour, so it’s not much of a victory.  But given that I’m so accident prone, I’m just stoked I didn’t injury anybody. 

I am not so lucky with the poi ball demonstration.  We spread out in the field and Manny brings out poi balls and the girls in green.  They lead us through some simple poi ball technique.  At first, I’m pleased to realize I’m quite gifted at poi balls.  This is amazing!  But of course, pride goeth before a fall.  We do some move where you bring the left poi ball across the chest while swinging the right one over the head.  The next thing I know, I taste blood and have a fat lip.  Of course, this is not lost on Manny, who makes a snarky comment of some sort at my expense that I can’t hear.  Everyone laughs.  Okay, given that we were throwing spears before this, a fat lip isn’t too bad.  

Manny and the stupid poi balls....

SAMOA:

Our last stop is Samoa, Manny’s home island, and home of the Happy People.  Samoans are considered the Happy Island because in this culture, men do the hunting, gathering, and cooking.  Most excellent.  Here the men show us to make fire from coconut husks and then they shimmy up the trees to get the coconuts.  Everyone in the group takes a collective breath inward, but I suspect the ladies do so because the state of this man’s abs from shimmying up the tree are in a word: abtastic.  And he does all the cooking?  Sign me up.

CANOE PAGEANT:

Now before we head off to the luau and the night’s show, we watch a canoe pageant from the six islands.  I’ve never been a parade kind of girl, never liked watching them or marching in them  as a kid.  So I plop down expecting some boring, good-natured floats (literally floats, they come through on a waterway).

Float 1: Here comes the Ali’I, the royalty.  They look stern and regal.  Yawn.

Float 2: Enter the fierce Aoteroa.  Girls in green with poi balls do an absolutely jaw dropping display with poi balls while balancing on the floats.  This makes me feel worse about my stupid fat lip, but now I’m interested in the canoe pageant again.  There’s an element of danger.  

Float 3:  Fiji.  Their costumes are brown.  Sigh.  Their routine is sedate, they don’t even stand up on their barge.  There are no poi balls or other things to swing around. Sigh.  This is like the 4-H float.  Back to being bored.

Float 4: Tonga.  I dozed off.  What happened?

Float 5: Hawaii.  This is the prom queen float.  The most beautiful BYU girls get picked to be Hawaii, wear the sweet costumes, and move through a graceful hula.  Okay, I can get on board with this. Everyone loves the prom queen.

Float 6: Samoa, the happy people.  They do a happy dance.  Life is good in Samoa.  Until one of them loses their balance and plummets into the water.  Better still, this guy takes a while to fall and he almost takes the whole float with him because his unbalance causes the boat to nearly tip and he almost kicks one of the girls in the face.  The happy Samoans lose it, shaking silently with laughter, once the guy has surfaced and appears to be okay.  The routine is in shambles.  Snarky likes the canoe pageant again.

 (And into the water goes Samoa)

Float 7: Tahiti.  These girls aren’t the prom queens like Hawaii, but they have a different kind of appeal.  I will call this the wrex-n-effex appeal.  These girls are the rump shakers and as they gyrate through their routine, shaking it like they have something to prove, every guy in the crowd sits up straighter.  Good titillating times.  Good way to end the canoe pageant.

VIP LUAU:

Now here is where Manny sticks it to me in a big way.  He announces to our little group comprised of pasty mid-westerners, jovial Canadians, and retirees, that he needs a volunteer.  I’m no moron.  I keep my hand and eyes down.  So does everybody else.

Manny looks directly at me.  Now keep in mind, I’ve already taken some good-natured ribbing from Manny:

He has teased me for being by myself: “why you have no young man with you?  Why you no pick one from Samoa?  They cook you know.  I’m single.  I cook.”

This is fine, I’m used to being on tours by myself by this point and the Canadians from BC have more or less adopted me as a surrogate grand daughter.  I love old people. 

He has teased me at the coconut bread making activity: “you learn how to cook, Boston and maybe you get yourself a man.” 

Haha.  I think I cook just fine, but I let this slide.  I’m in good-natured, non-Snark mode.

Finally, he has teased me for hitting myself in the face with a poi ball (this was completely warranted). 

I’ve proven to be a good sport and he knows it.  So he says, “hey, Boston.  How bout you represent our happy Ohana (Ohana is Hawaiian for family).  You do us all proud and maybe we get called to dinner first.”  Everybody on the group is on board with this. 

I have a sinking feeling.  “What do I have to do?”

“You just have to dance the hula.  I saw you dance the hula.  You good, girl.  You shake a da, hips and we get to go first for dinner.”

Damn it, Tom Bombadil.  This is not cool.  I thought we were friends.

I don’t want to dance in front of a bunch of burned tourists.  I don’t want to let everyone in on what I already know: there is just no excuse for how poorly I dance, how rhythmically uncoordinated I am for a non-injured, healthy human being.  This is not one of those scenarios, where I’m like, oh I don’t want to do this, but secretly I do (that scenario is karaoke).  This is not that. 

But there’s no getting out of this.  I blush deeply red (and yes, my Sam Adams tour guide brethren, you know exactly what I’m talking about).  Even my ears are flaming red.  So I let myself be taken and dressed in Hawaiian accoutrements.  The gal in charge reminds me and the nine other suckers how to do the hula.  I look around.  There’s a child of ten, so I’m not the youngest this time.  Good times.  We’re a motley crew of people, some people are wearing fanny packs, others visors, most of the group is over forty and are bound to have arthritis or ailments of some sort which will make me look better. I’ll just smile a lot.  I will get through this.  I will never see any of these people again.  

We get called up on stage one by one and the lady of the house, the woman in charge, introduces each of us along with our bus number.  Then we have to dance for the Royal Family. 

Tough Crowd:

I don’t want to talk about it.  I just swivel my hips a lot and blush.  A lot.  Of the ten tables, we are called third.  I’m beaten by the 10 year old and a woman who was a spring chicken back when the civil war was fought.  Oh good.  

But, my happy Ohana seems pleased at getting to go third as opposed to last, which is where I expected to be.  And here’s where I redeem myself (but I guess this hinges on your concept of redemption).  Remember the Canadians who adopted me?  Well, these two couple are celebrating their 40^th anniversaries and life long friendships here in Hawaii.  They are so, so, so, so, so nice (essentially, they are Marmots.  Snark snark, inside joke).  Well the, uh, portliest one of them all (he’s got at least a hundred and fifty pounds on me) and an absolutely amazing handle bar mustache, leans over to me and says, “well, at least they’ll be making money off you on the buffet, because they won’t be making it off me, that’s for sure.”

What’s that supposed to mean?  Look, I’ve been on the butt end of all jokes today, and I’ve been a good sport, but now my pride has been seriously nicked.  There is one thing I do better than anyone in this whole Ohana and no, it’s not the hula.  Let’s revisit the source of pride and constant theme in my blogs: girl can eat.

And girl does eat.  Girl goes up four times to the buffet, including the dessert table twice.  Luaus are pretty exciting because of the Kalua Pig (so keep in mind, this is what danced for.  Pig being cooked in an underground oven).  

So here I am with my first plate of food.  Three plates later, I’ve got the respect of the burly man from BC.  I’m not sure, this is a good thing or not, being such a glutton, but the food was really good and it had been an awfully long day of fun activities. 

As you know, you cannot really appreciate the sweets of life without the sour.  There was a couple from New York on our bus and they were, well, New Yorkers (I’m sorry, Pete.  You’re my best friend and you know I love you, but you’ve got to admit, on the whole, the only people more obnoxious than Bostonians are New Yorkers).  I avoided them most of the day, particularly at the Canoe Pageant where the lady New Yorker narrated the entire pageant in nasally tones to someone on her cell phone.  So here comes the unexpected snark delight of the evening for me (this was even cooler than the guy falling in the water).  And I also want to point out that we were briefed on the bus about the lack of alcohol at a Mormon establishment, so this shouldn’t have come as a shocker to anyone who had been listening.

Male New Yorker signalling to our luau server: “Yeah, I’ll have a Mai Tai.”

Luau server: “I’m sorry, sir.  We don’t serve those here at the Polynesian Cultural Center.”  She’s trying to be subtle.  I admire this, but there’s no being subtle with New Yorkers.  This approach is doomed to fail.

Male Yorker: (rolls eyes and sighs loudly).  “I’ll just take a beer then.”

Luau server: (smile faltering) “I’m sorry, sir.  We don’t serve alcohol at the Polynesian Cultural Center.”

Lady New Yorker: “Honey, they’re Mormons (she says this as if they all have leprosy), no alcohol.  They don’t, uh, partake of that.”  She smiles condescendingly at all of us as if the Mormons are primitive bush folk with quaint, non-Western traditions.

Male New Yorker: “Are you kidding me?  You mean to tell me I can’t get a drink?  What kind of luau is this where you can’t get a goddamn drink?”

Luau server: (not without some irony).  “A traditional one, sir.”  (She smiles, oh so sweetly).  “But I’d be happy to get you a non-alcoholic smoothie.”

I exchange small, furtive smiles with the Canadians.  You just can’t take New Yorkers anywhere.  Every Ohana has one.

Now, don’t worry, it wasn’t all cold-hearted snark.  In fact, Snarky got a little misty when the Lady of the House invited all the couples celebrating their anniversaries to come up and dance on stage.  Here are my Canadians.  I’m not gonna lie, Snarky definitely got a warm and fuzzy feeling.    

Then it was time to waddle over to the show, where I ordered Pineapple Delight.  This made the BC’s guys eyes bug out.  But in my defense, Pineapple Delight is pineapple-flavored sorbet (okay, like 5 scoops worth of sorbet) and there’s mango, peach, and pineapple cut up in the bottom.  I’m not being a total glutton, this is a totally strategic move on my part.  I learned last year that fresh pineapple is a digestive aid and helps with stomach aches.  You know, just in case you ate four plates of food at the luau buffet or whatever.  And after eating it, I do feel better.

 

Snarky, post luau.  Note blog shirt.  That's right.

The show, the crowning jewel of the PCC, is Ha: the breath of life.  It’s outside in a stadium with fireworks and waterfalls and again, it highlights not only Hawaiian culture (there’s a really touching story of boy, boy grows to manhood, boy meets girl, boy becomes a man, man defends village from invaders, man loses father but has child of his own.  Very Lion King Circle of Life, but it’s not a bad message), but also the Hawaiian disregard for general liability laws and safety.  By this I mean, the fire dancing called the fire knife dancing portion of this show is nothing short of the coolest thing I have ever seen.  It goes on and on and there are men in skirts and they catch the skirts on fire, and set their feet on fire, put fire in their mouth, and twirl the fire sticks around, and then they throw the fire spears back and forth to each other.  

Look, it’s probably a whole lot less dangerous than it looks, but there is no disputing how freaking cool it is.  Also, at some point, there is a gaf because a guy misses catching the spear and someone, who isn’t in costume, runs out and stomps the flaming stick out.  So yes, accidents do happen.

But all snark aside, there’s something so incredibly cool about this.  This is something, I will never do.  And yes, there are lots of things I will never do, like go over Niagara Falls in a barrel, vote Democratic, sing the National Anthem at a sporting event, but there is something so inherently dangerous and primal about fire. It's mesmerizing.

After the show, we all head out to our bus.  Manny makes everyone clap for Baked Alaska (our brave kilt-wearing, drum guy from the drum demonstration) and me, the hula queen.  “Hey Boston, how come you no try to sneak a fire dancer home with you?  You got one of those on the bus with you?” 

Ha ha, Tom Bombadil.  Ha ha. 

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.