as 2018 draws to a close on December 31, 2018: Reds, Rocks, and Making Nishime

Wow.  What a time weʻve had.  Though in the minds of those not directly affected, life has likely more or less resumed as normal, for those of us up here in Keaʻau ma uka and those in Puna ma kai, life is different.  You know those contraction expansion noises iron roofs make as they cool and heat?  My roof sounds different these days, methinks because the house was shifted and tweaked during The Three Months of shaking.  Not an unreasonable idea.  And odd noises tend to startle...earthquake???  The aftereffects will continue till they donʻt...

And Hawaiʻi Volcanoes is partially closed because of djt.  At first one could drive and visit areas between the Entrance Station and Kīlauea Military Camp.  Not a lot of space in which to pack vehicles during the busiest week of the year.  People were parking all over, making a muddy mess of sodden shoulders.  Yesterday the road as far as Devastation Trail parking lot was opened (Chain of Craters remains closed), and so we walked to Keanakākoʻi in the rain this morning.  Quiet, mistyrains, and a pair of nēnē, skittishly alarmed at our presence, called and flew away just over the shrubland.  

And as kuʻuhoa hk remarked last week about the unexpected flash of color of red aerial roots of ʻōhiʻa in Kona ʻAkau, here too we appreciate the same.  The photo is junkly unfocused, but perhaps youʻll get the idea.

ʻŌhiʻa, if their root systems are damaged, sometimes send out aerials to supplement what was lost.  This one is near the intersection of the main highway and the park entrance.  Lit by morning sun, they are a seasonal surprise.  And not all such aerial displays turn red.  Trees in the area of Devastation Trail were partially buried by cinder during the 1959 eruption of Kīlauea Iki, and many of them have thrown out similar bunches of aerial roots, though I donʻt recall seeing them as red as this.

Speaking of red...The Post Office building in Pāhoa, built in 1969, has a fine example of cut pāhoehoe stonework.  Several buildings, especially in Hilo, when constructed in the 1960ʻs were faced with quarried slabs of pāhoehoe, but this is my favorite.  

Graffiti saddens, but the work is still spectacular.  Reds, oranges, yellows result from thermal oxidation caused by prolonged heating of minerals, mostly iron, in the lava.  All the colors of fountaining pele.

And not the smoothest of segues...

Gramma Rapozo was from Paʻauhau (or Pahau as we said it in those days).  She had lady friends of many different ethnicities in the plantation camp.  And she learned to cook the best foods.  A platter of cone (inari) sushi for meatless Good Friday dinner, meat jun, and my favorite, nishime.  Nishime is a Japanese vegetable stew, sometimes with chicken and/or pork, frequently served on New Years.  Iʻm sure that there are customary reasons why, but I make and eat it because you supposed to.  Gramma didnʻt really teach me how.  I suppose I was in the kitchen when she was prepping and cooking, and over the years I absorbed the "How to" part.  Main thing itʻs ʻono and friends are grateful for the sharing. 

Took couple hours (only get one hand, you know...).  Carrot, chicken, ginger, kombu, string beans, bamboo shoots, aburage, shiitake, button mushrooms (Stems and Pieces), hasu, konnyaku, araimo, gobo.  Add shoyu, sugar, and salt to taste.

At first when you start cooking, it kinda smells like dirt.  Very earthy.  Maybe because of all the root vegetables.  But give it awhile and it all comes together.

And everybodyʻs one is a little different, which is as it should be.  Put in the icebox, let flavors meld, and a day or two later...Enjoy.

And back to our ao lewa, the cloud floating above Kaluapele.  Cannot help.  This is a new favorite thing, this shot courtesy of friend KM.  Maunaloa clear, the dark diagonal of the 1880 flow on its right flank, that sliver of pale green Kapāpala Ranch pasture, and the newly exposed, endlessly fascinating wall of her lua.  Exposed dikes, thin layers, thick layers, grey and dark layers, reddish layers, openings of lava tubes, detached slabs that never fell all the way down...mesmerizing amazingness.

Previously I shared a photo of a breadcrust bomb.  Hereʻs a better one of the specimen that exploded out of the lua in 1790:

Dense interior, broken crusty exterior...Just a rock, but ohhhh the stories it can tell us, if we 

be outside...pay attention     noho i waho...a maliu

Who knew that 2018 wouldʻve turned out the way it did?  Iʻm happy that I survived relatively unscathed.  I pray for those facing challenges in the aftermath of the work of Pelehonuamea and her family.  Iʻm grateful for your many positive comments and my good fortune to have been able to share some of my observations with all of you.  I trust that itʻs all been worth it.

Till next year, as always, with aloha,

BobbyC
maniniowali@gmail.com

The Winter Solstice, Friday, December 21, 2018

Māuikiʻikiʻi o ka hoʻoilo... "Māui" is the trickster demigod who captured the sun, rather than Maui the island where said event took place.  Iz Kamakawiwoʻole sang all about it.  Kiʻikiʻi means to seize or ensnare, and hoʻoilo is winter.  

Iʻm happy that the sun will be turning back north today, bringing longer days and the warmth of summer.  Iʻll be walking, as I often do, to Keanakākoʻi this morning.  Though itʻs still dark outside, neighbor rooster crows while ʻōhiʻa branches and hāpuʻu fronds dripdripdrip.  The rains of the last few days have yet to abate, having started in earnest on Wednesday, when early in the morning I walked to Keanakakoʻi with new friend Janice who shared this stunner:

Trades were gusting up to 20mph, driving a chill fine mist across the lua, accounting for ānuenue, rainbows, seemingly placed in a clear sky.  The bank of rain-generators can be seen at right.  Because of the wind and the high level of humidity, our friend ao lewa, that cloud forming and floating above the abyss, was blown too toward Kaʻū.  All that action canʻt be seen or felt in the photo, just like photos of erupting and flowing pele can only leave Her heat, scent, and sounds to our imaginations.

Itʻs been remarkable.  The clarity of seeing.  The brightness of colors.  The "WOW" look at thats.  Itʻs been a long time coming.  As one who was, more often than not, outside paying attention, I am deeply appreciative for a multiplicity of opportunities to do that again.  While I canʻt backpack anymore or tramp through lavalands, I remember.  And the remembering is enhanced by clear skies and reminiscing with friends with memories better than my own.  

Iʻve spent untold hours sitting and watching.  On the sands at Maniniʻōwali or Halapē, or any number of other off-the-beaten-path (at least back then) places, seeing and contemplating was easy, undistracted as we were by cellphones and e-vices.

Now I have a favorite pōhaku on which to sit on the stone wall at Keanakākoʻi.  Itʻs the perfect height and has that tumbled smoothness we favor in ʻalā (waterworn rocks) found at the shore.  Perched there, feeling the winds and the warmth of the sun, watching various species of cloud come and go...itʻs all good.  And then if weʻre in the right place at the right time, and are paying attention, we hear their voices call out as they approach.  And with fingers fumbling for the correct buttons and swiping frantically:

Nēnē singlemindedly fly from their beds in the desert to their lawned feeding grounds.  And looking straight up, this speckled spectacle of a sky:

I just used the selfie button on the phone and pointed it up, rather than doing precarious backbends and contortions.  

And then these contortions:

These beds of lehu (ash) and pebbles, and gravels, and cobbles can be seen in the roadcut adjacent to the gate just past Keanakākoʻi.  They comprise part of the Keanakākoʻi tephra, those yards-thick beds of ash thrown out and scattered (lū) perhaps during unrecorded lūʻōniu between 1500 and 1800 AD or so.  The undulations at the bottom caught my fancy.  Maybe windblown ripples on now-compacted mini-dunes?

The top of the sequence of beds at the roadcut consists of loose unconsolidated rubble, that deposited during the paroxysms of 1790.  This chunk fell down the bank during one of our ʻōlaʻi.  According to Don Swanson, itʻs sort of a breadcrust bomb.  De-gassed and dense, it was molten when it was hurled skyward from its origin down in the conduit and slightly expanded as it depressurized.  Its broken edges are REALLY sharp.  May not seem like much, but itʻs an important clue to our geologic history.  And yes, the picture could be better...

OK then.  Off to walk in the swirling mists.  The pinks will have faded, but there will be other fascinations.

As always, with aloha,

BobbyC
maniniowali@gmail.com

Sunday, December 16, 2018, Honoring Hāmākua

Welina mai...here in ma uka-most Keaʻau, weʻve returned to chill breezygusty weathers.  The low winter sun shines, and the sky of blue fascinates.  As I repeat over and over, the clarity of the atmosphere continues to astonish, as I suppose it might after 35 years of mostly voggy skies there and sometimes here.  

Growing up in Honokaʻa, sweeping views of green cane fields and the blues of sky and ocean were indelibly imprinted.  When I visit now, I lament the plantings of eucalyptus and proliferation of ironwoods on former cane lands, and how they obscure seeing.  And yes, before the cane there were native forests, and they too obstructed clear views, and yes, plantations were problematic.  So often it seems that hindsight is better than 20/20.  That "They shouldʻve known, or seen what bad things were being done", or "Why didnʻt they understand...".  This mornings Hilo paper has an article about how "Modern Hawaii was built on human trafficking".  And my mind whirs, while I contemplate kuʻuhoa hkʻs comment that "An aspect of His blessing into our lives is the quieting of the whirring of our minds and the chaos of our lives".

My great-grandparents were from Madeira and the Azores.  In the 1880s, they were recruited to work on sugar plantations in the Kingdom of Hawaiʻi.  Seeking a better life, they ended up on the Island of Hawaiʻi, in the district of Hāmākua, and made lives for themselves and their descendants in the ahupuaʻa of Paʻauhau and Kalōpā.   Iʻm pretty sure they didnʻt think of themselves as victims of Human Trafficking.  Trying to untangle and decipher the Whys from the complexities of our histories seems a difficult task.  Certainly one I wonʻt tackle here.  Having grown up part of the plantation economy, life just was...  People worked hard, and maintained dignity, sometimes in the face of undignified behavior on the part of others.  Seems to me that declaring that human trafficking had a large part in our histories dismisses the sacrifices made by all.  Or something.  

I know that I may sound confused or perplexed, and thatʻs because I am sometimes.  But then I meet and get to know other products of Hāmākua and am impressed.

Noʻeau Peralto earned his PhD and was given his diploma yesterday on Oʻahu.  His dissertation is an impressive piece of work, and displays his devotion and dedication to family and to place.  A book will be forthcoming.

KOKOLO MAI KA MOLE UAUA O ʻĪ:

THE RESILIENCE & RESURGENCE OF ALOHA ʻĀINA IN HĀMĀKUA HIKINA, HAWAIʻI

A DISSERTATION SUBMITTED TO THE GRADUATE DIVISION OF THE UNIVERSITY OF HAWAIʻI AT MĀNOA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF

DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY IN

POLITICAL SCIENCE

AUGUST 2018

By

Leon Noʻeau Peralto

Noʻeau wears lei hala in a spectacular assembly of three colors and styles.  "Hala" signifies passing from one realm to another, in this case, graduating from school to oneʻs chosen profession.  Lei are made from keys (segments) of pandanus fruit.  Each fibrous key is cut, depending on the fancy of the maker, then strung, sometimes with pieces of lauaʻe, a maile-scented fern.  The white lei is made of immature fruit, while the yellow and red-orange are color variants, the very rare red-orange is seen below.

And again, to clarify, as I have in previous blogs:  the Hāmākua being discussed is a district on the northeast coast of the Island of Hawaiʻi.  These days "the Hāmākua Coast", according to those unfamiliar with our geography, apparently extends from the Wailuku River in Hilo to the valley of Waipiʻo.  This is not so.  

Driving up the coast from Hilo, one is in the Hilo district, traditionally, Hilo Palikū (Hilo of the upright cliffs).  Hāmākua is not reached until past ʻŌʻōkala, a boundary being Kaʻula gulch.

And somewhat of a random note:  Also in todays paper, an obituary for Mrs. Rosalia Agliam, 89, said that she worked as a "cover seed field laborer".  This is another reference to our  plantation history.  "Cover seed" was backbreaking work.  A hoe was used to cover with dirt segments of cane stalk (seed) laid in furrows during the cane planting process.

Of course the sugar industry is gone from Hawaiʻi Nei.  Whether you think it was good or bad, or are indifferent, sugar was a huge influence in making Hawaiʻi what it is today.  It shaped our landscapes, and created our multicultural mix of residents.  Native Hawaiians were often overlooked and were outsiders to the process, but many cling tenaciously to their belief in aloha ʻāina; their love of the land they cherish.

Iʻll close on that note.

As always, with aloha,

BobbyC
maniniowali@gmail.com

Friday, December 14, 2018. A Report from HVO, etc.

Welina mai, greetings, all, from the chillblustery heights of Keaʻau.  Though the sun has not yet turned, we are in the throes of winter.  Not my favorite time of year.  Perhaps I have a touch of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD).  Long shadows, shorter days, jacket temperatures, all make for the increased importance of endorphin-loading walks.  But what you going do?  No sense grumble.  

And that last sentiment seems particularly apropos now, after our (fill in your choice of adjectives) experiences of summer last.  As a reminder, here is a Hot-Off-The-Press report from the staff at the Hawaiian Volcano Observatory.  

My favorite sentence is:

"The initiation mechanism for the extraordinary 2018 LERZ eruption and summit collapse remains enigmatic."

Though many of us ask "Why?", the answer is "Weʻre not sure".  Similar to the "Because I said so" response to a whiny child...

HVO Summary Report, Science Magazine, 121018

We read, we learn, we mull, we share.  

And some of us track the arc of risingsettings, just in case we forget When are we???

I have a Post-It on my wall near the top of the stairs to the loft, so I know how long to Solstice.  Shadows cast on the wall by the rising sun are a good gauge.  And on my porch railing I drew lines indicating rising positions of our solar heater so I can keep track.

But in the end, itʻs always best to (in unison, now...)

be outside...pay attention    noho i waho...a maliu

When do I need to be at Keanakākoʻi so I might enjoy the view of earlymorning light pinking Maunaloa?  The M1 Cam in the tower at HVO provides a similar view as above.  Relying too much on notes, alarms, reminders serves only to diminish our connections with Nature.  And mayhaps reminds us that weʻre too busy.  After 30+ years in my home, I know what season weʻre in:  Complex angles of lightshadow throughout the day tell me;  The bloomings of favorite plants tell me;  The temperature of the air and the qualities of winds tell me.  

OK?  Headed down the hill again to errand.  The Report will make for good weekend browsing.  And Iʻll be here again, attempting to check off topics and notes in my Composition Book.

As always, with aloha,

BobbyC
maniniowali@gmail.com

December 2, 2018, Sunday Topical Topics

Yes, Iʻm still here.  The lack of urgency has obviously deleteriously affected our relationship.  At least in my view.  When we were in the midst of The Three Months, not being able to sleep, wanting to share timely news, and needing something of a distraction, all conspired and inspired me to Get Up and Write!  It seems now that TTM were all a dream.  

Until.  Until you visit Kaluapele and see what was wrought.  Until you try go Puna ma kai and see, and understand that many roadblocks, figuratively and literally, exist.  And yes, I keep saying that Yes, Iʻll try be more on a schedule.  And then the quotidian things in life happen, I get distracted, and here we are.

Iʻm hoping that the really interested among you have Followed or Subscribed, so youʻll receive notifications of new postings.  There are all sorts of Topics (thanks, La-Rain) topically banging around in my head, and given my new attention to my inattentiveness, misinterpretations and distractiveness, my trusty black and white Composition Book gets written in daily.  Reminders and cues and ideas abound.  Then the Where Do I Begin arises.

Oh.  And by the way...after 100+ posts, I canʻt remember what-all Iʻve written.  So please, I ask forbearance.  If I repeat something, repost a photo or graphic, perhaps thatʻll make the information a little more paʻa (stuck) in your memories.

Off to the races:

The clarity of vog-less sky still surprises and astounds.  Iʻve likely said before that I almost get tired of seeing.  Our perspective and scale of seeing things afar is apparently as it was in the 70ʻs.  Not that I remember remarking then on the clear blues of sky and sea, or the many other unmuted colors of vegetation and lavalands and mountain heights, and....everything.  But the headswivelling, pull over on the shoulder, not to cell talktext, but to see, has been a fairly regular thing.  I remember the views.  Haleakalā from Laupāhoehoe as I drive toward Honokaʻa.  And if not there, then certainly when you round the bend Honokaʻa-side of Paʻauilo, there she stands.  And if itʻs really clear, Kaʻuiki at Hāna might be sighted too.  Like those kamaʻāina of the uplands in Kona ʻAkau who revel in the seeing of Kahoʻolawe, West Maui, Molokaʻi, Lānaʻi, and yes, even Oʻahu on crystalline-skied days, seeing is sometimes an amazement.  Iʻve been lucky too in Kona ʻAkau, startled by the redness of Kahoʻolawe.  You canʻt quite believe what youʻre seeing.

These leiʻohu adorning our mauna are quite believable, having something to do with temperature inversion layers and humidities, but I love just seeing.

Maunakea, quite green from recent rains, with more moving in from the east (left)... And yes, a bit of snow on the heights in the crater toward the right.

And Hualālai, though the day was overcast, the silhouette of the mountain vogfree...

And then, the faintest of ʻanuenue pālua, double rainbows in the ua kūnihi off ʻŌʻōkala in our North Hilo District.  Ua = rain, and Kūnihi = steep or precipitous, as the faces of rain falling in squalls offshore.  I think I said before, when I was small and saw ua kūnihi from our home in Honokaʻa, I thought that the clouds were sucking up water from the ocean.  Who knew???

 And at Kaluapele, ao pālua sit side-by-side over the pit, and under the cirrused winter sky.  ComeLook!

Then this from friend Moniz, wow...on the way to Keanakākoʻi.

And since weʻre at Kaluapele, hereʻs something to contemplate.  

Kīlauea Military Camp:

The image above is from Bing.  From Crater Rim Drive to the rim is about 350 feet.  Or so.

The big building at the top of the half-circle drive is Headquarters.  Above that (with the bed symbol) is the Mess Hall / Cafeteria, and above that is the Rec Room / ʻŌhiʻa Room.  Those whoʻve had the opportunity to visit or stay at this recreation area may recognize it.

I was struck by something a couple weeks ago.  Driving through the Camp, I didnʻt see any signs of damage because of TTM.  No orange fencing, no yellow flagging tape, no Warning!
Keep Out signs, nothing.  So I started asking around, puzzled that after 62 lūʻōniu (collapse explosions) and tens of thousands other ʻōlaʻi, and in places 1,000+ foot collapse of the floor of Kaluapele, there didnʻt appear to be any damage.

The three buildings mentioned above date from 1916 (Nineteen Sixteen).  One hundred two years ago.  They are single-wall construction on post-and-pier foundations.  Nothing fancy.  Other buildings date from the 20ʻs and 30ʻs, variously constructed, some with cement foundations, some with stone walls, some on stone posts, all single-wall.  No rigorous building codes to Ensure Our Safety back then.  Just really good quality wood, construction techniques, and hand-hammered old-fashioned nails.  The catchment water system also survived completely intact.  The three greenish circles near the top of the camp are the tops of steel water tanks.  You can see them from the main highway.  Each hold 50,000 gallons or more.  All were and are fine.  

Damage?  Maybe $75k in broken liquor bottles and other fall-off-the-shelf casualties at the store.  Maybe a crack in the masonry of one of the stone cabins.  Thatʻs it.  The crack was noted, but maybe it was there before TTM.

I have to wonder:  Why all our detailed, rigorous building codes?  Who are they for?  Us?  Or Engineers, Architects, Contractors, purveyors of building supplies?  What if we took a step back and built with integrity and care and simplicity?  Look at the old plantation houses throughout Hawaiʻi nei.  Still standing after many many decades.  Last I checked, a great-grandfathers house was still standing in Paʻauhau.  Hurricanes, big wind, earthquakes, torrential downpours... still the buildings stand.

Time to write new-old codes or guidelines.  Small houses, clean, tidy, nothing fancy.  No need marble and granite (carbon footprints anyone?).  Wood or plywood.  Post-and-pier.  Hand-hammered nails, good quality iron roof, wood framed windows.  Affordable.  Nuff.

OK, then.  Iʻll wrap up for now...

Till next time, as always, with aloha,

BobbyC

maniniowali@gmail.com