Hawaii's Forgotten 9

documentary national geographic Remaining on a vast rock with the falls behind him and yelling to be listened, Pilipo cleared up a fantastic cartographic misconception. "This spot is called Moaula Falls on all the maps," he said, "however that is an error. The outside mapmakers failed to understand the situation. In Hawaiian, moa signifies "chicken" and ula signifies "red," however "red chicken falls" has neither rhyme nor reason. There are no red chickens here! Rather, the genuine name is Mo'o'ula Falls, named after the red reptile god, Mo'o, who monitors them."

At that point Pilipo depicted how the Hawaiians would get ready for a swim by hurling in a painstakingly arranged group of ti leaves and watching it intently. In the event that it glided around and washed out of the lake, it was sheltered to swim. In the event that it sank, the lord of the pool was disappointed and swimming could be risky.

"The god lives in that give in," Pilipo said, indicating a dim gap in the side of the precipice. "Anybody administer to a swim?"

Amazingly, two courageous souls shed their shirts and hopped into the cool, dim water, taking a risk. In any case, no monster red reptile seemed to pursue them out.

Too early we were heading down the valley toward Pilipo's property and his recently planted taro fields, where we had started our trek. As we followed our progressions through the wilderness, I got the sound of helicopters floating overhead. These were visitors from close-by Maui, coming to see the popular valley and "red chicken falls."

It probably been a delightful sight from above, I thought. In any case, they were seeing it from an expel, and they were seeing just the surface- - a rich cover of foliage between towering precipices, and a dynamite waterfall falling down. They couldn't hear the thunder of the water, feel the fog on their countenances, or feel the nearness of the red reptile as he watched his fortune. Neither might they be able to see the old destroys and feel the heaviness of hundreds of years of convention and knowledge.

They paid significantly more than we, probably, yet they got a mess less.

On the drive back to Kaunakakai, we bypassed to Bill Kapuni's home to take him up on a prior welcome. Since unpleasant water and solid winds kept on making plunging unimaginable, Bill had welcomed us over to take a gander at his work. He turned out his front entryway when we pulled up.

Here's the thing about Bill Kapuni: He's a goliath of a man, greater than life, similar to a Hawaiian of legend, such as King Kamehameha himself or the considerable Duke Kahanamoku. At the point when Bill Kapuni strolls into a scene, everyone's eyes are on him. However, in the meantime, he's delicate, calm, and self-destroying. He talks gradually and intentionally.

"Pehea oi," he blasted from the patio. How are you?

Pilipo poked me and whispered, "Say 'Maikai no'."

"Maikai no," I rehashed. I'm fine.

Bill flashed a goliath grin. "You speak Hawaiian now, eh?"