But the days of the new monarchy were numbered.
Missionaries founded several Hilo churches in the 1820s; abandoning their parent’s inspirations to spread Christianity, the children of the first Hawaiian missionaries chose rather to profit from the vast new opportunities. They took over politics and commerce, buying land at a torrid pace. Non-natives soon owned most property and began developing it for a powerful crop to be cultivated by new immigrants.
Sugar had a slow start but exploded in the late 1880s, with the influx of European heavy fertilization and other agricultural techniques. Native Hawaiians were largely excluded from the industry, which was serviced by successive waves of workers from China, Portugal, Japan, Puerto Rico, Korea, and the Philippines; their descendants now form the amazing diversity in Hilo and the rest of the islands.
The growing power of agri-business culminated in the overthrow of the Hawaiian monarchy in 1893. The “Big Five” planters (including Sanford Dole who later formed Dole Pineapple and became governor) aided by U.S. Marines, forced the surrender of Queen Liluokalani. The Islands were annexed and in 1900 became a U.S. territory geared to favor agricultural interests with little regard for conservation of natural or cultural resources. Hilo grew steadily as a trading center as the sugar boom peaked in the late 1920s; soon, a more lasting industry took off.
Tourism began in the early 20th century, first by boat and later by air. A steamship trip took 4½ days from San Francisco and brought increasing numbers of rich Americans. The era of modern tourism began in 1936 once visitors could fly to Hawai’i from California in just under a day. World War II dealt a blow to tourism in Hilo, as martial law was declared throughout the islands, but by 1959, the year Hawai’i became the 50th U.S. state, commercial jets were arriving with hundreds of thousands of tourists. Fueled by rich Japanese visitors, tourism flourished in the 1980’s with several millions of visitors per year. By the time I arrived, tourism was leveling off or even declining, a trend exacerbated by the tragic events of September 11, 2001. While Hilo isn’t built on resorts, these losses, and the utter collapse of the sugar industry, hit hard. But recent economic challenges are just the latest facing this quiet town.
The ocean has brought other, more sudden, hardships. Guided into the town by funnel-shaped Hilo Bay, powerful 20th century tsunami overwhelmed a meager breakwater constructed after earlier destructive events. A 35-foot wall of water caused by a powerful Alaskan earthquake slammed into Hilo in 1946, killing over 150 people. She was rebuilt following the devastation with an influx of American investments ahead of imminent Hawaiian state-hood. An early warning system was developed, but people ignored the blaring sirens in May of 1960 as another large tsunami, this one triggered by a massive quake off Chile, hit Hilo killing more than fifty. Following this tragedy, immediate waterfront areas were not redeveloped but rather transformed into a series of beautiful memorials and parks.
Much of Hawaiian history before and after western contact includes the conflicts of greed and war that define of our species. But in many regards, Hawaiian culture respected and revered its intertwined destiny with the natural world, especially the mighty ocean. Strict laws (or ‘kapu’) traditionally forbade over-fishing, and relatively advanced conservation and harvesting practices, such as restricted fishing seasons, were employed. Slash-and-burn deforestation did traditionally occur in some areas, but cultivation of plants was a highly advanced and central aspect of life for many ancient Hawaiians. It is the lack of such recognition, rooted in a profound connection between the labor of providing one’s own sustenance and the land or sea itself, which allows “advanced” civilization to continue blindly poisoning and plundering the very resources upon which we depend.
In Hawai’i, I was searching for direction without realizing it – drifting, devoid of coherent guiding principles other than faith and a growing but general, environmental purpose. I didn’t expect a recalibration of my path. There were inevitable growing pains, including decisions that would irrevocably alter my relationship with Elizabeth. Central to my personal awakening was experiencing the oceans’ beauty and, consequently, an outside appreciation of the intertwined Hawaiian history, culture and nature. Through various fortunate and seemingly unconnected events, I began to relate the sea deeply and inexplicably.
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The day we had arrived in Hawai’i, our local hosts invited us and the other exchange students to a traditional lua’u on Coconut Island, one of the reconstructed parks along the sea walk near downtown Hilo. It alternated rain and dripping sunshine as we dropped down from the campus to the water. The sweet, tropical aroma of flowers and fruit drenched the air, as heavily as the intermittent showers. Perhaps more than any other characteristic of above-water Hawai’i, intense fragrances are the most enchanting and visceral.
The van wound down Banyan Drive, a famous waterfront passage lined with broad-reaching trees planted by celebrities ranging from Babe Ruth to Amelia Aerhart and Franklin Roosevelt. The banyans were proud sentries, standing boldly as a reminder that they could withstand a mighty rush of water whereas buildings could not. Lining the bay that has brought both prosperity and hardship to Hilo, these trees, with their interlaced sinews, symbolized the resilience and diversity of its people.
A footbridge led to tiny Coconut Island. We arrived an hour before sunset as streaks of orange-red bent across the gentle sky as if beamed from the pinnacle of Mauna Kea. Deep cuts in her flanks were evident to the north, where wind and water had eroded lush valleys in relatively old rock of this dormant side of the shield volcano; we forgot the comfortable sense of the sunset as soon as they began serving food.
I had eaten tropical fruit before, but the freshness of the pineapples, passion fruit, mangoes, and breadfruit was remarkable. They served fresh guava juice, fat little popoulu bananas that reminded me of Cuban plantains, and juicy pentamorous, pear-tasting gems called star fruit. A teenage boy sliced fresh coconuts with a huge machete. Each was served with a straw so you could drink the milk through a small hole before the husk was peeled away and the nut crushed for the decadent meat. When the bonfire glinted in his blade rather than the red glare of the sunset we ran out of coconuts, but someone simply knocked a few out of a nearby tree. As much as I enjoyed the fruits, the various starch dishes (poi, sticky white rice, and salted sweet potatoes) were not to my taste. But I noticed that our hosts took copious quantities of these and loaded them up with gravy, so I took a little more of each.
I needed no such excuses when it came to the meat. They had roasted an entire pig in the ground, wrapped in banana leaves and cooked for a day until the meat fell from the bone into the dipping sauce of melted fat and sea salt. I’ve always been partial to pulled pork, but this buried swine took the cake. It was one of the most tender and memorable forms of barbequed meat I have ever eaten, which is saying a lot given the considerable exposure I have had in west Texas, Memphis, Kansas City, and Carolina.
Almost nothing could have topped that carnivorous experience, but the tastes of the sea gave it a run. There were a dozen different seafood dishes – boiled octopus, blackened grouper, raw silver perch from the lee side, and piles of little reef fish fried whole and stacked like thickly salted potato chips. But the highlight of the evening came at sunset.
Two native Hawaiians pulled their boat onto the sand and carried a cooler over to the fish table. They lifted two bonito tuna, each about three feet long, onto a long wooden board. They clipped the gills and let the blood drain into a glass bowl with soy sauce, sake, and wasabi paste. They masterfully removed the dorsal fins with long, narrow cuts. The impossibly tender, rich red sashimi was served as silver-dollar-sized morsels with the sauce, more wasabi, gari, and fresh pineapple.
I have never enjoyed such a fresh and delicious blending of tastes and textures. It was a remarkable introduction to Hilo Bay and Hawaiian culture, and a harbinger of remarkable things to come.
~~~
I did actually attend classes while in Hilo as an exchange student.
