Papahanaumoku

“OUR LAND HAS BEEN DECIMATED,” AKAMU SAID.

“Poisoned beyond repair,” Alika replied.

“No—not beyond repair.” Akamu turned from his grandson, gazed out toward his backyard and sighed into the depths of his spirit—into the Spirit in all things. Bird of paradise, hibiscus, and plumeria scented the air, yet he took no comfort in their perfume. He considered the makeshift stone wall, built by his own hands several years ago. No more than three feet in height, it ran the length of his property, yet he remembered only the anger he felt as he laid each stone in place. Beyond the wall, a road ran past his property, winding its way toward two of the towns on the island—Waimea and Kekaha.

Akamu recalled the Waimea valley of his youth. A sturdy man who toiled the soil of his ancestors, Akamu lived within a community where everyone worked hard, respected, and relied upon one another to survive. His ancestors were not only hunters but fishermen and farmers. Taro farming was prevalent in the valley then, and the farmers of taro would exchange their crops for fish caught that day. That way of living—of relying on another—seemed to be fading away.

His eyes peered beyond the road to the open-air testing fields of crops, which were sprayed all day, every day by unknown chemicals—chemicals that were beginning to have medical and environmental consequences, particularly for the children living within a few miles of the crops. He thought of the dust and the chemicals from those crop fields that now settled onto his land—the land of his grandfather. He could no longer sit on his porch and enjoy his land, nor would he allow his grandchildren’s children to play in front of his home. And, beyond the crops, he envisioned a clear path to the sandy beaches and the breathtaking ancestral waters of the Pacific.

Akamu looked to the sky. The sun was disappearing behind incoming clouds as the day slowly yielded to evening. He tilted his head to the sky, his nose to the air, and inhaled deeply. It will rain soon, he thought. Another storm runoff all da way to ka moana. He hobbled to the kitchen, pulling out a large envelope from a slat under the floor before returning to his living room.

“But the time to act is now, Alika. Take this. Hide it away from yourself, your friends, and your home. It is of utmost importance. You must see to it that no one finds these documents.” He handed his grandson a large manila folder held together by several pieces of twine. “I will contact you soon and tell you where you must take these documents.”

“What are they, grandfather?”

“Proof that our keikis’ lives are at stake. You must not allow The Company to know of your existence, for if they discover you, they will soon find the documents and destroy you… or anyone who gets in their way, for that matter.”

“I understand. Who will I give them to?” Alika asked.

“I cannot tell you now, but soon. Return to the valley on the mainland and keep the documents well hidden in your home until the time comes.”

“Papahanaumoku will be pleased, then.”

“Perhaps. Go now, out the back way. Let no one see you.”

Alika held the thick file in his hand—his thumb and index finger struggling to hold the weight of it. He believed it offered the beginning of freedom for his people from the tyranny of greed by the invasion of a capitalist culture. He shoved the file into his backpack and placed the pack on his shoulders, securing the straps tightly around his waist. Alika moved to the back of his grandfather’s house, peeking through the porch window, scanning the area. He gazed upon the land of his ancestors, taking it all in.

Could it be that we can repair our land, or is it too late?

He thought of Akamu and his land. A farmer, Akamu owned a small plot of about ten acres. On this land, his father’s father taught him the ohana way—the family way of living responsibly and with integrity within the community. He had watched as his father’s father provided enough produce for many in the area. As an adult, Akamu followed in his grandfather’s footsteps. He grew enough vegetables to feed not only his immediate family but his ohana family—neighbors who lived miles away, many of whom were now sick with various lung diseases. What produce was left, he delivered to a local food bank, using an old pickup truck with a sticky clutch.

Alika smiled at the honorable life his grandfather lived. It was that same ohana honor which drew Alika back to the island. But, tomorrow, he would leave the island under the menace of uncertainty.

With a solemn look upon his face, he turned to say goodbye to his grandfather only to realize Akamu had already retired to bed. Alika pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and placed a bandanna over his mouth, his eyes obscured by sunglasses. His body tense with foreboding, he headed through the porch door toward his car, which sat behind an old, dilapidated barn hidden beneath tangled underbrush.

As soon as Alika was out of sight, Akamu sat up on the edge of his bed and dialed a familiar number on the phone receiver.

“Hello.”

“He rides like the wind,” Akamu replied.

“Good, good. We are meeting in the next few days. He knows to keep them safe?”

“Yes.”

“They are originals?”

“Yes, they are replaced with copies.”

“Mahalo.”