Travel Journal:

Big Island, Hawaii - Big Island, Big Aloha, Big Surprises


Big Island, Big Aloha, Big Surprises 2/25/06
 

The Big Island of Hawaii, otherwise known as Hawaii, features the southern most point of the United States, the most isolated location from other land masses in the world, and a laundry list of bizarre surprises. Green sand beaches, lava flows accessible by foot, wild donkeys, purple trees, ancient tribal artifacts and remains, and hitchhiking that is totally socially acceptable are just a few of the things that make the island feel a bit more like Narnia than the 50th state of the U.S. I’d previously described the other islands as a cleaner version of Mexico but this particular rock deserves a slightly more unrealistic persona.


Our tour of the island started in Kailua Kona, the pineapple-surfer-happy tourist trap graced with the presence of not one, but two giant cruise ships nearly every day. Sure it has its charms: the make-your-own-roll sushi restaurant just off of Ali’i Drive, a popular beach called Magic Sands that actually has sand only half of the time, and for the stick-to-the-familiar traveler type, a Borders Bookstore, Walmart, and two Starbucks. On the other hand, a hazy smokescreen of Vog – volcanic fog – and some serious traffic made Kona feel a little to much like L.A. to inspire bunkering down for the week. So we took our sushi and ran like wild horses in our perfectly cliché mustang convertible to the next destination.

The drive from Kona to Waip’io Valley, situated two hours north, is visually about the furthest thing from postcard tourism. The scenery throughout the drive manages to mosey through barren lava fields, cow-spotted ranching land, and a series of roadside caves in a mere 70 miles. We actually began to wonder a bit whether we’d been cheated of the luscious flora we’d stereotypically envisioned….until the giant green V of Waip’io Valley suddenly splayed out at the end of the road with the pizzazz of a true tropical fantasy.

Sheer green cliffs interrupted with slivers of careening waterfalls run perpendicular to a flat valley bottom doused in taro patches, palm trees, occasional houses, and unmoving pools of fresh water. A shallow stream pebbled with lava rocks and mountain residue runs from the unseen folds of Waip’io Valley’s deepest valleys through its attempts at roads to an inky black sand beach squeezed wet by rowdy waves. The lack of easy public access keeps the pace and flow of incoming visitors to a lull; besides the horses and residents randomly milling through the greens, you’re there with not many else. A note about the access; really, truly, don’t try to drive your car down the mile-long steep grade leading from the valley lookout to the actual valley. Many a supercilious SUV have been gutted by this ridiculously surly road. Instead, do as the Romans did and walk or hitch with beater trucks. I repeat, beater trucks; the just-off-the-conveyor belt cars are usually driven by tourists who won’t have read this warning.

I spent the night in a cheesy romance film. The full moon lit its set silver; it was reductive black burnished with elusive white caps and the committed streams of waterfalls. Mist shrouded everything between the sky and me, and for a while, gazelle-like white birds materialized from the sea and flew in pairs back through the dissolving sky. The stars drowned out their backdrop and the inky black beach grew strange patterns that shimmied to passing clouds. It sounds corny because that’s really how it was. To top things off, it was Valentine’s Day. The cynicists and I go “yuck.” But there you have it; this place was bucolic magic, visual amore, nature at the peak of its career. I felt like I was binging on the richest and sappiest and completely at ease doing so.








 
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