A Day with Kumu

I am often absorbed by minute details of day-to-day life and find such moments easy to write about. I often skip over big events when writing about my experiences, perhaps because I feel that I wouldn't do the moment justice, and so I'd prefer to let it fall into the past untouched, unrecorded, untainted by hindsight.

I am going to taint this experience. For the sake of preservation, I hope.

This past Tuesday, a rust-red moon took center-stage amongst a sea of stars, and I was lucky enough to join Kumu Mike Lee at the ahupua'a-- a pie slice of land with cultural significance-- that is supposed to become a stomping ground for Target shoppers any day now, to watch this miraculous event. Uncle Mike led a group of us all day up the volcano of Haleakala to do cultural practice. He taught us about the sacred waters and the limu-- a seaweed plant that absorbs angry spirits; he chanted, calling upon his ancestors, and played the nose flute in a cave along the mountainside; he showed us how the mist rolls in upon the ancestors' arrival.

And when a yelling, swearing bald man stumbled out of his tent at Haleakala National Park, shouting at him to "move your religious bullshit over there", Uncle Mike chanted some more, calling upon his ancestors to be with us, and he chanted until the man's shouting stopped, until he walked away. "This is my family's land," he said, "and if you don't like it, it's a beautiful world out there, take a walk."

As the battle between men came to an end, I felt a hotness come through me, from my center out to my cheeks, and it didn't stop until tears flowed down my face. My heart sank and floated at the same time, as this hopeless determination came over me. It wasn't about me at all, I knew this. And yet I felt so utterly connected to this timeless war: people against people, fighting for their own versions of peace.

We moved on. We felt the angry man's defeat and we moved on when we finished our lunch. And we continued on to the summit of Haleakala where we observed Hawaiian cultural practice from 10,000 feet high. On our way there, La'au and Kala, two of the young boys I look after some evenings, debated the tallest thing in Maui. "What's taller than Haleakala?" one asked. "A billion jillion ants stacked on top of each other," the other answered. "Ninety-eighty-five people standing on top of each other," the smallest laughed. What's taller than Haleakala? The twelve-story telescope that the government is building at one of the island's most sacred spots.

So Uncle Mike encouraged us to take pictures to document Hawaiian cultural practice. For it is no longer enough to put heart and soul into something-- to save what he loves, he has to prove it.

Uncle Mike, like countless other Hawaiians today, is willing to taint his experience. For the sake of preservation, he hopes.