Sketches of Overlooked America V.9
Kalihiwai Valley, HI
The upper terrace of Manoa Chang’s farm clings to the edge of a verdant mountainside. Rice paddies are etched into the land — a scene that wouldn’t be out of place in the highlands of the Philippines. Mr. Chang has worked these western uplands since he arrived in the valley. He migrated to the inland valley after the death of his wife at the age of 61. His children live in Wahiawa and Honolulu.
Outside, chickens roam in the yard, scraping the dirt in search of a stray grain of rice. On clear mornings he can see down the valley to the inverted wedge of ocean and sky that floats between the mountain walls. He can hear the Pacific in the winter when the swells come in from the Gulf of Alaska and the surf pounds against the reef. On most days the rain comes in the afternoon and beats against the metal roof of his home.
Mr. Chang’s ancient pickup truck is parked in front of the bungalow, the lower half of the white vehicle stained red by the oxidized soil. Inside Mr. Chang’s home are photos of his wife and children, most of which were taken in the 1980’s and 90’s, when they were still together. His children come and visit a few times a year, and he gets over to Oahu when he can. With the passage of time he’s more and more content to stay up in his valley and tend his rice. In a back bedroom of the bungalow are 17 guitars and 8 ukuleles. The oldest instrument is a Martin Uke, procured in his youth at the close of WWII. He is proficient at both instruments, his fingers calloused to the point of impenetrable numbness. He wears a ring with a penny-sized shard of jade embedded in gold.
A quarter mile down Halaulani Rd. is a large, sage-green plantation style home. It is the oldest structure in Kalihiwai Valley. The home belongs to Carl Stimpson. Mr. Stimpson is the grandson of Mallard Stimpson, sugarcane magnate and a minority partner in the C&H Sugar Co-op in the early 1900’s. The current Mr. Stimpson is tall and wraithlike, in failing health. The last surviving member of his family, he remains in the family home. His welfare is maintained by a cadre of medical staff who tend to his variety of needs. Against all medical advice, Mr. Stimpson remains in Kalihiwai Valley. A life-long bachelor with an extensive dating history, he can recite the name and age of the thirty-eight woman and the two men he has been romantically involved with. His nurse, who is on salary, is Sala Oladipo. Ms. Oladipo moved into Mr. Stimpson’s home four years ago. She sends a quarter of her income to her parents who are raising her three younger brothers in Sierra Leone. The valley and the sea invoke memories of home, and in her lonely moments she is buoyed up by that specter of nostalgia.
Ms. Oladipo is conflicted about the personal relationship she’s begun with Mr. Stimpson. While he has assured her of his desire for her to stay on in her dual role as caregiver and lover, she strains against the notion that the whole thing, the job, the pay, the sex, is improper. But the thought hasn’t ballooned into anything beyond tepid handwringing.
Emili Olsson is on the phone with her satellite internet provider. The promised download speed is nowhere near what was promised. On her computer screen is a half-loaded video of blackhead extractions. Emili is worth $17 million dollars. She has lived in the Kalihiwai Valley for a year. In 2012, she dropped out of law school and used the money earmarked for tuition to buy bitcoin. She sold in late 2017. Emili lives with her husband, Mack Van der Haar. Mr. Van der Haar is an artist whose portfolio is comprised of photorealistic oil renderings of famous compositions. His rendition of Goya’s Fight With Cudgels was described by the art critic from the Honolulu Star-Advertiser as the most disturbingly perfect copy of a masterpiece I’ve ever seen. Mr. Van der Haar’s studio is in the front room of the home he shares with Ms. Olsson. His easel is set facing the north window with a view of the Ka Loko falls. Leaning against the wall are eighteen canvases with abandoned portraits of Ms. Olsson. Despite his prodigious talent, he has yet to produce a likeness of his wife with which he is satisfied. The couple are expecting their first child in the winter.
Kalihiwai Valley is home to a population of 211 people according to the 2010 US Census. In the years since, many of the lifelong residents have either died or moved to the lowlands to inhabit elder-care facilities, or to live with family. The makeup of the valley now consists of immigrants from the mainland, or elsewhere. The relative isolation of the valley has driven most of the youth beyond its mountain walls to Lihue and Honolulu and Los Angeles.
Halaulani Rd. is the only named street in the valley. Beyond the Stimpson estate, the road runs from county maintained patchwork asphalt into compacted dirt. Next to the road is Ka Loko stream, whose headwaters are atop Mt. Waialeale. Several smaller waterways coalesce into the stream a mile and a half beyond the Chang rice farm. Outside the limits of Kalihiwai Valley, Ka Loko stream flows through several yards of enclosed lava tube, followed by three successive cisterns of water, the last of which is an extinct lava vent. The bottom has never been surveyed and is rumored to house carp the size of a small dolphin.
At the north end of the valley is the succinctly named Café. Café is the passion project of Marta Valencia and Swansea Winters. The two women met at a hostel in Champex-Lac in the late 90’s and have lived together since. Café serves the valley residents and the occasional tourist who finds their way upcountry at the behest of some alternative guidebook to Unknown Hawaii.
Inside Café, Ms. Valencia stands behind the counter filling the display with vegan pastries. Opposite her, Ms. Winters is loading cubes of butter into a six quart mixer along with a healthy splash of heavy cream. Outside the rain has moved in, the palms bending with the onshore wind. In a corner booth Martin Lalo prods the pineapple cubes that sit atop his acai bowl. Mr. Lalo has been seeing Ms. Valencia for two months, and makes the trip from Princeville up to the valley to see her in the mornings. Mr. Lalo works the concierge desk at the Princeville Westin between six and midnight. Mr. Lalo is a striking man, just over six feet with a Mediterranean complexion and blue eyes. He has worked in Princeville for eight years and met Ms. Valencia at the Saturday farmer’s market in Hanalei. The day after they met they hiked the Kalalau Trail under the cover of darkness and slept on Honopu Beach. The entire adventure was Ms. Valencia’s idea. Mr. Lalo has considered proposing marriage, but is unsure of nature of Ms. Valencia’s relationship with Ms. Winters. Ms. Valencia has been reluctant to put a name to it.
Gonzualo Martinez stands at the small rock promontory that extends from the mountainside over Kalihiwai Valley. He can see the chickens feeding in Mr. Chang’s yard and the roofline of Mr. Stimpson’s house. The rain has abated and Mr. Martinez has ascended the mud slick trail in hopes of watching the sun set beyond the shards of the Na Pali coast. The onshore breeze courses around the valley walls and climbs to strike Mr. Martinez under the chin, as though the earth itself was conjuring this breath of fecund, tropical air. Mr. Martinez is seventeen years old and has made occasional visits to the overlook for the past two years. At fifteen he lost his right arm below the elbow to a tiger shark. He suffers pain in his phantom limb and has been told the phenomenon is unlikely to abate.
The trade winds gust again. He can hear the cry of a seabird carrying on the air. To the west, the sky turns red, the mountains of northern Kauai darkening to a saw blade silhouette. A spatter of rain hits Mr. Martinez in the face, wrung by the sky from some passing cloud. He wipes the moisture with the sleeve of his biological arm and exhales.
