We Are Woven By Moments
My friend and I have been on Moloka’i for almost a week and have gotten used to the nonchalant interrogations. We are obvious strangers on this land and the locals want to know what we’re up to and when we’ll be leaving. Thought it’s known as the “Friendly Isle”, it’s not uncommon to see homemade signs telling us to go home. This place is beautiful and rural, and the locals want to keep it that way. They don’t know we come here with this understanding, but we understand that as well. We don’t take offense to the general difficulties and judgmental glances we encounter during our stay.
You won’t find a stop light on this island and the grocery stores aren’t open every day. We (not so regretfully) paid fifteen dollars for a bag of potato chips and laughed at a goat helping itself to a roadside fruit stand. Forage where you can, hunt and fish when you can. This is not a vacation location, but an adventure for those who embody humility and can be patient with a population that is leery of visitors.
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We pulled over to park in a muddy turnout, sure that we were at the right place, as it was pointed out to us each time we had passed it. Modest by urban standards, though luxurious to anyone who dreams of glamping on a private, tropical beach, we arrive at Uncle Lemana’s home. We were welcomed by a crew of dogs, a son, and a grandson, all of whom rushed us in to meet Uncle, as if they had been expecting us all morning.
We are brought over to a folding table with two blue chairs reminiscent of a 1980’s elementary school classroom. We wait patiently, not entirely sure why we are here or what to expect other than learning about his fishpond. We look out at the carefully stacked wall of black stones creating a pond within the water, which harbors small fish until they grow big enough to eat. I am not entirely sure how it works, but I think that’s what we might learn here.
Looking around the humble property with a million-dollar view, I see a porta-potty, cargo shipping container, various tarps and tent-like structures. Among them are dried palm frond visors, obviously woven by hand. I count eight dogs of assorted sizes, my favorite a brindle pit-bull mix with kind eyes that wants endless pets. I learn later that he had been hit by a car and was rehabilitated in this very fishpond and is now able to walk again.
A few minutes pass, and out of a part of the property I cannot see, here comes Uncle Lemana. Sun-darkened skin, aged white hair, adorned in a visor identical to those hanging under the shelter, wearing simply a traditional malo, or loincloth, Uncle is a presence to behold. He sits down opposite to us at the table and takes his time to make sure he can pronounce our names by repeating them over and over.
“Boy!” he yells to his grandson, ordering him to fetch him a massive palm frond. He removes a knife from its leather holster; it knows what’s coming next as it has done this countless times before. I watch him count five leaflets of the frond and cut it across the rachis. He splits it up the middle, oils his hands and begins softening the leaflets to make them workable.
Like every local on the island, he asks us where we came from and how long we plan to stay. It seems that everyone keeps tabs on the visitors and are quick to feel them out for their intentions for being there. He goes on to ask us what we do, and the walls start to soften as we instantly bond over our ocean relationships. A freediving instructor and a marine biologist sitting before him, we are here to ask him questions, to learn about the culture and his fishpond, what the diving is like beyond the endless, shallow reef; however, he is asking us questions now. He pauses often, I think to fully take in each bit of conversation and to give thoughtfulness to what comes next.
“You have a question,” he says to me, not asking me, but telling me. He caught me in a gaze. “When people look, there is something speaking in their mind.” He’s not wrong, but I have no question in my mind. I tell him that I am taking in the beauty. The water is angry and there are layers upon layers of clouds. There are so many dimensions of depth in the sky right now I am at a loss for words. “Ka. Say it. Ka.” We repeat after him, “ka?” Followed by, “ha-ha.” We repeat after him as he says now, “amazing.” Kahaha is the Hawaiian word for wonder, to wonder or to amaze. In this moment, this new word feels absolutely at home in me.
As we begin to learn more about each other, in a pause he says, “hoihoi… interesting,” and has us follow his words. “Hoi, hoi. When somebody goes, ‘look at that!’ Hoihoi! Interesting.” We begin to catch on to his dislocated style of listen and repeat and realize that we are in a Hawaiian language immersion lesson we weren’t expecting.
Time feels slow as I try to take in as much as I can, grasping at this new information though it is like water through my fingers. I desperately wish I had some paper so I can take notes, but I surrender to soaking up what I can. I watch as he weaves the leaves into a visor as we take turns exchanging questions and answers and I see this moment woven into the visor he is creating.
He sends us off with visors and little fish made from a single palm leaf, but not without requesting a selfie. He may be of the land, but he prefers a text over a phone call.
We leave Uncle Lemana with more curiosity and little more knowledge of the fishpond, but we were invited to return tomorrow when the water is high to swim in his fishpond to see what lives there. There will be more time to learn.
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Two days later, we sit at the tiny airport, waiting for our delayed flight when a familiar face walks in. There is Uncle Lemana, widely out of context, still wearing his malo, but with another layer of clothing, complete with his visor. We didn’t make it to see him or his fishpond yesterday since we were out on his brother’s boat. As if by fate, we got to exchange proper farewells.
“What’s the first thing you say to me when you text?” he asks, with only blank stares for answers. “I miss you!” He walks down the backlit hallway to receive the person he was picking up and turns to point us out to her. We all exchange a distant wave. We will be back as promised, and we do miss you, Uncle.
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