Traditional Games on The Sacred Isle: Moloka'i Makahiki

The Hawaiian islands are already in the middle of nowhere. Looking at them from somewhere else, as most dreamers do, they all jumble together. Where is Waikiki? Is Honolulu an island? Everybody lives on Hawai’i island, right? Which one do you live on again?

When you’re going somewhere to relax, unwind, and let go, perhaps your physical location plays second fiddle to your psychological location. But truth be told, every island in this archipelago is profoundly distinct. The kind of person who could thrive and prosper on one island might well deteriorate and implode on another.

After six years living and working on three islands, my education continues about the personalities of each island.

And yet, I had never met the oldest brother in the chain: The island least developed and visited, considering its imposing size; The island where the Hawaiian sovereignty movement is a genuine spiritual force in daily life; the island where a majority of residents can hunt, fish, and farm to subsist.

It is uplifting and counterintuitive that such an island hovers within sight of the two most developed islands in the chain, within a twenty-five minute airplane ride of one million people. Yet this place persists: Moloka’i.

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On January 28, 2011, I awoke before sunrise in the rolling uplands of central Moloka’i. “Ar—a-ar-a-arrr!!!!!!” crowed the roosters, as shards of dawn light pierced the eroded valleys of the majestic eastern mountains. I rustled awake, disoriented by the cool mountain air rushing through the house.

“Coffee is readah! Pancakes on the way!”.

I had a mission in Moloka’i. I had crossed the wind-whipped channel in the previous evening’s darkness with my colleague Kawika Casco and eleven of our precious Maui Prep Middle Schoolers. We had come to celebrate an ancient and hallowed tradition: Makahiki. Each year, since long before written Hawaiian history and the abrupt arrival of Captain Cook, Hawaiians gathered in the Moloka’i midlands to celebrate sport, culture, and tradition. On this 21^st century, Friday children and teachers from across the island chain gathered to continue the legacy. Kawika, Kumu Neil Thompson, and I led our entourage from Maui Prep to join these pan-Hawaiian “Olympics”.

We scarfed down pancakes, orange juice, and glorious local coffee. Our host, Sato Pico, had just returned from an all night fishing expedition. “We didn’t get so much this time,” he said. “Over a hundred pounds of Opakapaka. We sent it over to Oahu on the morning’s first plane.” Sato was tall, strong, and proud, holding himself with the understated pride of a Hawaiian ali’I. He, his wife, and three daughters had returned to the island of his childhood, and he had built his house by himself over four years. Sato was the epitome of a gracious host, as well as a Moloka’I man: capable, strong, hardworking.

He was also irrepressible. After a full night of fishing in the darkness with his friend, he launched into the day’s activies with panache. “I wake up early,” he said. “I’ve always been like that.”

The day’s mission was to meet at all our kids and the other schools at a cattle gate. We had been granted access to a private ranch where the Makahiki was staged hundreds of years ago. The land was just about in the geographic middle of the island, which held a special spiritual and cultural significance for the ancient people. (King Kamehameha once took his son to the center of Oahu for his rite of baptism).

The land was magnificent. Rolling mountain uplands provided a palette where the Hawaiian gods could experiment with every shade of green imaginable. Thunderous rivers plunged through ravines around the plateau. Dramatic views of the jagged west coast captivated us. Distant horizons of the southern ocean and Lana’i reminded us that Moloka’i is not alone.

The Kumus and Kupunas of Moloka’i led our caravan of 30 pickup trucks up dirt roads to the Makahiki grounds. I hopped into the back of a pickup with a Hawaiian crew, and ducked my head low to avoid gusting tradewinds, overhanging branches, and rain squalls.

We arrived on the high plateau, and the kids- a little nervous, a little cold, and excited- filed into line at the entrance to the grounds. Students and teachers beamed with pride. Kamehameha Schools from Oahu and Maui had come. Kanu School from the Big Island had come. Children from all corners of Moloka’i had come. And of course, my school, Maui Prep had come.

The protocol was powerful. Each group of kids stepped to the gate at the edge of the grounds. They chanted together to the presiding Kumu, to announce their arrival, to celebrate the land they had come from, and to request permission to enter. Each school carried an offering from the earth: Kalo, Breadfruit, Tarot-something. Our eighth grader Kamryn Pupunu held two wrapped offereings above his head as he entered.

One hundred children gathered on the grounds, and offered their gifts to the stones of the ancestors. These stones were the same used centuries ago, when early Hawaiians would leave here the umbilical cords of newborns as a sacred offering.

The kids huddled like Emperor Penguins in the Arctic. The tradewinds hurled rain sideways at all of us, and we held each other to stay warm and dry.

Then, it happened. The Kumu (Hawaiian spiritual teacher) asked all the kids to rise to their feet and sing, for blessings, for approval, for sunshine. Our chorus of voices rose together, and as we gathered strength, the rain began to subside. The stark grey morning clouds began to open. The colors of the land shifted from purple and black to orange and yellow. The temperature rose in seconds and rays of sun illuminated the childrens’ faces.

Chicken-skin. Let the games begin.