It's our good fortune that demi-god Maui lassoed the sun and extended the daylight hours in the islands, but it was Saturday when the sunrise awakened me at 5:57 a.m. I might have been annoyed by the uninvited rousing were it not such a special day.
Having recently unpacked our belongings after two years in storage, we found so much we no longer need or want. Since we aren’t allowed to have garage sales in my neighborhood, a friend generously offered her Haiku home to host our surfeit of discards.
I hustled, determined to meet the 7 a.m. departure deadline. In the middle of loading potential proceeds into the back of the truck, the phone rang. I grabbed for the annoyance and lost balance of the box which landed on my sandal-exposed toe.
"Aloha!"
"Don’t hurry. It’s wet here. We have to wait."
"Now you tell me." I took a swig of coffee.
"You know the way, yeah? You go past Pa`ia, turn right at the Haiku community center - just at the recycling bins."
"Um-hm. Ow."
"Turn, then go up, up. No turn, no nothing. Just up. You pass Catholic Church, old cannery and just keep straight on. Turn by blue house, yeah? Oh! Nev’ah mind. Sun came now. Hurry."
I’d never been to Haiku, but I’d heard everything grows wild there. Situated on the northeast slope of Haleakala, the rains and winds visit the community with regularity. Orchids grow spontaneously by the roadside. One local writer suggested Haiku residents buy WD-40 by the barrel - since everything rusts.
Along the road to Hana, Haiku sings.
Verdant, luscious, wet, wet, wet..
We shoved a few more boxes of outdated clothing into the truck. Fortunately, one man’s discard is another man’s "I‘ve-been-looking-everywhere-for-this!" especially in Maui. Fashion here is ridiculously oblivious to the mode, and recycling is a time-honored necessity, making garage sales exceedingly successful, qualifying as community service events.
"How much you think we’ll get?" one boy speculated.
"Hey, the swell’s up!" said the other. "Check it out!"
Distractions like this cause accidents around Launiapoki, where a cadre of surfers can always be spotted enjoying the waves.
"Naw, that’s no bigger ‘n 3-5."
"Still looks fun!" the younger insisted.
"You can see clean through the valley today!" he said, point out yet another infamous distraction.
‘Round the point headed toward the pali (cliffs) we took note of the unusual clarity in the notoriously rainy West Maui mountains. Instead of the typical layers of clouds blocking views down the mountain corridors, wisps of steam rose from deepest gullies like panicked smoke signals.
Haleakala wore a unique cloak as well. Where clouds usually settle around 4,000 ft. rising upward, today the they swooped down touching the sea and casting a mysterious veil over south Maui.
"Ooh, Wailea tourists must be loco now! No sun on da uddah side."
"Wailea‘s too hot, anyway. They should be happy they won’t turn into shah bait," the boys chuckled, practicing their best haole pidgin.
"Cane fire!"
We had just started down the long stretch of flat, open highway, the singular route in Maui that you can safely drive 60 m.p.h. when we spotted the long ribbon of white smoke traversing the valley and out to the sea from the isthmus.
"Can’t believe they still do that."
"I hear it’s the best way to get the cane."
"Why’d they close the sugar mill in Lahaina?"
"Stinks too much for tourists."
Indeed, the air in the valley was ripe with the scent of charred marshmallows.
Soon enough we entered the charming town of Pa`ia, complete with traffic lights, schotzke shops and a tourist-induced traffic jam.
"All the hippies live here, yeah?"
"Why do all these people like this hippie tie-dye trash?"
"Hey, let’s stop at Charley’s on the way back, yeah?"
"Sure thing. If it’s good enough for Willie (Nelson) it’s good enough for me."
Haiku - 10 miles.
The scenery changed abruptly as the road began it’s infamous snaking and heaving outside of Pa`ia.
"Oh, no! We aren’t going to Hana, are we?" the boys said, fearing the stomach churning drive.
"No worries. We turn at Haiku."
Up, up, up, no turning. Past the Church, the cannery and five more miles past the Memorial Park. Our ears popped, and the landscape exploded with beautiful growing things everywhere we looked.
Shoppers were already digging through the bins. Commerce was brisk. I promised a massage therapist I’d return tomorrow with more king-sized sheets, appreciative of her need on an island that only sells queen and cal king. We worked out a barter - - sheets for a massage -- the deal of the day.
After that, I watched with consternation as my hard-earned personal goods flew off the shelf for a buck or two.
"Think we should charge more?" I ventured.
"You pau now. Bettah go," my friend said, dismissing me.
With a laundry list of errands the length of a longboard, I was not entirely heartbroken.
It was lunchtime but regardless I had to stop at the yet-to-be-explored Haiku Marketplace before heading to Kahului, suspecting they'd have some of the things on my list.
Inside True Value I stuck pay dirt. I only needed a watering can and storage boxes, but who’d have ever expected I’d find an antique Japanese screen ? For $1,500 an old grand piano would be mine, broken soundboard and all. As for that antique carved Thai carriage and driver, it wasn’t yet for sale. I asked to be notified when the restorations were finished. The owner, apparently, is both a collector and handy man.
Across the street at the second of Haiku’s main markets a familiar logo grabbed my attention. "Vasi’s Gourmet Foods and Deli." Could this be the very same Vasi who makes that indescribably delicious Mango-Curry Dip my family is crazy for? Or the blueberry muffins and banana bread so good it rouses die-hard sleepy heads up early for breakfast?
I peered through the side window to see a woman hard at work at monstrous mixers. The little storefront adjacent to the workshop would reveal the truth. Indeed, this Vasi churns out some of the island’s best treats and confections in a cardboard hideaway in Haiku. They were open for lunch.
It didn’t take long to decide on the authentic Spanikopita and Greek Salad with a few Dolmas tossed in for good measure. While I waited for the cook to warm my lunch, I chatted with the counter girl.
"It’s a little warm out there today," I offered, fanning myself slightly.
"Ha! A little?! I’m from the east coast and it’s darned hot. I’m not used to this. I mean, I’ve been here three weeks and the trades have barely blown once. Hard enough to sleep on a farm with all that blasted quiet -- except for those animals making their odd noises, then there‘s the wind and the heat. I mean, I’m used to city noises, but this! I had no idea it would take so long to get used to the quiet!"
"Yeah, people don’t believe you when you tell them what’s it like living here. Too hard to explain…"
"I send emails home and they think I’ve gone crazy, think I’m making this stuff up," she chuckled.
"Think you’ll stay?" I asked.
"Absolutely!" she grinned handing me the best Spanikopita this side of Athens.
Down the road, I turned off at Ho`okipa, unable to resist the enticement of snapping some photos. The colors of the sea and sky were phenomenal. The sight of pineapple fields dropping into the Pacific ocean was breathtaking. I stepped out of my truck and heard a strangely familiar sound.
"Mooo-ooo," came a basso profundo baw unlike any dairy cows I‘d heard. A bull quickened his pace behind a wire fence across from where I was standing and headed expectantly toward a cow and her calves.
At the awesome sound of those thundering hoofs, I beat feet to the other side of the point where the world-famous windsurfing beach proved up its windy reputation. Tourists loitered or wandered, eyes glued to video cameras. Young brides snapped photos of seabirds and palm trees, crashing waves and sea blues of every hue.
"Yep, not a bad pau hana stop on the way to K-Mart," I told myself, feeling as contented as the old cow in the meadow, bull or no bull.
I was already headed toward the garden department when I heard the amplified voice announce, "The garden section is closing now." Racing my cart toward the entrance, I hoped to beat the abrupt reality. Why close the garden department at 2 p.m. on a Saturday?
"You take break now, yeah?. You no pau ‘till seven. That fa-a-ah away," the manager coached a young employee.
"Are you really closing now?" I interrupted in disbelief.
"Garden pau, now, sorry," she grinned.
"But…"
"Come back lattah, yeah?" she nodded.
"Anuddah day," I agreed, knowing by now not to argue with pau hana.
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