With only VST and I as passengers aboard the little plane built for eight, we could both look out the window at the vast Pacific Ocean. Within minutes, we were preparing to land at the tiny airport on Moloka’i. This island is not especially one that people beg to visit for the luscious beaches or personal cabanas. No night life or big city lights. No fantastic shopping malls or expensive luaus. Local people live here for a variety of reasons.
A very sad group of past residents had no choice to move to Moloka’i. In 1866, nine men and three women were dropped off and left to die there. Leprosy had come to the Hawaiian Islands, and these souls were the first to be banished from the general population. Thrown overboard and left to swim ashore among the sharks, they had nothing. Even worse, Moloka’i was a barren island, with little vegetation, and worse, no shelter. This was a death sentence of the most horrendous kind.
Over decades, thousands perished at Kaluapapa. Children grew up, their entire lives spent without the comfort of their moms or dads, grandmas, or grandpas. No cousins. Their new family all had one very terrible thing in common. They were victims of leprosy. Once it was discovered that a person suffered from this terrible disease, plans were quickly implemented for removal. Walked to the boat, with only the clothes on their backs, they were ripped from everything they knew and sent away. The family was left to hold a small funeral, because, they would never be together again.
Father Damien De Veuster, a young Roman Catholic priest from Belgium began his ministry in 1873, on an island in which there were no rules except those to be broken. Until his death in 1889, he and Mother Marianne Cope helped these souls build a functioning society among themselves. He was their friend, doctor, nurse, and confidante. He was a father-figure to the ailing children, as well as their school principal. He took people that had no hope whatsoever, and helped them find their way. In 2009, he became Saint Damien of Molokai. Mother Marianne reached sainthood a few years later.
Today, there are still a few residents that continue to live in Kaluapapa, which has been their home for decades. The little town is quaint, simple, and charming in a very Hawaiian way. Residents banished to this island were not allowed to make the choice to leave until 1969, although the “cure” had been discovered some time before that. Many decided to stay. The history of the tiny town is absolutely gut wrenching, and yet one filled with hope, showcasing the best and worst of the human spirit.
Kaluapapa is only one tiny part of this island. There are miles are beautiful shoreline, areas that are quiet and semi-tropical, and others that are agricultural or deserted. Importantly, Molokai is not for everyone. Don’t go there for the wrong reasons. Listen to your heart.
Traveling by taxi through beautiful countryside, we finally arrived at a beachside Sheraton hotel. We’d been warned that we were visiting the island during high tourist season, so activities that we might choose could well be sold out. Willing to take this chance, the beauty of the hotel reassured us that, even if there was nothing to do, we would find plenty of something.
While checking in, the most curious exchange occured.
“We apologize for the location of your room. It is directly above the dining room, and it can get very loud at night. It’s high season, and you were lucky to get a room at all.”
We were okay with that. As long as a mechanic wasn’t hanging from the ceiling, we would deal with a little dinner noise.
The hotel itself reminded me of going to visit an extremely wealthy cattle baron’s personal island hide away. Rich natural wood gleamed everywhere. The floors, walls, and ceiling were natural wood, stained a light color. Ceilings in the great room were two stories high. a beautiful staircase twisted back and forth to lead the guests to their rooms. Walls of glass faced the glistening ocean, and with a short walk past the pool, guests could be at the beach. Moloka’i shores are a little dicey for swimming. With a deep ocean shelf that quickly drops off, no lifeguards, and resident sharks, I didn’t feel the need to paddle into the open seas.
Our room was luxurious and understated. Fine bedding was freshly ironed and free from wrinkles. The faintest hint of hibiscus flowers scented the linens, all crisp, white, and new. The quilt on the bed was handmade and Hawaiian. A bowl of fresh fruit sat next to french doors and a deck overlooking the pool and out to the ocean. Everything was sparkling clean and inviting. There was no television or radio to bother with. With the french doors open and waves crashing gently on the beach, this hotel was becoming my favorite.
From the start, there was one thing I needed to do the following day. I would take a 3 minute flight to Kaluapapa Airport, followed by a day long excursion into town. I needed to see where Saint Damien of Moloka’i (born Josef De Veuster) and Saint Marianne of Moloka’i performed their daily miracles with hopeless souls, the victims of leprosy. Placing our bags in the room, we headed downstairs to the concierge.
The concierge area was actually in a separate open sided building. In this area, there were rows of bicycles, all brand new and waiting to be rented. There were kayaks leaned against one way and brand new surfboards leaned against another. There were walking sticks, beach towels, and sunscreen. Brochures on activities surrounding the island. Avis had a car rental booth. There was one thing missing. Tourists.
We had been warned twice at that point that this was the high season. We should expect that the last pineapple might be snatched from our lips. That dinner waits could be upwards of 30 minutes or longer. That all activities would be enjoyed by others who were crowding the beaches. But, as we looked around, this wasn’t the case. We could have walked off with a surfboard under each arm, while riding two bikes to the beach and there would have been plenty of activities left.
One loan clerk noticed there were two customers and came to our aide.
“Aloha! What activities would you like to do today?”
“I would like to visit Kaluapapa.”
“By plane or by mule?”
What an interesting question. The plane ride was three minutes. Down the run way, up over one mountain, descending to the airport, and landing. The mule ride was hours, descending the side of sheer cliff on the back of a mule. The return trip was that many hours going back up. Not some little cliff, but the tallest sea cliff in the world, measuring 3,600 to 3,900 feet. Hmmm. This was really a no-brainer for me.
“The flight, please.”
“Oh. This is troubling. I hope you understand this IS high season. I’m unsure of that possibility. We need to call to make arrangements, but it is possible that all mules or flights are booked.”
Looking at each other through side-glances, our gaze returned to her. Since arriving, we’d seen no tourists of any kind. No one tanning at the pool. No sign of surfing at the beach. No joggers. No bikers. No nothing. And yet, it was high season. The dining room had been set with the finest China and Crystal. At least 20 tables were at the ready. Bowls of tasty fruit were placed in the lobby. Employees, with crisp attire were everywhere, waiting to help. But, there were no tourists anywhere, except us.
“I know. I know. But, these people are only here for two nights. Can you check?”
The associate pleaded with the flight agent from her corded phone, looking off toward the beach as she did. After a small wait, the conversation continued.
“Wow. They are lucky. You know, high season and all.”
“You are extremely lucky. It is rare there’s availability on short notice. You need to report to the airport tomorrow morning at 7:00 AM. Please arrived 45 minutes early, because, with the added tourists during high season, the check-in process takes a bit longer. The pilot does not wait for passengers on their way to Kaluapapa. Sometimes, he even takes off five minutes early. Do not be tardy. Enjoy your flight.”
Again. High season. Walking back to the lobby, we made dinner reservations, just to be safe. Were all the tourists on some fantastic whale watching excursion? Golfing? Visiting the Menehune? All in Kaluapapa for the day? That remained to be seen. For now, we had the entire place, rich and luxurious, at our fingertips. What difference could a few tourists make anyway?
To be Continued.