The Valley of Sufficient Life

Halawa has undergone drastic changes from 1939 (right) to 2008 (left).

Halawa, then and now, from the Kumu’s eyes.

By Brandon Roberts

An entire valley of lo`i stretches before him, kalo thriving in the fertile soil. The April sun crests over the eastern cliffs, shedding its life giving light across the valley floor – shining through the kalo leaves, illuminating the surface beneath a vibrant green.

Looking south, wai cascades hundreds of feet into a basin, forming a natural wonder to be seen by all of the valley’s inhabitants. Vegetables grow abundant on the southern rifts, and the wai is channeled to irrigate Haloa’s thirst.

This is Pilipo Solatario’s Halawa in 1946. Halawa, meaning the sufficient life, was momona in the past, supporting the valley population and much of Molokai’s. Most families, like Pilipo’s, cultivated kalo in cooperation with one another in the spirit of Hawaiian culture.

Pilipo, a six year old at the time, was a sixth generation Halawa farmer by birth, by `ohana. At this young age he was already working the lo`i, nourished by Haloa – which some Hawaiians consider their genealogical ancestor whose grave sprouted the first kalo.

The poi factory sat nearby as did a sacred Kamani grove, planted by Kamehameha III near the ancient city of refuge.

Already during this time, many of the families had left - the men called to fight in World War II in service of a nation they were not yet part of. Traditional values were changing as quickly as the valley. The United States built an airstrip at Pu`u o Hoku Ranch for planes that would regularly fire live rounds, bombing the nearby islands of Mokuho`oniki.

From the beach came the cries of his mother. She was walking the sandy shores, as she did every morning, but on this day the sea was angry. The shifting earth had sent an ocean surge that would change his home forever. Fortunately, the Solatario `ohana paid heed to a warning received the night before – a tsunami was coming, best be prepared.

Young Pilipo had gathered up important family items, old pictures, documents, and the family bible. When he heard his mother’s call, the valuables were scooped up and the `ohana ascended the same cliffs from which the sun had first shone. Not all listened to the warning - Pilipo’s aunty and cousins remained in their hale.

When the Solatario’s reached safety, they witnessed a spectacle rivaled only by legend. The sea began to eat itself, receding further and further. Fish flopped about, from swimming to suffocating in a matter of seconds.

With a mighty surge, the ocean pushed its way two miles up the valley and over 100 feet up the eastern cliffs. The poi factory was swallowed whole, the hale full of `ohana was pushed this way and that. Erie screams escaped as the sea pulled nails and cracked boards. The lo`i were not destroyed, rather full of salt and sand, killing the kalo.

Miraculously, the tsunami did not take a single life.

After the morning of April 1, 1946, Halawa would never be the same. Families would continue to leave the valley, either seeking modernity or too overwhelmed and heartbroken to rebuild. But the Solatario’s stayed and continued raising kalo - Halawa was all they knew.

At 16, Pilipo joined the Navy; he loved Halawa, but also sought to understand the many kanaka of the world. He would live away from Molokai for nearly 10 years. In the early 1960’s, his mother wrote, describing a flash flood that had ripped through the valley, breaking the irrigation damn and destroying acres of lo`i.

By the 60’s, remnants of the valley that had survived the tsunami were gone. Families continued to migrate out of the valley as large corporate developers salivated at the prospects of a resort within the “sufficient land.”

George Murphy, who owned neighboring Pu`u o Hoku Ranch and large portions of Mana`e, bought 900 acres of Halawa from the Bishop Estates which were originally promised to the Hawaiian people.

Roads began to appear on the hillsides, along with the planning of subdivisions and the sticking of galvanized lead pipes into the kapu pools above Mo`oula Falls. Murphy began to lease the land, replacing families with tenants.

Pilipo fought Pu`u o Hoku’s developments. He battled the illegal roads and other corporate entities that were out to exploit the sacred valley and commercially cover its ancient roots.

Halawa is different now. The valley has become overgrown by a dense canopy of invasive trees and the falls are no longer visible from the valley floor. Mo`oula stream does not flow as it once did - much of the water is slurped up by the thirsty trees. The wai is running dry, leaving Haloa and the Halawa homes with less and less.

Kamehameha’s Kamani Grove is smothered by the particularly invasive Java Plum tree. Pilipo’s pleas to understand the valley have gone unheard – off-islanders, without proper Hawaiian protocol, are chopping the sacred trees to build canoes, leaving behind only stumps and rubbish.

The school where the children of Halawa once learned no longer exists; the area is now a county park. Coconut palms that were planted by Pilipo and his classmates many years ago are being cut down by the county.

Pilipo recently visited the county park and found charred bases of palms still standing. They used heavy equipment, which crushed a historic grave in the process. Workers apologized, said they were only following orders, they did not know.

“How can you know if you do not ask, if you are not from here,” he says with his heart.

Some malama Halawa as families once did, but the rainforest of today has conquered the lo`i of yesterday. Nature and man have changed the `aina, but the story Pilipo tells has not changed, passed down from countless generations of Halawa kupuna.

He says, things are not secret, they are sacred. Pilipo’s ultimate message is respect – to care for the valley he believes one must know what it was before and to understand the ultimate sense of place. Nana i ke Kumu, “seek the source.”

His tutu kane, David Kapuwai Akina, once told him to share the mo`olelo of Halawa, so people can know and respect where they live and where they are.

“When?” Pilipo asked.

“When you feel it, burning in your soul – that is me, and you know the time is right,” was the message his tutu kane left.

Pilipo may not be here tomorrow. He is one of the last of the unbroken generations of Halawa farmers still in the valley. He asks all to look at Halawa as a whole, spiritual and physical, to obtain a greater sense of place. Mana is found in the knowledge and respect of the ahupua`a.

The sun has journeyed across the valley once more, and as it readies for sleep behind the Western cliffs, shadows cast from the dominating forest grow long. The mo`olelo is there, hidden by the forest but not darkened by the shadows.

“Feel the spirit of Halawa and the ancestors that gave it life,” he asks. “The kupuna of Halawa are alive; like Haloa, they are everywhere.”

Pilipo Solatario is a master storyteller and a Kumu of the Halawa mo`olelo. After many years as the cultural director of Molokai Ranch he has returned to his birthplace. Blow the pu, Pilipo makes time to talk story to all who inquire.

“I speak to educate so all who listen can respect, otherwise our people will be overgrown like the Halawa of today.” This is Pilipo’s hope. This is Pilipo’s message.