Pahoa, on the Big Island of Hawaii, day six. A woman with two dogs gawked at our naked, flea-bitten, soapy bodies in a stranger’s yard full of tropical fruit trees. She told us we didn’t belong there—she couldn’t have been more right.
We knew we were headed into a peculiar spiritual community of eccentric, open-minded people before we left. I still wasn’t prepared for the level of strange that unfolded last week.
The second place we stayed in had a shower between the living room and bathroom walls with a glass panel between the two that was faintly frosted, and partially clear glass. The clear parts were of large Japanese script and a section of stacked lines, some of them spaced in the middle. There were enough translucent places that anyone person showering was obviously identifiable. On the other side of the living room was a deck where visitors could walk up and literally see anyone who was in the shower.
The toilet had indigo and brilliant orange colored glass windows down low, giving anyone in the yard a clear view. A huge round glass window in the center of the bathroom wall also had no curtains in front of the bathtub. There were glass panels between the two bedrooms, and the doors didn’t shut all the way by design. It was laid out so you had to either walk through a bathroom or a bedroom to get to the room we stayed in—which we apparently weren’t supposed to be staying in at all. The owners of both houses had no idea we were there.
We went to a place called the Tin Shack. Shocker—it was literally a tin shack open to the elements, and animals. The foods listed on the chalk board were either illegible, unpronounceable, or unappetizing. The man at the register wore a shirt with a rat on it—confidence inspiring. It was when a small bird flew behind the bakery case and pooped mid-flight that I suggested we return to a nicer place in town.
Later that day, we took a walk on a recent lava flow not far from where we’d bought sourdough bread downtown the day before at Bananarama. It was a reminder of the live-for-today lifestyle of the people there. The day before I’d seen an iron fence standing warped near a smoking lava fisher, evidence of how their homes and businesses could be—and are—gobbled up by this pure form of nature without warning. What was once a manicured front yard was overgrown with encroaching jungle. The house beyond the crooked gate was gone.
Waves crashed over coal-black ledges from a massive flow six years earlier. The desolate plates of fresh Earth starkly contrasted the white spray of the waters of the mighty Pacific crashing into the jagged, fresh cliff. We wandered the cracked puzzle-pieces, some with ripples that looked like rope, others with smooth surfaces. A black sand a beach a few hundred feet further down the coastline served as evidence of the relationship between the water and newborn Earth, one wave at a time for millennia.
It was a marvelously different landscape compared to the snow-capped peaks and glaciers we’d seen in Alaska only the week before.
On the way back, men with overloaded backpacks hitchhiked on the side of the road. A black man with thick, haphazard dreads sold fruit from a makeshift stand off the back of his truck as people parked along the road to the black sand nude beach. None of the people we met swore, drank alcohol, smoked tobacco, or seemed to have a direction in life. Although there were plenty of people who smoked plenty of pot.
It seemed like a person could live forever on tropical fruits and feral livestock—most of which were brought to the Island over the past few centuries as various cultures from far-flung lands colonized the area. Breadfruit, papaya, cocoa, coconut, limes, oranges, bananas (and other ones I can’t recall) were all in the yard growing on the 1/4-acre property. Invasive frogs from Puerto Rico peeped at a whopping 90-decibels at night. My friend warned us about snails without shells that carried a deadly disease.
Loose dogs roamed freely and polyamerous was a popular term. I met a man wearing nothing but an orange loin cloth, another man wore a long, floral dress with oversized beads on a necklace that reminded me of the wife on the Flintstones—though her name escapes me. Kevin, who can never remember acquaintances’ names, said it’s Wilma.
We visited Lava Tree State Park which featured black vertical tubes of lava across the landscape that had wrapped around trees which burned and rotted away one-hundred-years earlier.
The second house we stayed in was had a healthy flea population in the rugs, couches, and armchairs. I suggested we treat the rugs and the dog—but my friend seemed unconcerned and took no action. Given the abundance of Buddist shrines, Kevin deduced it was likely due to Buddhism forbids harming of insects, viewing all life as sacred.
We avoided them by sitting at the long, live-edge table with a rather uncomfortable bench seat. They bothered Kevin more than me. He is still peppered with red spots, mostly on his ankles, now that we are back on the Mainland in Alaska. Mine faded quickly.
That night her and I ate mushrooms. Before they took effect, we walked the half-mile or so to where she’d been living at her partner’s (or former-partner’s) house. He was the renowned spiritual leader of the town with a beautiful house on a hill with an ocean view. There was a large trampoline mounted on the rooftop.
I hadn’t tripped since my teenage years, back when my friend and I had lived together many years ago now. At 39-years-old I found myself seeing geometric shapes in the clouds as I lay next to my old friend. She was topless and enjoying the sun. We giggled until we cried. That’s when I realized I was tripping at the home of the leader of a cult. It was time to go.
I walked down the metal roof that suddenly felt like it was floating over the kingdom below—his kingdom. The small and hairy man, who I’m not naming here, is a celebrity in that area. His uncle had written a famous best-selling book that was banned and even burned in places. It diverged greatly from social norms and indirectly challenged aspects of traditional views on marriage, gender equality, and spirituality with poetic prose.
He seems to have used his descendant’s claim-to-fame in combination with a mélange of traditional Hawaiian shamanism. Other so-called spiritual leaders in the area have been described as doomsday and sexual cults, namely Cinderland and Lolia, also in Pahoa. These places are portrayed as yoga retreats where clothing is optional and offer work-stay arrangements in “eco-villages” and “spiritual retreats“.
Once down the narrow, steep stairs leading down from the rooftop I made it clear it was time to go. The last placed I wanted to trip was in the home of a cult leader with a book he’d written prominently placed on the ottoman beside his couch that was surely meant for us to notice.
By the time we returned rays of color hovered around the outlines of palm trees in the fading light. The sounds around me became surreal and had colors of their own. Fragrant flowers on tropical foliage overwhelmed my senses. When we arrived, I lay on a sheepskin mat on the lanai (deck) and laughed with my friend until tears streamed down my cheeks.
We recalled the good times and the wild teenagers we once were. How we slept on beaches and ate sea creatures from tidal pools. How we made art by covering ourselves in paint and rolling on paper. I grew up fast when I had my first child at only 18, and she went off on her own epic journey that led her to this strange place. She never grew up. The place she’d settled was astoundingly similar to Peter Pan’s Neverland—a tropical island where young expats form a gang of rebellion free from the structures of the modern world.
As I lay in the dark beside my out-of-place husband, the sounds of frogs had orchid-like shapes in my mind. I awoke many times in the night to the tiny pinch of fleas on my hypersensitive skin.
Later in the night, after I finally dozed off, Kevin awoke to breaking glass—my friend had broken a panel of glass shower in the connecting bathroom, luckily not the custom one with the strange clear inscriptions. I’d noticed it had the tell-tale irregularly crackled pattern along the edges of the safety glass while showering the day before. Much like the fleas, my friend seemed unconcerned and took no action other than a quick sweep. There were two outdoor showers on the property. One was just off the side of the main house with a glass door giving a clear view into it. We couldn’t get the water to warm up and took turns soaping and quickly darting under the cold stream.
We took our next shower in the second outdoor stall made of thin bamboo shades on three walls and a narrow curtain that only covered 1/3-of the opening, leaving us exposed to anyone who walked into the yard. That’s when the woman with two dogs appeared and told us we weren’t supposed to be there. She introduced herself at the property manager for the Airbnb in the house we’d been staying in the last few days.
As soon as I’d rinsed the soap off, I wrapped a towel around me (not that there was any point) and made my way inside to see if the woman was still there. I thought I could settle the situation, and that I’d be seen as less intimidating than my husband. She was gone. So was my friend.
Once I realized we weren’t supposed to have been there, I packed my highest-value items—MacBook, iPad, Insta360, iPhones—and proposed we got out of there, rent a car, and get a hotel for our last day. Kevin called to reserve a car while I packed up our dirty clothes. My friend had gone for a walk hours ago and left her phone behind. It began to ring and messages poured in, likely about our encounter with the woman.
When she finally returned, we told her what happened, and asked her if she wanted us to do any of her laundry. It was the perfect excuse to slip out of the increasingly uncomfortable situation while she attended to her phone. She gave us her clothes without an explanation of the situation. We didn’t ask for one either. We borrowed her car and drove to town.
Given our situation awaiting us in Alaska without a washer, or access to our broken-down RV with clean clothes in it, we needed to clean our clothes before our flight the following day. During our visit, we received a call that Kevin’s mom back home in Maine had Covid and was in the hospital. I wished we were back in Maine, but at the same time, I knew there was little we could do to help. It was hot in the laundromat with nearly all the dryers occupied tumbling loads. It was unexpectedly populated for midday on a weekday.
A woman played loud music on a portable speaker set on a washer near the door. It was a mix of reggae with Hawaiian vibes. I found it terribly annoying, but she looked fierce and could easily fuck me up if I asked her to turn it down. She proceeded to sing along like she owned the place. An older woman folding towels exchanged a look with me. We shared a little smile, knowing there was little we could do but embrace the absurdity and try our best to find it amusing. We set a timer for the washers we’d filled and walked to a bar around the corner.
It was not the most cleanly place I’d visited. The floor tiles were sticky and cracked. The edges and corners of the floor were black from years of neglect. A very large, sweaty man walked into the kitchen. Two women rushed to prepare food with long, loose hair dangling over the griddle. I skipped the menu and asked for an IPA on tap instead. A man with downs syndrome stood up, held both hands over his ass, and rushed toward the bathroom sign with a look of surprise on his face.
Upon our return we folded the laundry and cleaned the house that was obvious we could no longer stay in. We learned we’d be staying in her former-partner, or current-partner’s, house. The status of that relationship situation had also arisen during our time in Pahoa.
We went to work on a piece of land my friend was building a home on. Two people were living there that she called helpers. When Kevin asked her what the “helpers” on her land had accomplished, she’d had a hard time coming up with much. As far as I could see they were squatters and made nothing more than a cluttered mess of tents, tarps, heaps of dirty clothes and dirty dishes laying in the grass. They lacked respect, and seemed completely fine watching us work.
One of them did yoga in thin, incredibly tight shorts while we worked, displaying the most intricate curves of her vagina as she spread her legs wide and upward in an upside-down, welcoming pose. Kevin and I exchanged a look of mixed amusement and discomfort. It is good to be so close that we understand each-others’ looks and cues. We often say the same thing and rarely disagree.
Everyone seemed shocked that the plumbing Kevin and I installed worked. In the land of unskilled hippies Kevin definitely stuck out from the crowd. He was the tallest, whitest, and most skilled person of anyone we’d met.
Pahoa, Day seven: Just before noticing the car rental sign, we’d pulled over to ask an airport employee where to find the Enterprise car rental desk. She was a large, broad-shouldered woman with tribal tattoos covering her meaty arms. She pointed out the sign and gave us directions with a heavy coating of annoyance at my inability to read the sign just ahead. She spoke slowly, carefully, with a flat tone. She was obviously repeating well-rehearsed directions she gave to clueless tourists all day. I smiled and thanked her nonetheless as genuinely as I could muster. She returned one of the fakest, obligatory smiles I’ve seen.
Enterprise needed an address for our destination for that evening, which we hadn’t decided on. We walked down to the Avis desk to see what they required an address, which they did not. As the woman poked at her keyboard, we made small talk, she asked us how long we’d needed the rental. We told her we’d been visiting a strange part of Pahoa and just needed to get away for our last night. She said “You went that deep into Pahoa?” and gave us a substantial discount.
Next, we stopped at Home Depot to buy the last fittings to finish my friend’s plumbing we’d been unable to finish earlier in the day. Some used couplings had leaked and needed brass replacements. They didn’t have what we needed. It was the only empty row of parts. We had to purchase double what we needed to adapt to the two sizes of pipes.
I parked the rental a little way down the driveway while Kevin parked my friend’s car. They had planned for us to stay in a guest house on the spiritual leader’s property—and I wasn’t having it. By the time we arrived it was dark. She answered the door alone, which was good. I explained the plumbing and told her we wouldn’t be installing it because we were leaving early. She was clearly disappointed. I told her I love her dearly, and if she wants to leave, she always has a home with me. She wasn’t ready. She is a wonderfully kind person who deserves a partner who truly loves and connects with her. I hope she finds that person.
We stayed in the Dolphin Hotel in Hilo that night. By then it was late, and most places had closed. We were left with a unbelievably loud pub that I was leery about entering—due to our lack of options, we made our way through the crowd. A server said something to me. I assumed it was about how many in our party and where we wanted to sit. I told her two and anywhere there was room. She sat us at a low live-edge table that was mostly occupied, with a wrap-around leather couch.
The patrons spoke languages I didn’t understand and it seemed like every shade of human was in there—us being the whitest end of the spectrum. We hadn’t gotten much sun on our trip. It was a lovely mashup. Women with duck-lips in tight dresses with cleavage spilling out the top sat near punks with mohawks and tattered jean vests. I ordered a Guinness and Kevin ordered an IPA. We had to holler to hear each other.
On our walk back we saw a shell-less snail on an elegant yellow hibiscus flower that was probably one of the diseased ones we were warned about. People stood on top of the wide arch of a concrete bridge above as we passed under it.
Back at the hotel we showered. Hilariously, a shoulder-height window was in the shower. At least it was frosted and could be closed. We slept wonderfully.
The next morning, there were freshly-baked banana bread and papayas for breakfast at the coffee counter. The cream was actual cream, not the nasty powdered stuff that takes forever to stir the clumps out and leaves an aftertaste of regret with every sip. It was lovely.
We looked for a beach in Kona after lunch at an overpriced seafood bar and grill. The first two prospects were rocky with high surf. Then we found a reasonable spot where I laid in the shallow water and soft sand. There wasn’t much else to do in the area.
We gave up and headed to the car rental return to possibly catch an early flight at the airport. The shuttle driver that brought people from the Avis lot to the nearby airport was the least-friendly person I’d met in Hawaii. He yelled words I didn’t understand and was very rough on everyone’s luggage. He rushed everyone on and off the bus, including small children that looked freaked out. I wondered if he was paid by the trip.
All the Delta kiosks and desks were closed in the open-air terminal. My bag was set aside for inspection at TSA, apparently spam is sus. She took a secondary x-ray of our two cans of Hawaiian collector’s edition canned Spam in a floral can.
We waited in a sorry excuse for a bar with $12 beers, at least they were 20-ounces. I got up to use the bathroom and check the Delta desk for any sign of life. It was still deserted. It reminded me of the book The Langoliers by Stephen King.
When I returned, a man had sat a couple seats from Kevin, leaving only one seat between us. He had a large bandage on his shin and the gauze was soaked through with yellow-orange fluid. He tried to make conversation about where we were from. I asked him what happened to his leg. He said he’d hit it on a chair and seemed suddenly less talkative. Kevin leaned in to say he’d been picking at scabs all over his body and re-bandaging them—ew. He was obviously trying to read my screen as I was drafting this post about a strange spiritual cult. Kevin elbowed me. I followed his gaze to the title of the man’s obscure spiritual self-discovery book.
* I’ve omitted events, names and details from this post to protect and respect the privacy of others. This is not meant to mock or satirize the lives or experiences of others, only to describe my own experience as an outsider.
