Salon Wanderlust | Where the hula goddess lives, page 2

T A B L E_T A L K
Mardi Gras! Have you gone? Are you going? Grab some beads and party in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk

R E C E N T L Y
Cajun Mardi Gras
By Margaret Spillane and Bruce Shapiro
Singing, dancing, drinking and other mayhem in rural Louisiana
(02/27/98)
Looking for Kathmandu
By Jeff Greenwald
Gossip, chickens and sex in Nepal
(02/26/98)
Landing the Big One
By D.T. Max
Fishing and frolicking in Cabo San Lucas
(02/25/98)
Arigato, Nagano
By Cintra Wilson
Weird TV, naked hot springs and the big heart of Japan
(02/24/98)
Tara and Michelle are great and I am a worthless protozoa clinging to their skates
By Cintra Wilson
(02/23/98)

Browse the
Feature archives

__WHERE THE HULA GODDESS LIVES _|_ page 2 of 2

In the case of Ke'e, it is important to bear in mind that hula in early Hawaii was much more than a form of entertainment. For dancers it was a sacred calling, to which you dedicated your life. Hawaiians had no written language. Chanters and dancers were the poets, historians and keepers of the flame. Hands and arms and hips and feet were trained to tell the stories of the people -- their gods, their origins, their voyages and exploits and affairs of the heart -- and keep them alive from one generation to the next. Hula was the centerpiece of traditional culture, just as it has been the centerpiece of the current cultural renaissance. So any place dedicated to the deity of hula had probably been chosen with considerable care.
According to the famous myth of Pele and Hi'iaka, this is where the high chief Lohi'au sat drumming for some dancers, when his compelling rhythms were heard by Pele, the volcano goddess, from her fiery home in Puna, on what is now called the Big Island. Drawn toward the sound, Pele's spirit-body traveled north from island to island until she reached the halau hula, where the handsome chief was instantly smitten by her great beauty. In his nearby house they spent three days together, then Pele's spirit-body left Kauai and returned home. Unable to get Lohi'au out of her mind, she sent a younger sister, Hi'iaka, on a mission to bring him to her.
Thus begins a complex epic of high adventure, love and rivalry, death and transformation. One of the Pacific's great legend cycles, the story of Pele and Hi'iaka links Ha'ena in the far north with the Big Island's active crater region in the far south, underscoring the significance of this old halau hula in both the geography and the mythology of the Hawaiian chain.
From the grassy terrace, looking north, it is all blue ocean, with nothing between this cliff and the Aleutians 2,400 miles away. Out of that infinity the swells roll toward you. Near shore, each rising edge becomes a pencil line across the blue, then breaks to gush over wet black rocks directly below, where the inshore swirl is marbled turquoise.
My dancer friend had told me that she and her troupe once flew here from the Big Island, 350 miles south and east, to pay their respects to the goddess who first brought hula to Hawaii. They began by dipping themselves in those waters, said to be healing and purifying for performers. They entered from Ke'e Beach, and then, with their leis and skirts and ankle-ferns dripping, they climbed barefoot up the trail and made an offering of their dance.
In the wall behind the platform there are niches and small ledges where the most recent offerings could be seen, nontraditional, left by visitors paying their respects -- a bunch of wild daisies, a circular head lei of close-pressed flowers, a piece of starfruit, a polished kukui nut, a fresh mango wrapped in a ti leaf.
Root tendrils dangled from above. Higher up, ti plants and papaya trees had sprouted from the cliff. The plant-layered wall, with its natural altar, is framed by two narrow canyons that shape a bowl, a cathedral of eroded lava. The two canyon jungles, thick with palms and more papaya and ironwood and ferns, slope steadily toward the peaks and scoured ridges that cup around behind. One bold spire seems to rise like an obelisk, and above these peaks, the clouds spilled seaward, gauzy, urgent clouds floating down from Mount Wai'ale'ale, 10 miles away, known to be the wettest spot on earth.
As these clouds poured over the ridges, they mirrored the panorama of rolling surf. Their gliding shadows could also change the colors of the sea, from turquoise to diamond blue to cobalt. I felt I knew then why dancers had been coming there for centuries to commune with hula's guiding spirit. I saw what my friend had meant by "sources."
The changing water, the spilling clouds, the creased and jagged peaks behind, were all bathed in an uncanny liquid light. A wind swept down to riffle the palms and the papaya trees, and the whole place had come alive, moving in its own kind of elemental dance.
SALON | MARCH 2, 1998
James D. Houston is the author of "In the Ring of Fire: A Pacific Basin Journey," published by Mercury House, and the award-winning novel "Continental Drift," reprinted last fall in the new California Fiction Series from the University of California Press. He lives in Santa Cruz.


T A B L E_T A L K Mardi Gras! Have you gone? Are you going? Grab some beads and party in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Cajun Mardi Gras By Margaret Spillane and Bruce Shapiro Singing, dancing, drinking and other mayhem in rural Louisiana (02/27/98) Looking for Kathmandu By Jeff Greenwald Gossip, chickens and sex in Nepal (02/26/98) Landing the Big One By D.T. Max Fishing and frolicking in Cabo San Lucas (02/25/98) Arigato, Nagano By Cintra Wilson Weird TV, naked hot springs and the big heart of Japan (02/24/98) Tara and Michelle are great and I am a worthless protozoa clinging to their skates By Cintra Wilson (02/23/98) Browse the Feature archives		__WHERE THE HULA GODDESS LIVES _\|_ page 2 of 2 In the case of Ke'e, it is important to bear in mind that hula in early Hawaii was much more than a form of entertainment. For dancers it was a sacred calling, to which you dedicated your life. Hawaiians had no written language. Chanters and dancers were the poets, historians and keepers of the flame. Hands and arms and hips and feet were trained to tell the stories of the people -- their gods, their origins, their voyages and exploits and affairs of the heart -- and keep them alive from one generation to the next. Hula was the centerpiece of traditional culture, just as it has been the centerpiece of the current cultural renaissance. So any place dedicated to the deity of hula had probably been chosen with considerable care. According to the famous myth of Pele and Hi'iaka, this is where the high chief Lohi'au sat drumming for some dancers, when his compelling rhythms were heard by Pele, the volcano goddess, from her fiery home in Puna, on what is now called the Big Island. Drawn toward the sound, Pele's spirit-body traveled north from island to island until she reached the halau hula, where the handsome chief was instantly smitten by her great beauty. In his nearby house they spent three days together, then Pele's spirit-body left Kauai and returned home. Unable to get Lohi'au out of her mind, she sent a younger sister, Hi'iaka, on a mission to bring him to her. Thus begins a complex epic of high adventure, love and rivalry, death and transformation. One of the Pacific's great legend cycles, the story of Pele and Hi'iaka links Ha'ena in the far north with the Big Island's active crater region in the far south, underscoring the significance of this old halau hula in both the geography and the mythology of the Hawaiian chain. From the grassy terrace, looking north, it is all blue ocean, with nothing between this cliff and the Aleutians 2,400 miles away. Out of that infinity the swells roll toward you. Near shore, each rising edge becomes a pencil line across the blue, then breaks to gush over wet black rocks directly below, where the inshore swirl is marbled turquoise. My dancer friend had told me that she and her troupe once flew here from the Big Island, 350 miles south and east, to pay their respects to the goddess who first brought hula to Hawaii. They began by dipping themselves in those waters, said to be healing and purifying for performers. They entered from Ke'e Beach, and then, with their leis and skirts and ankle-ferns dripping, they climbed barefoot up the trail and made an offering of their dance. In the wall behind the platform there are niches and small ledges where the most recent offerings could be seen, nontraditional, left by visitors paying their respects -- a bunch of wild daisies, a circular head lei of close-pressed flowers, a piece of starfruit, a polished kukui nut, a fresh mango wrapped in a ti leaf. Root tendrils dangled from above. Higher up, ti plants and papaya trees had sprouted from the cliff. The plant-layered wall, with its natural altar, is framed by two narrow canyons that shape a bowl, a cathedral of eroded lava. The two canyon jungles, thick with palms and more papaya and ironwood and ferns, slope steadily toward the peaks and scoured ridges that cup around behind. One bold spire seems to rise like an obelisk, and above these peaks, the clouds spilled seaward, gauzy, urgent clouds floating down from Mount Wai'ale'ale, 10 miles away, known to be the wettest spot on earth. As these clouds poured over the ridges, they mirrored the panorama of rolling surf. Their gliding shadows could also change the colors of the sea, from turquoise to diamond blue to cobalt. I felt I knew then why dancers had been coming there for centuries to commune with hula's guiding spirit. I saw what my friend had meant by "sources." The changing water, the spilling clouds, the creased and jagged peaks behind, were all bathed in an uncanny liquid light. A wind swept down to riffle the palms and the papaya trees, and the whole place had come alive, moving in its own kind of elemental dance. SALON \| MARCH 2, 1998 James D. Houston is the author of "In the Ring of Fire: A Pacific Basin Journey," published by Mercury House, and the award-winning novel "Continental Drift," reprinted last fall in the new California Fiction Series from the University of California Press. He lives in Santa Cruz.