Nova
Scotia: A Breath of Fresh Air
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Molokai:
The (Almost) Desert Island of Hawaii
From the air it's
not much. Through the window of the small island-hopping plane, the parched
terrain resembled the dry alluvial fans in the southwestern United States.
I wasn't impressed. When one takes off for Hawaii, the expectation of lush
tropics runs pretty high.
"It's a different island," my mother explained upon meeting me at
a landing strip in the middle of nowhere. "This is Molokai."
She bought a time-share in 1983 and uses it several times a year, so something
had to be here. My fantasies did get assuaged later that afternoon sitting
on the beach under palm trees watching surfers tackle eight foot waves. But
other than small infrequent pockets resembling tropics, mostly the area held
mesquite trees and scraggily brush.
A women in one of the shops in the nearby village of… suggested I think
of islands as small continents, each with a dry and wet side. With that point
of reference, by week's end I, too, would be able to say it's a different
island and understand why.
The fifth largest of the Hawaiian Islands, Molokai is touted as the most Hawaiian.
It's certainly the least developed. No high rise hotels claim any of the beaches.
About 35 miles long and eight miles wide, a third of the island belongs to
the Molokai Ranch, a large cattle company. A rural ambience settles over the
rest, with most people living in small vine-covered shanties.
With a population of 6,700 and nearly 50 percent being native Hawaiian, it's
easy to feel the essence of another culture, especially when one comes so
near the Hawaiian language. It's spoken everywhere. A language rising from
only 12 letters, it's filled with gentleness, easily likened to off-shore
breezes sifting through palms. My mouth enjoyed the sensation of saying the
new words.
Each morning on our lanai (balcony) we'd breakfast while a pair of red crested
cardinals begged for scraps amid the mobs of myna birds. On the grounds below
tall, and nearly tame, egrets stepped elegantly through the grass.
Our place in the Kaluakoi Hotel/Resort had a fully equipped kitchen; shopping
for food turned into a favorite pastime. The largest town Kuanakakai, only
12 miles to the southwest and located on the water, is about three blocks
long with one traffic light. A health food store, a market, bakery, drug store
and several T-shirt shops make the line-up of businesses. The local wharf
sells fresh fish. I cringed a little knowing that mahi-mahi, a delicious tender
meat, means dolphin. But it's a staple of the culture as is poi, a turnip-tasting
thick goo sold in plastic pouches.
Surprisingly, pineapples weren't as plentiful as expected. In 1982 Dole and
Del Monte moved their operations to the Philippines, severely cutting into
the local economy. A small coffee plantation near the tiny town of Kualapuu
is attempting to bolster the sagging job market. Another enterprise is Purdy's
Macadamian Nut Farm. The small 50-tree family business began in the early
1980s, and is the only source of the rich tasting nuts on Molokai.
From past experience I knew this vacation wouldn't be one for relaxing. My
mother likes to play tour guide.
"Do you want to fly or ride mules?" she asked as we signed up for
a day at Kalaupapa. We settled on flying into one of the reasons Molokai isn't
heavily frequented. Kalaupapa, a two-mile wide peninsula imprisoned by high
cliffs, is where King Kamehameha V decided to literally dump people with leprosy.
The first shipment arrived in 1866. Told to jump overboard and swim, the exiled
started a settlement from the most rudimentary beginnings.
About 50 residents remain in the colony; a drug developed in 1940 made leprosy
non-contagious. Visitors are allowed by tour only. Our guide contracted the
disease as a young man and has lived in Kalaupapa 41 years. He started Damien
Tours, so named after Father Damien, a priest who arrived in 1873, bringing
hope and improved living conditions.
The terrain deeply contrasted the desolation the people must have felt. With
moss covered stone walls, 30 varieties of mangoes and 32 species of bananas,
here were the tropics. If you had to be exiled, the place at least held some
beauty. In 1980 the area became a National Historical Park. I could have spent
more time in the settlement, but my mother had other plans.
The next day took us into a rain forest. Months in advance my mother reserved
space on a hike sponsored by the Nature Conservancy in the Kamakou Preserve.
Never have I ventured into a place more green and drippy with such a rich
scent of fertility. In a four-foot area I counted ten species of ferns. Moss
covered everything. Odd, though, how still it was. Not a peep from a bird,
not a stir from a creature, not even amphibians. Spiders strung large webs
between fronds, the only evidence of life beyond green.
The trail was narrow wooden planks topped with a metal grill which reduced
the slipping somewhat. Our two native guides knew the names of most plants,
albeit in Hawaiian.
On my last day we took off for the west end where bright red bougainvillea's
and yellow hibiscus flowers the size of large hands grew wild. Mango trees
bent with fruit lined both sides of the road that eventually turned into the
most winding thing I've ever been on. Breakers rolled in close with the islands
of Maui and Lanai both visible at one point.
Molokai boosts the world's tallest sea cliffs, rising 2,000 feet above the
ocean. At a lookout in the Halawa Valley we spotted a waterfall pouring out
of the rainforests--just what one would expect in the tropics.
A few hours before I was to leave we finally had time to lounge by the pool.
I'd seen Hawaii's longest beach, the heiau (temple) where the ancient Kahunas
trained, learned this is the island where the hula originated, had picked
passion fruit from trees deep in a jungle. Years ago I'd spent a week in Honolulu.
Grateful this time to be out of the tourist frenzy, now I, too, could say
this is a different island. This is Molokai.
Nova
Scotia: A Breath of Fresh Air
This
was my second trip to Canada and my second time getting thoroughly examined
at the border. This last rummaging, though, ended just short of a full body
search. Why? Because once again people didn't understand that New Mexico isn't
Mexico.
Due to tightened security at the American borders, drug trafficking from the
South America and Mexico is increasing through Canada. For over an hour my
friend, Anne and I watched three customs officials ransack our car. One woman,
lifting miniscule specks from the seat, really thought she'd found something.
"What are these?" she demanded. Sesame seeds off a bagel. And to
think I'd even considered the poppy seed bagel.
Just before searching us, they asked again if we were carrying marijuana.
We weren't. At this point they hadn't asked for our passports, something I'm
still grateful for. I'm not sure I'd be home even yet if they had. Three weeks
before I'd been in Mexico. Finally after deliberating in another room, they
let us go.
It was dark, our nerves rattled. Welcome to another country. But we pressed
on; we'd planned this for months. Anne and I had been roommates for two years,
living in the hills behind Santa Fe. We hadn't seen each other in 12 years;
this was a reunion.
Driving from her house in Maryland, we'd taken the high-speed ferry from Bar
Harbor, Maine to Yarmouth, Nova Scotia-which we left immediately and headed
for Digby, a fishing village an hour away. We drove along a narrow unlit country
road. The houses looked bleak and severe.
"Wait until daylight," Anne kept saying. She'd traveled the province
several years before, fell in love with the land, and last fall bought 33
wooded acres along the coast.
She was right. One has to reserve judgment until daylight, of which there
is plenty being so far north in the summer. It didn't get dark until after
10 p.m. and dawn started about 4:30 a.m. I delighted in the amount of light;
I couldn't see enough.
Nova Scotia is the second smallest province in Canada, with no point more
than 56 km (35 mi) from the sea. Fishing is the main industry, with famed
lobsters, crab and cod. But it's the scallops that put Digby on the map, though
at $14 a pound ($6 American) Anne and I didn't have too many. We had hoped
to camp on her land, but a thick growth of wild roses and hardwood trees prompted
us to set up home base at Fundy Spray Campground, 2 km from Digby. We anticipated
a view of the Bay of Fundy, renowned for its high tides. We didn't get the
view, but often saw the result of the tides, sometimes rising 32 feet. Boats
tied to a wharf would bob on high morning water; by afternoon's low tide they
sat marooned in mud.
When we weren't bushwhacking through Anne's land making our way to the coast
or meeting with road and house contractors we did full days of sightseeing.
It was on these days that I, too, fell in love with Nova Scotia, as many people
have.
For 10,000 years the native Mi'Kmaqs lived among the rugged fjords, along
the rivers, among the hundreds of lakes. Then the French arrived in 1604,
first displacing the indigenous people and subsequently battling the English.
The sea offered good fishing; the fertile soil a wealth of crops. Both nations
saw unlimited opportunities. Today, with nearly all signs, menus and brochures
in English and French it's clear the two cultures still hold strong ties.
The Scottish began immigrating in 1773, and in the northern regions Gaelic
is still spoken.
If one thing throws a charm over the entire seacoast, it's the clean, tidy
white clapboard houses set back from the road. Small, unadorned gardens soften
each pathway or porch. Clotheslines speak of a rural simplicity. What caught
my eye, though, were the woodpiles. Ours in New Mexico pale by comparison.
Clearly, the difference is wintertime. I believe we don't even know what cold
is.
One jaunt took us east through the Annapolis Valley, a fertile stretch of
farmland and orchards, with the town of Annapolis Royal showing off its stately
Victorian houses on every street. We spent two hours walking the grounds of
a historic garden, literally losing each other in the Rose Maze. From my experience
trying to sprout gardens in adobe, the soil in Nova Scotia is a lush treasure.
Amazingly, daily lilies are a weed here and drape entire hillsides with orange.
Heading in the other direction, we traveled Digby Neck, a narrow peninsula
that continues on to Long Island and Brier Island, both connected by ferries.
At $2.00 a car (free upon returning), the ferries proved a bargain. Each held
eight cars and took all of all of eight minutes to cross-a great way to spot
lighthouses in the fog and hear seals barking. At one point we chanced upon
a small Province Park, like a state park, and hiked the half-mile to see 'Balancing
Rock', a great juggling act on the craggy cliffs carved by glaciers.
Another drive along the French Acadian Shore, aptly nicknamed 'the longest
Main Street in the World' with its allure of bakeries, cafés and berry
stands. And of course the appeal of each fishing village was the colorful
boats moored to docks
Earlier I'd found a book about the late local folk artist, Maud Lewis. At
first I didn't understand her paintings: one dimensional, disproportional,
colors not quite right. But the more we prowled the area, the more I marveled
at this elf-like deformed woman who never left her kitchen corner. Her scavenger
husband brought home buckets of paint left over from the docks. The fishing
boats in Nova Scotia sport hulls of bright red, yellow and blue. Maud used
what paint she had.
On my flight home, which came all too soon and brought no trouble at customs,
I settled into crossing the country reading about Maud, staring at her green
snow and turquoise skies. If she didn't capture the landscape accurately,
she seized its flavor-an almost nostalgic innocence found in childhood coloring
books. Anne and I talked about rooming together when she gets her house built,
and I'll definitely take her up on it. At least for a summer. I'd rather live
in a place with smaller woodpiles.
