When I moved to my little cottage in Kihei, Maui it was next door to a bigger house occupied by Helen Peters, a granddaughter and two grandsons. In fact, my place used to be the kitchen for the main house.
It took awhile for us to be introduced because Helen worked days and I worked afternoons and nights.
Once we started getting to know one another it was clear that I was a stranger in a very strange land. I had my Haole mainland ways of doing things and they were locals to the core. As a result it took awhile for me to relax into their ways.
The first major breakthrough occurred when Auntie Helen brought over some poi for me to try. I’d had some poi in a local cafe but it was nothing like this. This was “sour poi” – a fermented paste of taro root. The taro is pounded until the fibers are broken down while water is added. Freshly made it’s sweet. But left to ferment it becomes sour and is sometimes called “Hawaiian yogurt.” It’s great for digestion.
She told me her favorite was “three finger poi” or poi at a consistency that needed three fingers to scoop it up. I told her that would be my favorite as well and she gave me a bowl of it from the bucket she’d let it ferment in. I scarfed the lot.
We did favors for each other. Sometimes it was a ride somewhere as Helen didn’t have a car and I don’t know if she drove. She’d made dishes for her family and send one of the grandkids over with some for me. It became my introduction to local food. One day I was at “Azeka Store” when she came in. The store set prices according to who you were. A “local” got a much lower price than a tourist and a tourist got a higher prices than “kamaiana” – or people who, by virtue of living locally were accepted by the locals to be as close to a local you could be without having been island born. The person at the counter asked me if I was kamaiana and while I was thinking about how to answer, Helen barked “KAMAIANA!” From then on I got a lower price. But that was after I’d lived there for over a year.
I worked as a waiter at the Ka’anapali Hilton near Lahaina. So much of my eating was done in Haole establishments – although having seen some of what went on in the restaurant kitchen I didn’t eat the free food for staff. My regular diet was pretty light. I’d stopped eating red meat before I left the mainland. But I did eat fish and one of my favorite haunts on a night off was the garden bar behind the old Pioneer Inn in Lahaina. Their salad bar was the best on the island and I could buy a big piece of Mahimahi wrapped in tin-foil with a knob of butter, plus a baked potato wrapped the same PLUS the all I could eat salad bar, including sour cream for the potato – all for five dollars. That was usually the minimum tip I’d get from a table of two in the “silver service” Lokilani restaurant and my average take per night was $40. So no big thing when rent was $25 a month.
I was getting along well at the restaurant. The maître ‘d had mentored me well and talked the Hilton management into sponsoring me for further training at their school in Switzerland. The hotel management was extremely supportive and friendly, except for the head chef “Chef Robert” – pronounced the French way. But then he was as mad as a meat-axe and didn’t get along with anybody. I once witnessed him chase a busboy around the kitchen with a carving knife, yelling like a madman.
When I learned that Helen’s favorite singer, Don Ho, was scheduled to perform at the hotel I bought three tickets. One for Helen, one for an old friend of hers and one for her granddaughter.
To make the evening even more special I ordered a lei from the flower shop to be waiting for each of them on their arrival. It was to be a girl’s night out and I was happy not to be going. I love Hawai’ian music, and still do, but not Don Ho’s lounge-style.
When I ordered the leis I asked the couple who owned the concession for their advice. The older ladies should have multi-strand plumeria leis, but the granddaughter, who was much younger, should have a seven strand lei make of fragrant pikake flowers. What I didn’t know was that my giving the granddaughter that particular lei – especially witnessed by her grandmother – was tantamount to asking for her hand in marriage.
The next few weeks were a flurry of activity. The granddaughter would arrive at my door with plates of food and other small gifts. It was clear she wasn’t doing these things willingly. She’d never been friendly to me before now and the new smile pasted on her face was scary. Like a tiki at a blood sacrifice. But even though I didn’t have a clue what was going on, the die was cast.
Suddenly I was taken in tow by various uncles and cousins and introduced to family throughout the island. One of the strangest was being taken up the side of Haleakala (the volcano under which we lived) and not only introduced to a cousin or uncle who had a pig farm, but introduced to each of his prize animals. As if I knew the difference, I was told about their pedigree, their breeding and their weight.
The culmination of this manic, non-stop meet and greet saga was my first real Hawai’ian luau. Helen had been introducing me to some traditional songs. She and her friends had a singalong in the area outside of my windows one night and those beautiful harmonies lulled me into one of the most peaceful sleeps I’ve ever had.
She also started using Hawai’ian more often when speaking to me, and speaking only Hawai’ian to locals when I was around.
I was slowly being immersed into their culture.
My Hānai Mother © Robert R. Feigel 2022 – All Rights Reserved
Pieces from a Puzzling Life 