Big Island's lush, isolated North Kohala nurtures music and arts
Waves pound the beach at Pololu Valley, as seen from the trail at road's end on Hawaii's Big Island. (Brian J. Cantwell, Seattle Times, MCT / November 19, 2012)
All the better for local musicians and artists to hide away and find their Polynesian muses.
This lush district at the Big Island of Hawaii's north shore is isolated from the busy Kona Coast by the ranch-dotted, horse-heaven hill that is Kohala, an extinct volcano. On its windward side, it squeezes up like an accordion into deep and wild valleys navigated only by ancient trails.
A two-lane road transits the frozen-in-time, tin-roof towns of Hawi and Kapa'au and ends at an overlook and trailhead above the kiwi-green Pololu Valley.
Nearby, on a windswept point looking toward Maui, King Kamehameha I was born in the 1750s. To protect him from chiefs jealous of his royal destiny, protectors fled with the infant to raise him in the remote backcountry beyond Pololu.
To this day, North Kohala cradles island culture and intact native families, and this road less traveled nurtures the souls of musicians and artists whose work is emblematic of Hawaii.
"The important thing about Kohala is it's a dead-end road and you have to have a reason to come up here," says David Gomes, a musician whose Portuguese great-grandparents came from the Azores to work a now-defunct sugar plantation that was Kohala's economic lifeblood for 100 years. "That makes the community a little tight place. They're sweet, tolerant, forgiving people. Kohala is literally and figuratively the end of the road for some."
Gomes, who grew up with the remote valleys as his playground and who still loves to hike them, spends peaceful days crafting masterful guitars and ukuleles in a cluttered workshop off a quiet lane above Hawi (say "Huh-vee"). He has a dual cultural connection to the ukulele: Before being popularized in Hawaii in the 1800s, ukuleles came from Portugal.
Visitors can hear him play one of his instruments at a local cafe or a gallery opening. Make an appointment to visit his workshop and he might show off his pride and joy, a koa-wood guitar with an inlaid maile-vine lei of New Zealand abalone braided up the neck. When I visited he showed how he assembles a bass ukulele, his own invention (see this story online for video). His instruments can be found in the hands of musicians from Tokyo to New York.
At the head of each guitar he builds, Gomes carves a deep notch, a little trademark representing the Kohala valleys he loves.
Before saying goodbye, he takes me on a quick hike down into Pololu Valley, where we find the last decaying remains of a World War II landing craft just off the beach, and an ancient burial ground from a long-ago village.
As we hike back up the well-trodden trail, Gomes points at a distant ridge on the valley's far side.
"See that lone pine? That's where there was a still back in the Prohibition era … They made okolehao moonshine, from ti leaf root. And the high trees on the ridge there? That's Awini, where Kamehameha was taken as a baby when fleeing the chiefs."
In North Kohala, Hawaiian history can crop up on every horizon.
Hawaii is known as the Pacific melting pot, with several musical traditions evolving from other cultures. One is the falsetto style of singing once heard at every luau.
"My understanding is it came from vaqueros and the cowboy yodeling tradition, but the Hawaiians took that and tweaked it and made it something very sweet," says Matthew Kupuka'a, a falsetto singer and guitarist who performs with his wife, hula dancer, singer and ukulele player Rosalind Kupuka'a. They come from native Hawaiian families and grew up as friends in the North Kohala village of Niulii, where they still live.
Vaqueros were Mexican cowboys brought to the Big Island in the 1800s to help manage cattle that were a gift to Kamehameha from explorer Capt. George Vancouver.
As a young singer, Matthew was mentored by a neighbor, the late Clyde "Kindy" Sproat, a famed Hawaiian falsetto singer honored in 1988 with a National Heritage Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts.
"We'd go to sing at his place for a couple hours, and it would end up four or five hours," Matthew recalls of his youth, in a time and place where if kids misbehaved in town "our parents or grandparents would know before we got home!"