The land, and the need to protect it, is an inseparable part of Native Hawaiian culture, as visitors to the islands of Maui and Kaua‘i quickly discover

Words Jacqui Agate

“E ala e, ka lā i ka hikina, I ka moana, ka moana hohonu, Pi‘i ka lewa, ka lewa nu‘u, I ka hikina, aia ka lā, e ala e…”

Nan Cabatbat stood at the edge of Haleakalā crater and sang from her stomach. Each note of the traditional Hawaiian chant seemed to take on its own life, echoing across a craggy expanse of chestnut-coloured rock. Tendrils of cloud crept over the landscape, as ethereal as the melody. A small crowd had gathered around us, but there was silence save for the song.

This chant, or oli, celebrates the rising sun as it climbs from the ‘deep ocean’ to the ‘highest heaven’; in English, e ala e means ‘awaken’ or ‘arise’. It was a fitting ode to Haleakalā, a dormant shield volcano whose name translates as ‘House of the Sun’.

We were at the soaring Kalahaku Overlook in Maui’s 13,878-hectare Haleakalā National Park, which protects its eponymous volcano. This behemoth ranks among the tallest mountains on Earth, though some two-thirds of its 9,053m bulk lies below sea level. I’d joined Nan, a respected Native Hawaiian Elder affectionately known to all as “Aunty Nan”, on a brand-new excursion with Unique Maui Tours.

The trip combined a journey through the national park with an introduction to traditional Hawaiian crafts. At every turn it highlighted the symbiotic relationship between Native Hawaiian culture and the land – a theme of my week-long adventure on Maui and Kaua‘i, two of the major islands in the Hawaiian archipelago.

Earlier on, we had passed a sign reading ‘mālama ‘āina’, so I’d asked Nan what it meant.

“Mālama literally means ‘to care for’,” she had explained as the grassy meadows gave way to twisted lava rock outside the window of the van. “You could mālama your mother or father, for example. But in this case, ‘āina means ‘land’. We take care of the Earth; it’s part of who we are.”

As I’d learn time and again here, this type of mālama – a respect and care for Mother Earth and the people who call her home – was a fundamental part of the Hawaiian spirit.

After the fires

“This is a really special tour,” said Wendy, the manager and naturalist guide at Unique Maui Tours, who co-led the excursion. “We led our first one last year and we were hoping that it would take off, but then the fires happened last August, so tourism stopped.”

In August 2023, Maui made international headlines as wildfires, caused by downed power lines during exceptionally high winds, engulfed the historic town of Lahaina. More than 100 people were killed and the former capital of Hawai‘i was razed to the ground. Tourism halted as the community mourned its devastating losses and rallied to rebuild itself.

My late-spring visit came less than a year after the fires, and reminders of the disaster were still visible. On my drive to meet Nan and Wendy, I’d seen trucks clearing debris from Lahaina, while temporary road signs reminded drivers not to stop. Flowers and photographs of the deceased lined the road and ‘Lahaina Strong’ was spray-painted on a tunnel in thick, blood-red letters. But although the community was still recovering from the tragedy, both Nan and Wendy were positive about the future prospects of tourism on Maui.

“It’s not fully back yet. Some people coming to Hawai‘i have chosen other islands, but tourism here is definitely on the upswing,” Wendy said.

“We have to get our visitor industry up and running,” Nan chimed in agreement.

New tours like this one should certainly help, I thought, as Wendy and Nan regaled me with Native Hawaiian legends and shared facts about the rockscape all around us. I learned that the gaping Haleakalā ‘crater’ is technically not a crater at all, but an erosional depression that was etched by landslides and water over aeons. I was also told that the silvery flashes breaking up the rust-red plains were in fact āhinahina, or silverswords, a threatened plant species endemic to Haleakalā. Their shiny barbed spines could almost have been spray-painted.

Wendy also pointed out Ka Moa o Pele (Pele’s Bones), a cracked cinder cone named after the volcano goddess who is revered across the entire archipelago. Year after year, the park receives letters returning lava rocks stolen from the volcano, along with tales of misfortune attributed to Pele’s resulting wrath – a reminder to leave only footprints and take only photographs.

This is one of the oldest national parks in the system. It was originally established in 1916 as part of Hawai‘i National Park, which also encompassed Mauna Loa and Kilauea on the Island of Hawai‘i before being split into two parks: Haleakalā and Hawai’i Volcanoes. That was some 43 years before Hawai‘i became a state. But Haleakalā, which is seen as a dwelling place for the gods, was sacred to Native Hawaiians long before it was parcelled into a park site.

Today, Indigenous voices are essential to its management. The park brochure, the first of its kind in the system, is primarily written in the Native Hawaiian language (with a secondary English translation) and the islands’ Elders are regularly consulted on development projects.

We took a short hike on Haleakalā’s rugged flanks before making the ear-popping drive back down through the park, slicing through feathery clouds that lingered like steam from a cauldron. In the van, Nan weaved a ribbon lei, a traditional Hawaiian garland given in greeting or on special occasions, and a skill that she would attempt to teach me at our next stop.

Resurrecting a culture

It’s thought that the first settlers journeyed to this volcanic archipelago of 137 isles and atolls as early as 1000 AD. They were Polynesians from the lush Marquesas Islands, around 1,500km north-east of Tahiti, and they brought with them a rich culture that included canoe building, astronomy and the wearing and making of leis.

We settled at Maui’s Hui No‘eau Visual Arts Center, a non-profit cultural space on the manicured site of an old sugar mill, and began our own attempts at lei making. Nan’s fingers moved dexterously, mine slowly, but we wrangled the ti leaves – a plant introduced to the islands by the Polynesians and used for everything from medicine to roof thatching – into satisfying braided designs.

While we worked, Nan explained how certain aspects of Native Hawaiian culture were almost erased forever. White missionaries hailing from New England arrived in Hawai‘i from 1820, spreading Christianity and beginning the dilution of Indigenous Hawaiian lifeways.

In the 1850s, it’s estimated that around 97% of the population of Hawai‘i was Indigenous. This number would sharply decline throughout the 19th century and beyond, while sugar and fruit industries spearheaded by wealthy Americans boomed. The planters brought in international labourers – mostly Japanese workers – who toiled in unforgiving conditions. Come 1923, Native Hawaiians made up just 16% of the population.

The year 1893 is remembered here with particular consternation. Throughout the 19th century, Hawai‘i entered into various treaties with the US as the Hawaiian economy became increasingly bound up with that of the States. As a new order ensued, the reigning Hawaiian monarchs were all but stripped of their power with the forced signing of the so-called Constitution of the Kingdom of Hawai‘i in 1887. Then, following Queen Lili‘uokalani’s ascension to the throne, the monarchy was illegally overthrown in 1893. The beloved Hawaiian queen was imprisoned in Honolulu’s ‘Iolani Palace for months, while Hawai‘i later suffered a similar fate, after finally being annexed by the United States in 1898, ending its independence. What followed was an assault on traditional Hawaiian culture – events that drew an official apology from former president Bill Clinton in 1993.

“When I was in high school, we could not speak Hawaiian. We couldn’t dance. Traditional crafts faded. We had to have a biblical first name,” Nan explained while twisting, folding and knotting the lei. “At that point in time, we didn’t know how much we were losing. Now we do.”

Today, efforts to revive, protect and promote the Native Hawaiian culture are ubiquitous, including Hawaiian language immersion programmes in schools and the practice of crafts that were once almost extinct. Another side to this is the offering of cultural programmes at visitor resorts.

On the previous day, I’d spent 30 minutes standing in the shade of a kukui nut tree at the Outrigger Kā‘anapali Beach Resort and listening to a Native Hawaiian guide regale our group with mo’olelo (stories). An Indigenous-run cultural centre has been active at this hotel since it opened in 1985. If I’d stayed longer, I might have tried my hand at the ukulele or learned how to decorate kapa, traditional Hawaiian bark cloth, but the Road to Hana was calling me.

The rainforest-flanked highway curls along Maui’s eastern coast, stitching together black-sand beaches, waterfalls and banana-bread shacks. Completed in 1926, the route wiggles from the airport town of Kahului to the dreamy residential village of Hana, unfolding in a white-knuckle 620 (mostly) hairpin turns and 59 bridges. Driving it remains the most sought-after activity on the island.

“It’s a very adventurous road out there,” said Damien, my Hana and Beyond tour guide. “Everything grows so lush, too.”

Unfortunately, the road’s unwavering popularity means that it suffers through overtourism. Local residents lament the bumper-to-bumper traffic during the high season (mid-December–March), with some careless tourists even seen illegally parking on bridges or other scenic viewpoints to nab their holiday snaps. Damien advocates for group excursions, as they have the benefit of reducing vehicles on the road while also offering a local perspective.

“When you travel here, it’s about remembering aloha,” he explained, referring to the Hawaiian word that doubles as both a greeting and farewell but also has a broader meaning, as an expression of love, kindness and fellowship. “It’s about respect for the Motherland and respect for each other. They give it on this island. That’s why I call this little rock in the Pacific my home.”

We drove past eucalyptus trees with coloursplashed trunks like Jackson Pollock paintings and watched as the ground dropped sharply on our left side, revealing a swoop of rainforest canopy and a sheet of glittering ocean. On our right, waterfalls hung like lace veils in a tangle of acid-green foliage. We made a pit stop at Ke‘anae Peninsula, a limb of young lava rock that twists into the Pacific.

As we drove, Damien listed the fruit trees that hugged the roadside: “Avocado, orange, papaya, mango…” We also spotted koa trees, the largest native tree species in Hawai‘i, whose wood was used by Hawaiians to build everything from surfboards to canoes.

“The rainforest has provided for Hawaiians for centuries,” Damien said. “We learn from the Elders. The knowledge is passed onto the next generation for the following generation.”

At the side of the road, I saw another sign reading ‘mālama ‘āina’. “It’s our culture,” he added. “That’s what we do.”

Hitting the road

I’d left Maui with a heavy heart, but the lush promise of my next stop, the green island of Kaua‘i, softened the blow. Here the concept of mālama is being brought into the future.

My first stop was Common Ground, a new regenerative agro-forest that sprawls out across a former guava and sugar plantation on the rugged north shore. It was first established in 2021 but was quickly closed due to the pandemic; now reopened, it’s drawing in a new wave of travellers.

“We want to be a blueprint for what Hawai‘i’s food system could be,” said my guide, Louis Antonelli, as we wandered past trees swollen with bananas and beds knotted with fragrant herbs and ti leaves. The site aims to imitate the natural ecosystem of a tropical forest and support local start-ups with its produce. Its other intention is to ignite conversations around sustainable, hyper-local farming and food sovereignty. “Hawaiians used to eat a 100% local diet; now it’s 10%,” said Louis. “Sometimes you have to look to the past to provide for the future.”

As well as being a working farm, Common Ground is now a visitor attraction too. Louis led our tour group through the farm forest, pausing to have us taste herbs or feel the bark of a tree, before leading us to a leafy courtyard. Our evening meal was whipped up from the onsite produce, and my plate heaved with honey-roasted squash, fried taro and breadfruit – the latter two are dubbed ‘canoe crops’, since the Polynesians brought them to Hawai‘i in the early days of settlement.

The farm was a fitting introduction to Kaua‘i, whose waterfall-stitched rainforests have earned it the moniker the ‘Garden Isle’. Development touches just 10% of the land here, while the amount of rugged backcountry hiking trails far outweigh the number of accessible roads.

This spirit extends to construction too, and no buildings are built higher than the tallest coconut palm tree. That’s why my accommodation – the recently opened 1 Hotel – tumbles down, rather than rises from, the hillside overlooking Hanalei Bay in the north of Kaua‘i. Its sustainability efforts include garden-covered roofs, hangers made from milk bottles and drinking-water taps in every room, and it made for a luxurious base.

I dipped into independent art galleries and bookstores in Hanapēpē, famous for its swinging suspension bridge, and drove into Waimea, a quaint town at the heart of Kaua‘i’s cowboy country. Rain washed out my trip to Allerton Garden, a botanical plot whose dramatic banyan trees made a cameo in the 1993 film Jurassic Park, but my own cinematic finale awaited.

“It’s no wonder Hollywood loves this island,” said my pilot with Jack Harter Helicopters. We were soaring over the 23 km-long Waimea Canyon, a gaping gorge known as the ‘Grand Canyon of the Pacific’. The ground dived beneath us, crumpling into terracotta ridges thick with vegetation. Occasionally, a waterfall would interrupt the orange-green expanse, hanging high and slender like a silk thread from the eye of a needle. We eventually swung out towards the north-western shoreline and the Hawai‘i of my imagination revealed itself in screaming colour. This was the fabled Nā Pali Coast, where tapered cliffs jutted out like the fingers of giants, lapped greedily by a frothing, turquoise Pacific.

“We never turn our back to the ocean,” said the pilot as we swooped above the water. I’d been told this by countless Hawaiians during the course of my trip, and it took on a new potency now. From up high, the power and beauty of Hawai‘i’s natural world seemed amplified. To look away was impossible. The call to mālama (take care of) the land is an irrevocable part of the Hawaiian psyche. I left with a renewed sense of stewardship and respect for Mother Nature myself.