Austin Aslan - The Islands at the End of the World

Our trip will end along the bay of a small town called Paia on the slopes of Maui’s grand mountain, the volcano of Haleakalā—“the house of the sun.” Dad and I will head east, toward Hana. Once we find our way around Haleakalā, the nearest tip of the Big Island is another thirty miles.

We’re opposite Kahului Bay now, the twin cities of Kahului and Wailuku sprawling along Maui’s valley floor to our right. I see several cars driving along. The sky’s sickly haze has been lifting bit by bit each day, but here there is a tall, hot fire spewing brown smoke and gray ash into the sky behind the airport.

“The Maui pyre,” one of the three crew members explains in a low voice. “It’s been burning all week.”

I study the pillar of smoke with morbid fascination. That’s people .

“Why?”

“Maui’s nothing but tourism and corporate farming. And just like O`ahu, the waterworks—the irrigation—it’s all belly-up,” our captain says as he adjusts the mainsheet. He’s the same one-legged man who helped rescue us on Wednesday. “Folks aren’t getting along so well. Keep to yourselves if you want to hang on to those bags.”

The column of ash is massive, and my understanding of the disaster that’s unfolding on these islands billows. In spite of all our heartache these past weeks, we’ve been the lucky ones.

There are so many dead that the bodies are burned instead of buried.

I envision pillars of gray ash rising from the slopes of Hilo and bat the images back. I focus instead on the faces of Mom, Kai, and Grandpa. Tami. I’m sure things are better there and they’ve all been spared this nightmare. I have to believe that.

“It’s only a matter of time before they descend upon Hawai`i.…”

Like a recurring dream, it keeps coming back. I don’t believe Uncle Akoni’s theory for one second, but I can’t shake it. He was such a nice guy. Why did he have to end up being nuts? Harsh, but true.

Dad’s already put it behind him. Of course we talked about what Uncle Akoni said. To Dad, Uncle Akoni is just one more guy with one more guess. On the weirder end of the spectrum, but just a guess, all the same. Why can’t I let it go?

“… I’ve heard them. You will, too, Leilani, if you just listen.”

We near our target bay. Our crew scans the coast and the slopes for signs of danger, and then we dart in toward shore. The captain says, “I wish we could take you all the way, but this run is pushing it as it is.”

“You’ve been a great help to us,” says Dad. “Give Uncle Akoni our gratitude and our loving wishes in his efforts to unite the island.”

The captain gives Dad a stern look. “You need more strength before you march for Hana. Get into the trees and rest up for a few days. Don’t trust anyone to help you.”

Trust—the “spirit of Aloha.” I used to think it was everywhere but the Big Island. But now I wonder, Could it be the other way around?

We beach and quickly disembark. The crew helps Dad fit his backpack around his tender shoulder and wishes us well. We travel with only our food, our tent, the iodide, and minimal clothing.

As we turn a woman and a teenage boy scramble down the embankment. “Please, can you take us toward Kaua`i?” one asks the crew. “We need to get to Kaua`i.” She’s haole, in her late forties.

“I can take you as far as Moloka`i.”

The woman nods.

The boy and I share a glance. “Where are you coming from?” I ask him.

“Hana. Kona before that.”

Kona! That’s on the Big Island! His white T-shirt is stained and shredded. He looks much the same as I feel—as if he’s been through hell and hasn’t yet seen the finish line.

“How’s the Big Island? Have you been to Hilo?”

“No. Just Kona. Things were a mess there, but nothing like here.”

“How crazy is it here? The military? What’s the best route?”

“No. Militant locals. We’ve been shot at twice. Stay off the roads. No cars. The checkpoints are airtight. Only older cars work anymore anyway. And stay off the obvious trails. They’re using pig-hunting dogs. Make sure you have a gun, or at least a knife.”

My eyes widen.

“Some psycho sheriff, he’s gone all Lord of the Flies back there. He’s running the passage like a drug cartel. If you surrender your stuff, they might let you by. They’re taking everything, though. They’ll take the fancy hiking clothes right off your back.” The boy eyes my backpack. His eyes are sunken in and darkly rimmed. His face is pale. He’s probably starving.

I whip off my pack and hand him an entire stick of salami. He trembles as he takes it, eyes alight with disbelief.

“Here.” He hands me his machete. I take it from him gently, studying it as if I’m a cavewoman being handed an ereader.

“Let’s go, folks! All aboard!” the captain shouts.

“Jason—now!” his mother yells. The boy looks back at me twice as he climbs onto the wa`akaulua . I watch him until Dad and I turn onto the nearby beach road and march away.

“Dad.”

“Yeah, honey?”

“You don’t think Mom and Kai have left home, do you? To come find us?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why not? What if …?”

“Mom knows that we’re on our way home. She’s not going to leave. Remember the rule she taught you?”

I remember well. We had been in a mall in San Francisco. I was eight, and I got separated from my parents. In a panic, I ran off to find them. A helpful woman and a security guard reunited us. “We knew right where we lost you, honey,” Mom said. “Next time you get lost, stay right where you are. It’ll make it easier to track you down.”

But I’ll never forget that panic. When it takes hold, all bets are off. Mom’s had a month to constantly second-guess her resolutions.…

“Let’s not linger on the road,” Dad says. “If the stories about this sheriff are true …”

This area of Maui is largely farmland, and we stick to the rolling fields where the grasses are tallest, hiking steadily toward the tree line of the unbroken jungle, which will take us most of the day to reach.

We traverse the township of Haiku nervously, keeping to forested gullies where we can. We find ourselves cautiously climbing over fences and scurrying through a patchwork of fields, yards, and open streets. We see people, but not many. An old man sitting on his porch, who pretends not to notice us. Two kids running across a yard. An occasional old car driving up the hill from the valley. It’s like we’re actually in a haiku. But where has everyone else gone? There’s nowhere to go. I could imagine hordes of city dwellers on the mainland heading for the hills, or the wild lands beyond the highways. But here, we’re just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic .

The echo of rapid gunfire comes from somewhere in the direction of Kahului. I look toward the sound and the plume of the pyre still burning hot and fierce near the airport.

“Come on,” Dad says, following my gaze. “Got to reach the jungle before nightfall.”

Just as dusk settles over Maui with a breathtaking, bloodred sunset behind us, we move beneath the canopy of full-blown jungle. Now I’m fighting with thorny brambles and giant, hairy ferns and great mops of tangled vine. I use my new machete for the first time, swinging it timidly at first, and then more confidently. “This is going to be miserable.”

“Let’s stop for the night. My shoulder is done.”

We pitch our small tent and hop inside, escaping a cloud of mosquitoes. I already have more itchy bites than I can keep track of. Dad’s in a fair amount of pain, but he’s trying to keep it to himself. He swallows down painkillers. We snack briefly on our stores of food, always the same: crushed and stale crackers, dried fruit, and processed meat by-product that’s been stuffed into tubes as rock hard as a billy club.