The morning was spent working and I finished enough that I agreed to join the Gentleman Friend after lunch – he had asked Surfer Dude to take him to Akaka Falls. An excellent name, Akaka Falls, it makes one think of an old-fashioned thriller. Peril at Akaka Falls, that sort of thing.
First, though, the Surfer Dude said he’d take us a more scenic way, and drove us through the old plantation side of Hilo. These used to be sugar cane plantations and are incredibly lush and green, with old houses peeping out – small ones against the hill for the workers, large villas overlooking the sea for the owners. It was another of those places where the plant life seems about thrice the size you find it anywhere else. We then stopped by the side of the road and he told us to go down the path. There were several warnings plastered all over the start of the path: WARNING: danger of falling rocks, stay away from cliff wall; WARNING: danger of crumbling cliff, stay away from edge, etc. It was a narrow path so we decided to ignore the signs beyond general self-presevation.
The path led down along a cliffside and through a public right of way passing through the botanical gardens which were very dramatic indeed, though privately owned so we could not go off onto enticing paths left and right. The public way led down to a small waterfall flowing onto a pebbly beach in a nearly circular bay overlooking rock formations in the sea. The sea was quite violent today, under grey skies and a hard wind. We continued on the path, up a very green way, where the path was scattered with ferny, mossy stones and lined with mango trees that, I undestand, are fiercely aromatic in the summer when the ground is covered in fruit. It gave a better look of the waterfall from above.
Then back and onwards, passing a narrow bridge over a pool fed by a fierce torrent coming out of an immense lava tube. The tube had fallen in a little so there was a circle of light further in; it looked very intriguing, like a lost world behind it.
Onwards, and we came to a coconut stall where we decided to stop for a drink. We got out of the car and there was an immediate cry: ‘sir, that is the best beard I’ve seen all day.’
The Surfer Dude, whose beard is Assyrian more than hipster, looked pleased and said, ‘You’ve got a start on one too.’
The speaker, who was a dreadlocked blonde fellow, waif-like, and clearly on some sort of tonic, stroked his pointed chin and its tiny chin patch and said, ‘yeah, you should have seen it before I shaved off the side burns. You should have seen my side burns, man.’
‘Best beard you’ve seen all day gets a discount, eh?’ said the Surfer Dude, always alert to an opportunity.
The blond looked struck. ‘That’s a great idea man, we’ll have to talk about it.’
The coconut stall was a table set with a coconut, a dish of pineapple chunks and a stalk or two of sugarcane. We got our coconuts (inferior ones, unfortunately) and looked around. There was a second table with some wares: a half dozen amethyst geodes and pile of finger puppets. The second of the rasta brothers came up to us with a notebook and pen. ‘Where are you from,’ he asked. This fellow was darker and lacked a chin tuft, but in every other way was indistinguishable from his fellow.
‘London,’ said the GF and our interlocutor brightened up.
‘I’m from Aberdeen myself, don’t mind the accent!’ he said in pure East End tones. ‘London! Wow! There are three other Brits on the island aside from me, man. One guy comes for six months a year. There are two ladies, one in her sixties and one younger. I don’t know how they deal with visas and stuff. Me, my dad’s American.’
‘So how long have you been here?’
‘Six hundred and fourteen days. I know this because I’ve climbed six hundred and nineteen trees. I’m trying to climb more trees so I have some padding,’ he explained.
‘Ah,’ said we, none the wiser.
‘London, man!’ he repeated and went on the usual British moan about Brexit. He asked me and I said, Pakistan. Where in Pakistan? I said Lahore. Both the rasta brothers looked struck. ‘Lahoooore,’ they said in a chorus and folded their hands, namaste.
Meanwhile a Thai family arrived and ordered a coconut. Surfer Dude found a mother hen surrounded by little black chicks and picked up a chick. It tweeted in his immense hands. He took it over to the Thais and held it into the face of the little boy, saying, ‘want a chicken?’ The boy cowered. The rasta brothers’ dog looked up expectantly and the Surfer Dude held the chick before its nose and said, ‘want a chicken?’ The chick nearly died of fright and the dog look interested but not enough to pursue the matter. The Surfer Dude released the chick which returned, quivering, to its mother.
It was like walking into a moment of comedy in a film; certainly the rasta brothers were like the perfect marriage between Cheech and Chong on one hand, Bill and Ted on the other.
On we went to Akaka falls, which was magnificent, a single torrent falling 500 feet from a rounded green cliff and small torrents falling around it. Apparently there are species of shrimp and fish that climb up the falls. So said the little informational board, but I would have liked to know how long they take about it.
On the way in, we passed the gatekeeper, a young glum looking fellow with a sort of parking metre next to him which dispensed tickets in exchange for cash. His role seemed uncertain. As we passed the Surfer Dude looked admiringly at the parking metre and said ‘High tech!’ To which the gatekeeper replied morosely, ‘Not high enough.’ Everyone on this island does seem to be on some sort of tonic, or in need of the next dose.
The Surfer Dude then suggested that instead of going straight back we stop along the way, and we agreed. The first stop was again on the side of the road with steps leading down, this time into two green curtained openings: a pair of lava tubes. We went into one and were a bit miffed to find a family with a five-year-old exploring ahead of us, but we lost track of them soon enough. As it became pitch black our torchlight shone off the fool’s gold streaking the walls and roof. the floor was rubble but the sides were smooth, organic, like tree trunks. Not a great place to be trapped in an earthquake I thought.
On coming to a bit we’d have to squeeze under, we decided to turn back as neither us, in our rubber slippers and linen shorts, were dressed for crawling over petrified lava. We went into the other tube, which was surprisingly different. There was a little scramble at the very start, then it went steeply uphill. The surface was much smoother to walk on though there were some places we had to double over. Nothing too squeezy, indeed the ceiling was often high and vaulted. In some places people had written their names in the white chalky powder on the walls and I thought if I had any artistic skills I would have made a cave painting of a mongoose or something to delight future archaeologists.
The next stop was Rainbow Falls. No rainbow, as it was a cloudy evening and approaching sunset, but a pretty waterfall, low but with a mighty gush from the Boiling Pots, a white-water-y bit above the fall, and a legend attached to it of a battle between Maui and a lizard, and Maui’s mother the goddess Hena living behind.
Then back; another excellent day.