Haloa
Together, they sired a child which, at his birth, they named “Haloa.” Alas, he was born deformed as a mass of flesh. Brokenhearted, Wakea and Ho’ohokukalani buried their child on the eastern side of their hale pili, the side from which the sun would rise without fail. A short time later, a single plant grew from that solemn grave, and the first taro plant came. The second child to be born of the godly couple was a human child who was also a boy. They named him “Haloanakalaukapalili” (Haloa the quivering leaf ). In other accounts, the plant that springs from the grave is first mentioned in the name above.
Thus, the second Haloa became the caretaker or steward of the first, his older brother, and so it has been since time immemorial that we, the Hawaiian people, are the descendants of this most wonderful deity who has continually provided us with physical and spiritual sustenance.
Planting and harvesting kalo is arduous and often difficult for the uninitiated, but the work itself can be very therapeutic for the mind and body. The mud in a lo’i kalo contains many healthy minerals, and the taro plant itself is significant in that it symbolizes aspects of the family or ‘ohana, which are found in the ‘oha or corm of the taro. Different parts of the plant were used for food and medicinal purposes. Still, it was the steaming of the taro and the application of pounding it into a form where it first became pa’i ai and then later textured into poi that the true finesse took place. The papa ku’i ‘ai or the poi pounding board is where the taro would be placed and almost endlessly pounded by a pohaku ku’i ai or poi pounder. The pohaku ku’i ai was expertly fashioned from a porous stone, and it would eventually take on an almost pear-like shape, with the bottom half of it being the wider and heavier end. The upper portion was a bit thinner, leaving the user with a proper way to grip the tool. With a bowl of water beside him, the kanaka ku’i ai wet the substance repeatedly to prevent it from becoming sticky. The beginner will choke the tool with a tense grip and tire himself out quickly, but the experienced workman will relax his hold and let the weight of the pohaku ku’i ai do its work as it was meant to. It rolls effortlessly forward to smooth out the steamed corm so that it can take its shape and fulfill its responsibility or kuleana.
My hanai father held his pohaku ku’i ai with a grip that was so tense that he could only afford the steamed taro less than a few strikes before finally reaching exhaustion. His hands would fall to his side, and he would be utterly defeated. The second he stood up and left, my hanai mother, would take his place and continue where he would leave off, softly chastising and scolding the still undeveloped corm but smoothly spreading its texture until it could serve its purpose. If my hanai father ever struck the taro out of anger or rage, my hanai mother would take the tool from him and block the papa ku’i ai so that he could do no further damage to the process. Sometimes, she would suffer the pounding in place of the taro. At some point, when she passed away, the ku’ai was left on its own to become whatever it could become with the hopes that one day it would fill a wooden bowl where it finally became poi and could provide sustenance for its own family.
For many years, I have struggled with the exact tense grip with which I hold my pohaku ku’i ai; I can feel choking it rather than letting it relax in my hand. I feel its weight, but is it the weight of the tool, or is it the weight that I’ve put upon it? As a result, I’ve forgotten my finesse and my technique. The kalo I try to shape and spread out so that it too can serve it’s purpose frustrates and angers me because it is very much textured like myself, but I don’t pound it, I don’t strike it because it IS me. I’ve pounded and struck myself more than I care to remember; why would I do it to someone who is yet to be made whole?
Logically, he would be called “Hanai,” but we share the same hale, we feed him, we help clothe him, we worry with him, and because of him, we laugh with him and so on. He is my son, my Haloa now as I once was. We have to remind and assure him that, like the taro plant, every part of himself is useful and serves a purpose; we sometimes have to remind ourselves of that fact when we become frustrated. We smooth his rough edges out so that one day, he can fill the bowl that will provide for his own ‘ohana. Some days I wish for the haste that would fill his bowl with light but as is the process of kanu and huki, so to is the process from ku’ai to poi.
All this from the ‘anana and the wali of the poi this evening; how wonderful are our ancestors?
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