“Pops, why are we waiting here?” Chris asked.
Our family of four had been stuck in a minibus, built to accommodate 20, for an hour in the parking lot of Hilo Airport. The boys had been woken up at 6 a.m. for all of us to be collected at 7 a.m. for a tour of the island. Now this.
Trudy, our driver and guide overheard. “We’re picking up a group of Australians. Their plane has been delayed.”
Eventually they arrived, storming onto our bus like a troop of hard-bitten rugby fans. My boys woke up with a start.
“Good morning, everyone. We’re heading to several sites around Hilo and then onto Volcano Park to observe an imploded volcano crater. I’ll have several surprises for you on the way.” I smiled at the boys trying to cheer them up. “Our first stop—Rainbow Falls.”
The Big Island has a climate where it rains frequently in short bursts. It results in lush vegetation and a perpetual rainbow over a waterfall, minutes from the airport. Laura followed the visitors to take all the photos she could. The width of the fall was greater than the depth of the water rushing down it. The foliage, in a hundred hues of green, took your breath away.
Before my boys could gear themselves up, we were on the move again. This time, to the centre of Hilo Town.
We drove through an avenue canopied with giant Banyan trees. Each bore a plaque, with a name of a celebrity. On one, I saw the name of Richard Nixon. “The idea of planting Banyans took hold in 1933, the first plaque honoured President Franklin Roosevelt on his visit here in 1934. Cecil B. DeMille filmed a movie on the island and planted a tree in his and his wife’s name. Grand hotels were built along the drive, beyond the Banyans, skirting the ocean. Babe Ruth, Bogart, and Bacall joined the rush of stars to visit and plant a tree in their name.”
Sadly, there was no traffic into, nor out of any hotels we passed. The giant glass monoliths stood stark empty as a ghost town at dusk.
The line of trees one after the other, led me to doze. Someone tugged my elbow. “Oi, mate, wake up! You’ll miss it all.” It was the oversized Aussie, leaning across the gangway. “Where’re you from? India?”
“Na mate, Canada.” It remined me of a World War I Gallipoli joke. The British officer asks the Australian volunteer, “Have you come here to die?” In his enthusiasm the man replies, “Na mate, I came yesterdie.”
“I’m Stan. This is my wife, Beryl.” She was squeezed into half-a-seat between him and the window.
“Where are you folks from? Brazil?” I asked in return.
Before he could answer, Trudy interrupted. “We’re heading to the highlight of our tour, Volcano Park.”
Thirty minutes through twisting roads, surrounded by high hedges and trees, we arrived at a car park. The Aussies rebounded off their seats and followed Trudy through a narrow winding pathway. We struggled to keep up. Twenty minutes later, we found ourselves at the very edge of a massive crater. There was no barrier to stop us from tumbling into it. “This is not a crater, but a caldera,” our Trudy continued her lecture. “Calderas are larger. They are imploded volcanoes. Craters are smaller and formed when volcanoes spout out rock and magma, leaving holes in the ground called craters.”
Looking down into the Kilauea Caldera, we were astonished. The bottom was black land, cracked all over, like hardened mud. No vegetation, save one tree in the very centre that appeared to be a sapling. Neither birds nor creatures were to be seen.
A few years ago, I had taken my family to another caldera, the Ngorongoro Crater in Tanzania. We were driven down into the crater and followed a circular beaten path along the bottom. The place teemed with long grass, wild animals, and avifauna. Why was there no life in Kilauea?
“Remember, Hawaii is isolated thousands of miles from anywhere. Too far for birds to migrate. Few seeds can travel the distance. Only plants introduced by shipping at that time. The Hawaiian Islands, particularly ours, are evolving with frequent eruptions, the land being constantly covered in slow-moving lava, destroying all in its path.”
On the way back, our conversation resumed. “We’re from Melbourne. My wife found a travel deal and off we went with a bunch of our church group. Three days in Hawaii, airfare included, for $500. We left Thursday, arrived in Honolulu on Friday to shop, got onto the late-night flight to Hilo. There was a delay. We go back tonight, arrive early morning, spend a day in Waikiki and leave in the evening for Sydney. To save money, we slept at the airport and on the plane.”
As we entered Hilo, Trudy turned to my family, “Our tour is officially over. I can drop you off at your hotel. Or, if you wish, you can join us for a few more hours until I deliver the group to the airport for their flight. I won’t charge you.”
Laura and the boys nodded their consent.
“I’m going to show Hilo through local eyes, so you have an idea of how we live and our favourite places to shop and eat. There are so many accomplished artisans living here. We have a men’s and ladies’ clothing store where you can buy all your Hawaiian shirts and dresses. All in bright colours with scenes of the island. These are our favourite clothes to wear, even at work.”
Trudy continued, “Before that, I’m taking you to a crêperie in a back street of Hilo. It’s called ‘Le Magic Pan’. You must all be hungry. Lots of food there and cheap.”
My family lasted the whole of the extra tour without a complaint, intrigued by the insider’s look Trudy gave us of her hometown. We departed, missing our rambunctious companions.
Years later, sitting in the icebox of mid-winter Calgary recalling our trip, the wonders that leap to mind are not the miles of black powdered sandy beaches, the pristine view of an endless ocean, nor the luxuriant flora. It is of a band of Aussies crossing the Pacific, exploring islands in a matter of days that took their ancestors eons to navigate. And not forgetting the savour of Crêpes Suzettes in an anonymous back street, equal to any found on the Rue du Montparnasse.
