Leis and Lariats on Hawaii

Author: By Anne Z. Cooke and Steve Haggerty, Globe Correspondents

Date: SUNDAY, February 28, 1999

Page: M1

Section: Travel

Half mutt and half Border collie, he tears across the open range on Mauna Kea's lower flanks, weaves through a herd of startled steers, and leaps into a metal watering trough. Then he scrunches down until only his face is showing, wriggles until water slops over the rim, bounds back out, and shakes as though possessed.

The malihinis, or visitors, riding on Ben, Bud, Po'o, Easter, Katy, and Socrates, are amused at Partner and enchanted, too, admiring his sudden burst of canine joy. His free-spirited cavorting, so easy and unrehearsed, seems so, well, Hawaiian.

And how about Frank Loney, our guide and the manager of the Mauna Kea Stables? Does he worry when his guests do likewise, as one is now -- bolting out of line to canter away over the volcano's hummocky green slopes?

``What, me worry?'' he says, amiably. He tips back his hat with one finger and studies the nearest horse, a placid bay with sleepy eyes. ``Naw. I know these horses. They're smarter than their riders. They know what's going on. And anyway, if you're the worrying type, you won't last very long up here.''

Though perched on unfamiliar horses, the riders, to their credit, aren't worrying. They're looking forward to a long, cool swim at the Mauna Kea Beach Hotel, on the South Kohala Coast, where they're staying. And until then, they're playing at being paniolos, Hawaiian cowboys, trotting along to the soft creak of saddle leather and breathing the fresh upcountry air that keeps Waimea, at 2,725 feet, green and cool.

Surrounded by the Parker Ranch's 225,000 acres, its rumpled hills and wide open spaces, it's easy to imagine just for a moment the paniolo's life. Born in the far Pacific Ocean on a volcano and descended from seafaring Hawaiians and Mexican cowboys, paniolos are raised in relative isolation, on a diet of roundups and lariats, leis and luaus.

But the feeling of belonging is fleeting. True, smiling ladies in muumuus have greeted the malihinis (ma-li-HEE-nees) at the airport with flower leis. And the visitors have eaten lunches and sampled the ancient Hawaiian staple, poi, a nutritious but starchy food made from taro roots that looks and tastes like gray glue. Patient hula kumus (experts) have shown them how seeming simple steps can look like genuine swaying hips.

But they're a long way from understanding the soul of the real Hawaii, if indeed it still exists. Unless the visitors keep searching, they won't know much more when they leave than they did when they got off the plane. Like the kahunas, who secreted the bones of their kings in lava tubes and seaside caves, Hawaiians are private people who stick to themselves.

``When you're here on vacation, people seem really friendly,'' says Craig Wensley, a construction worker who thought Hawaii was paradise when he first moved here from central California. ``But if you live here, it's different. If you try to get a job or make friends, you run up against an invisible wall. A lot depends on who you know, or who you went to school with. Being accepted takes time.''

Tradition still lives on North Kohala, an area isolated by geography, a fat mountainous thumb on the tip of the Big Island. One of the island's last unspoiled places, its lush volcanic slopes tilt mostly eastward, toward rain clouds and mist. Divided into a patchwork of small ranches, former sugar plantations, and Hawaiian homelands, it boasts an unusual number of state parks and historic sites.

This is the birthplace of King Kamehameha I, the great warrior who unified the Hawaiian Islands. The son of an ali'i (chief), Kamehameha was born in 1752 near Mo`okini Heiau on the northern coast.

This ancient temple, still in use, was erected around 1100 by Tahitians who brought water-worn stones for 14 miles from the Pololu Valley, passing them from hand to hand in a human chain. (The Tahitians also named the island, calling it havai'i, or homeland.)

A newer but no less sacred house of worship stands on the eastern shore, the Kalahikiola Church, built by Christian missionary Elias Bond in 1855. And in Pu`ukohola National Historic Site, just north of the Mauna Kea Hotel, is the last great temple built in Hawaii, erected by Kamehameha I to fulfill a prophecy and ensure his success in war.

Compared with these sacred sites, the Mauna Kea is a fly-by-night, a dot in the history books. But the hotel is an important member of Waimea's close-knit community, nonetheless. A luxury hideaway built by Laurance Rockefeller in 1965, for 20 years it was the only hotel on the Kohala Coast.

This was the place to come when you didn't feel like cooking, or when it was time to treat your mother-in-law to a five-course dinner, or when you wanted to celebrate an anniversary or meet friends from Oahu for Sunday brunch.

Staffed by local residents, the hotel gradually became a venue for traditional cultural events, a meeting place where the Big Island's most talented kumus met to talk story (tell stories, gossip about local doings), showcase their talents, and share their passion for Hawaiian traditions.

On any given night, mainland guests might actually meet famous Hawaiian artists: singer and musician Robert Cazimero (of the Brothers Cazimero); ukulele player Kaipu Hale; hula expert Mary Leina`ala Heine; lei-makers Barbara and Kalehua Meheula, or Nani Lim and the Lim Family musicians.

Now, the hotel's daily schedule of Hawaiiana promotes some of these arts. You can learn to make ti-leaf skirts (used for certain hula dances), study Hawaiian quilting (introduced by New England missionaries), help the staff make an imu in-ground oven lined with coals used for the Tuesday night luau), string flowers for leis, and weave lauhala baskets and mats ($5 for materials).

Or you can learn to hula, perhaps even with Mary Heine, a well-known teacher and performer. Heine, a big, big woman, in the Polynesian fashion, is amazingly graceful and light on her feet.

``Remember, ladies, say the words,'' she calls out as we struggle to coordinate our feet and our hands, feeling like great clumsy oxes. ``You're telling a story about the island, the mountains, the warm sun, the blue sea.''

There are all the usual resort activities, too: Two free golf clinics (Full Swing and Short Game), a putting contest, and (for a charge) T-shirt painting, silk painting, and exercise classes. But for a real brush with Hawaiiana, the two liveliest hotel events are evening affairs, the Sunset Luau, held Tuesday nights at the Mauna Kea; and Paniolo Night, held Fridays at the Mauna Kea's sister property, the Hapuna Beach Hotel (next door, but out of sight).

The luau, starting at 6 p.m. on the North Pointe patio, serves Hawaiian specialties buffet-style, with lobster, fish, steak, roast pork, a half-dozen salads, rice dishes, fruit, and a table piled with cakes, tarts, puddings, and pies.

Since local families attend and diners sit together at family-style tables, pick a seat next to people who don't look like tourists. If you're lucky, you might find yourself next to hula kumu Mary Heine, or Barbara Meheula, a master lei-maker.

When the dinner is over and Nani Lim's hula troupe is dancing, your neighbors may get up and join Nani on stage. When the stars are twinkling, the torches are flickering, and the slack-key guitars twang their island beat, most hula dancers, like true kama`ainas, can't resist the rhythm.

Paniolo Night, held on the lawn above the ocean, gives you a chance to meet paniolo families from Waimea. Guests who forget their cowboy boots and pearl-button shirts get gift hats and bandanas as party favors.

Some paniolo families bring a horse and lead the little kids around on rides. Some show you how to rope a calf, using a model with horns. And others play horseshoes and shoot the breeze, happy to talk to visitors.

Like the luau, dinner is served buffet style, with roast pork, chicken, beef, lobster, green salads, fruit salads, rice, Hawaiian specialties, and a choice of desserts. Everyone sits at tables set with kerosene lamps and checkered cloths. As twilight fades and the tiki torches blaze, the Lim family's band plays all the old paniolo favorites, western tunes with Hawaiian words, and Hawaiian tunes with a western swing.

When the Lims's hula group, dressed in cowboy duds, starts to dance, they mix traditional Hawaiian moves with the Texas two-step for some unusual but free-spirited high jinks, a surprising burst of innovation that seems so, well, American.