The spirit of malama

Hawaii’s malama experiences offer caring and respectful travel that we can all appreciate and learn from, writes

Iam up to my calf muscles in thick, gloopy mud. Standing in a kalo loi (taro pond) on Hawaii’s Oahu, I am pulling out weeds from each plant and smushing apple snail eggs with my bare hands, while trying not to think too hard about what other life might be in the mud – and between my toes.

Behind me, heavy mist shrouds the mountains; ridges appear beneath the cloud, like spiny mosscovered tree roots snaking down the valley.

This taro farm is part of Kualoa Ranch, a 1600-hectare nature retreat on the western side of Oahu. Established in the 1800s, the working ranch has been owned and operated by the same family since it was founded by Dr Gerrit Judd. Its dramatic ridgeline and dense Jurassic scenery has provided the setting and backdrop for more than 200 Hollywood movies including, unsurprisingly, Jurassic Park, Kong, Jumanji and Pearl Harbor, and a host of television shows.

But the ranch has another, more important purpose and vision: to be a role model as stewards of the land and to protect its natural beauty.

Places like Kualoa Ranch are needed now more than ever as tourism to Hawaii resumes, bringing with it the burden and risk of travellers negatively impacting the environment. But visitors are being encouraged to ensure they don’t just take from the land, but give back and care for the land, a concept known in Hawaii as malama.

‘‘When you take care of something, [it then takes] care of you,’’ says Iwi Kurosu, who runs and tends to the taro farm. ‘‘When you take care of the land, it feeds you, gives you water.’’

Together with the Hawaii Tourism Authority, the Malama Hawaii programme allows guests at certain resorts to book malama experiences such as reforestation projects, tree planting, beach cleanups or, in my case, tending to taro crops. To entice travellers, resorts will give guests a free night’s accommodation when they book a malama experience.

The majority of Kurosu’s land is a working farm, employing locals to farm the taro crops, which are harvested and sent to the local markets, as well as supplying a few high-end restaurants. It is also trialling growing rice to see how well the grains grow in the conditions.

The other part of the farm has an educational purpose, where school children come to learn how to plant, weed and harvest crops, and to maintain the grounds. When Covid hit, the loi had to be abandoned.

‘‘We did a massive harvest but nothing got replanted, the water got shut off, the ponds dried up and the ponds got overgrown with guinea grass. You couldn’t make out it was a loi, it was fully engulfed,’’ Kurosu says. ‘‘In January, the schools started booking again and I had the daunting task of getting this loi back to what it was to me.’’

Within a few months, the loi were looking much healthier. ‘‘A pandemic will really open your eyes,’’ she says.

As well as education for kids, tourists can participate in malama experiences under Kurosu’s watchful eye. Before we begin, she sings an oli – a Hawaiian chant or prayer – asking permission to go into the farm and the loi.

The area is a sacred place for Hawaiians, so she must ask the elements, and let them know that we are there with good intentions to discover and learn.

Our first task is learning about the apple snail, an introduced species originally planned for escargot, but it is an invasive pest that lays eggs around the edges of the loi and eat the taro plants. The eggs look a bit like strawberries attached to the side of the pond, but on closer inspection I can see dozens of individual pink eggs.

‘‘If these were being farmed for escargot this would be gold. But these buggers hatch and eat my taro,’’ Kurosu says.

She shows us how to tackle the pests – picking them off, squishing them in our hands, then washing them off in the water, where they can’t hatch. The darker the pink, the newer the lay. They are slimy in the palm of my hand, but once washed away they become fish food – the circle of life.

Kalo is a sustainable vegetable that is found throughout the Pacific islands. It is a nutritious root

that can be mashed, made into chips and other meals and snacks, and is filling. Only the mother plants are harvested; each plant will make another 10-20 plants.

‘‘Hawaiians only harvest what they need. You don’t take all of it,’’ Kurosu says.

‘‘As you harvest one plot you have to make room for the babies that you pick and plant again. I love it when it rains because I know my plants will be watered.’’

Throughout the experience, we learn about Hawaiian culture and belief systems, such as not moving rocks without permission, even if it is blocking a waterway.

‘‘I had to talk to the rock [about] why we were moving her and explain that water is being held up, and I need to feed my family, so we are going to move her to a meaningful spot,’’ Kurosu says.

‘‘You don’t just move a rock without intention, you have to give it a purpose.’’

She teaches about traditional hale (huts), and points out plants growing on the farm and their uses.

There is the kukui nut, or candlenut, which can be a hangover cure (but also comes with a warning against over indulging) – turmeric for reducing inflammation, and the ‘‘potato of the sky’’, breadfruit.

‘‘This is my world and I absolutely love what I do here, and anyone who wants to learn I want to share my space.’’

Later, we head to the stream to help Kurosu build dams.

We pick up river stones and rocks that were washed away during heavy rains, and bring them back to the stream. The dams will help to

slow the speed of the water flow, and slow erosion.

‘‘When you take, you always have to give back. Always leave it better than you found [it].’’

The concept of caring for the land doesn’t stop at the resort-run malama experiences. A couple of days later, I fly to the Big Island, or the Island of Hawaii, where visitors to the island are encouraged to sign the Pono Pledge.

The words are powerful and beautiful:

‘‘I will mindfully seek wonder, but not wander where I do not belong. I will not defy death for breathtaking photos, or venture beyond safety. I will malama [care for] land and sea, and admire wildlife only from afar. Molten lava will mesmerise me, but I will not disrupt its flow.’’

The pledge includes heeding ocean conditions, and ‘‘never turning my back to the Pacific’’, as well as leaving rocks and sand as originally found, remaining out of rivers and streams during heavy rain, and embracing the aloha spirit.

The idea of giving back to a community, or regenerative tourism, is far from new. But for many travellers, it is kept in the back of their minds, and not always followed through. In Hawaii, malama keeps it front of mind.

It can be a tricky balance with these sorts of tourist experiences to be truly meaningful, with purpose and not just a cringe token activity to tick a cultural box.

But they also remind us of the great responsibility that, as travellers, we must carry on our shoulders.

If we want to travel, we must do it in a way that avoids contributing to overtourism, and not just to take without giving back.

It is something we as New Zealanders are acutely aware of in our own country, too – we want travellers to come to spend money in local communities, but also to respect our land, our Ma¯ ori traditions and culture, embrace our lifestyle and not spoil our stunning landscapes.

We have had a break and a reset – now it is time to malama the lands and seas we voyage, no matter where in the world we may be.