trade in the Pacific. Apparently not all the visiting
sailors acquitted themselves with conduct becoming
of a gentleman. The preserved Hale Pa’ahao (‘Stuck in
Irons House’) has a well-manicured yard shaded by
mature monkeypod trees — it’s an improbable haven
of tranquillity in chaotic Lahaina. The old jail was built
by King Kamehameha III to detain unruly sailors who
refused to return to their ships by sundown. A quick look
at the freely available records shows 1855 to have been
a busy year — 330 convictions for ‘drunkenness’, 169 for
‘fornication’ and 89 for ‘furious riding’. But apparently
prison life was not all bad. Seaman William Mitchell
Stetson, of the whaling bark, Arab, confided in his diary:
‘Male and female all had freedom of the prison yard and
mingled promiscuously, we had a very sociable time.’
And if the hardships of prison life ever did become too
much of a strain, then the coral restraining wall, at a
little over 10ft high, was easily scaled once the sailors
sobered up.
Into the wilderness
Beyond Lahaina, developments at Ka’anapali and
Kapalua line the coast — and then it all stops. No more
resorts, no more condos, no more shops, no more houses.
Whatever success Maui is having hasn’t encroached out
here. The more famous road to Hāna carries you around
Haleakalā on a wonderland of hairpin turns, but over
on this backside of the island, the going is more remote
and challenging. The West Maui Mountains shove the
crumbling road around like a piece of twine. Tight
switchbacks yield to long, swooping arcs that bring me
deep into valleys and then propel me back out toward
the coast. My radio is filled with static. My phone has
no reception. I pull to the side of the road and step out.
Looking over the Pacific — open sea for thousands of
miles — I breathe deeply. This is the Maui I think of
when I’m a long way from it.
Ahead, at the apex of a hairpin bend, a young man sits
alone in a folding chair, miles from anywhere. He smiles.
“Buds. Maui buds.”
He gestures — forefinger and thumb pinched together,
rising to his mouth. I drive on.
A sign tells me the speed limit is 25mph — that’s wildly
optimistic. Then over a rise, Kahakuloa comes into view
beneath me. Wedged in a small valley on a black-rock
beach, it’s a settlement of roughly 100 native Hawaiians.
Old Maui — insular, slow.
Kahakuloa has no shops, no services, just a small
green-and-yellow shed that has what I’ve come for.
Moana Coston is the youngest of eight, and she’s selling
her Auntie Julia’s homemade banana bread from the
roadside stand.
The bread — famous throughout the island — is still
warm. I sigh after the first bite. Moana laughs, and we
begin to talk.
“It’s nice here in the valley,” she says vaguely,
glancing away.
“Ever think of leaving?’CLOCKWISE: View of
Kahakuloa from the
road; Julia's roadside
stand; interior of Julia's
stand; Julia's famous
banana breadNovember 2016 99HAWAII