In Hawaiian mythology, the gods Kane and Kanaloa are seen as living in the bodies of men in an earthly paradise, something like a floating land of clouds, where they drink awa and live off the fruits of a garden that never fails.  This paradise is often thought to be located on one of twelve sacred islands that have been lost or are hidden.  They may lie under the sea and can often be seen on the horizon at sunset or sunrise.  Here, the two gods live with other spirits, in a world that neither knows labor nor death.  In extreme old age they return to earth in the bodies of men.

There are some who believe that the Big Island may still retain a few vestiges of this ancient aloha, that there is something still unconquered about it that may allow a few spirits to roam free.  I am not convinced that any such place still exists in America, but in my travels across the states and to Hawaii, there was something exotic and secretive about the rainy side of the Big Island, Hilo, in particular, that continued to warrant investigation. 

After a few disastrous outings on Oahu, I’d made a hangout of Hilo the last few times I’d been in Hawaii, and wondered about setting up a base there.  On the morning of my flight, I called an Uber and went out to stood on Lemon Road with my things, about the same time as the other travelers were beginning to start their day.  I didn’t see the old evangelist, Jerry, but it looked like he was packed up, ready to head back to Ohio.  How many souls had been saved on his watch?  At least he didn’t get beat up this time around.  Not that I knew of.

The Uber driver who picked me up confused me for a local.  That didn’t hurt my feelings, although there is a world of difference between being born on the islands and brought up on them.  I was looking for a place that didn’t exist, the lost island of the gods.  Memories of my distant childhood had gotten mixed into my escapist fantasies.  No place on earth could measure up to the ideal, so I’d been moving around for years.  Oahu hadn’t been great, so now it was off to Hilo, and if that didn’t work out, then Guatemala.  Where would it end?

On previous flights to the Big Island, I’d sat by the window and seen the heads of the twin volcanos, Mauna Kea, and Mauna Loa, breaking through the clouds, like Kane and Kanaloa, or islands in a turning gray sea.  This time, however, I was in an aisle seat in the last row, looking at nothing but the back of the seat in front of me and a sarcastic companion next to me who spent the whole flight complaining about a guy who’d passed off one of his check-in bags as a carry-on, then held us all up for a few minutes as he struggled to stash it.  That was some real kook behavior, in his estimation.

The Hilo International Airport is a downhome transit hub.  When we arrived there and had walked from the tarmac to the terminal, there was no one working at the information counter and no taxis out front.  I went to wait for a bus that would possibly be arriving sometime in the next hour, before deciding to go with an Uber.  The driver had been living in Hilo for a dozen years and wasn’t a fan of all the rain, although it was always possible to drive to the other side of the island if you needed a respite.

Just then, as if to illustrate the driver’s point, it started to pour rain.  He drove me into town and pulled up in front of the Downtowner, where I leapt out with my bags.  I’d stayed there three or four times in the past and felt comfortable there.  On this occasion, there was new ownership and staff members, but the layout was essentially the same.  A hippie kid named Seth checked me in, while the other employee, Joe, was doing laundry.  They had a lower bunk reserved for me in a room with two bunks, but a rollaway had also been setup right next to my bed.

After moving in, I took my umbrella and went out walking in the rain.  Hilo feels like a town, with all the historic buildings from the early 1900s, and that’s what I like about it.  I made my way down Keawe Street, past the Big Head Tavern, then cut over to Haili Street and the Palace Theater, before turning right onto Kamehameha Avenue.  This is the main tourist strip with a majority of the gift shops and boutiques.  The windows reflect the sky, coconut trees, and ocean across the street, and there was a small army of homeless folks sitting in the doorways, staying out of the rain.  Two of them had made a fortress of umbrellas and seemed to be living inside it.

I walked along the Russel Carrol Park until I got to a Shell Station where I bought a bag of trail mix and a can of Monster Energy Drink.  While I was fumbling with my umbrella, I set the drink on a newspaper stand, only to have it roll off and fall to the ground where it punctured and began to spin like a rabid sprinkler.  I had to grab it and shotgun it while there was still anything left in the can.

It was a wet and lonesome day to just show up.  What I was looking for exactly, I wasn’t sure, possibly someone with a sign, welcoming me to town.  Instead, I was just another transient.  At least I had a bed to lie down in.  A lot of folks would be sleeping in the rain that night.