Kākoʻo ʻŌiwi: Planting Huli and Building Community

We arrived at Kākoʻo ʻŌiwi at 7:30 a.m. It was bright and early with the sun only beginning to beat down on us.

Our first task was to peel kalo (taro) to prepare for kulolo, a traditional Hawaiian dessert. Together, we peeled hundreds of pounds while laughing, talking, and working around a shared table. The task resembled peeling potatoes, but it was far more labor-intensive. Some of the kalo roots were massive, and we had to carefully strip away their thick skin to reveal the pale pink flesh underneath, removing any fibrous or discolored bits that could affect the final texture. One of the Kākoʻo ʻŌiwi staff explained that we don't really know if these bits are truly "rot," but they make the kulolo grainy.

We were reminded often: kalo is not just a crop—it is an ancestor. With every peel and cut, we were asked to approach the work with good thoughts and positive energy. This intentionality created a quiet reverence around what might otherwise be a mundane task. It became an act of care.

Even the scraps had a purpose. Nothing was wasted—everything we peeled was later fed to the boars nearby. Sustainability is not a lofty goal, rather, it is the baseline.

Later, we walked down to the loʻi, the kalo patches fed by water and tradition. Our job was to plant huli, the cuttings of kalo that would grow into the next generation. We entered the loʻi clean, but it didn't take long before we were knee-deep in mud.

The mud was thick and warm. It was not only a natural spa for our feet, but it also grounded us. To be submerged in the same soil you're working with forces a kind of presence and awareness of your body and your surroundings that is typically not present in daily life. Here, we weren't just planting kalo. We were a part of the process. Not only were we connected with the kalo, but also to the land, the ancestors, and to each other.

Planting in the loʻi required communication, coordination, and care. We worked together to line up the huli in clean, uniform rows, helping one another move through the thick earth. There was laughter, encouragement, and the rhythm of a group moving as one.

I felt a real sense of kinship, not just with the people around me, but with the land on which I stood. It was a kind of connection that no classroom lecture or mainland workshop could ever replicate. It wasn't just community service. It was community building.

We ended the day weeding a nearby field to make room for ʻuala (sweet potatoes) to grow. Another volunteer group joined us, and our community expanded further. As we pulled invasives from the ground, we were able to talk story and build new friendships between the rows.

Our day at Kākoʻo ʻŌiwi was not just a day of physical labor, it was a lesson in respect, intention, and community. Every part of the process, from peeling to planting, was guided by a deeper understanding: that the land is not separate from us, and food is not just something to eat rather, it is memory, identity, and ceremony.