Kākoʻo ʻŌiwi: Understanding ʻĀina Through Taro Cultivation

The first thing I noticed as we stepped out of the car was the breathtaking view. Towering mountains touched the sky, their peaks blurred due to the misty clouds. The land was equally beautiful—tall lime green grasses stood out against dark blue-green trees as a gentle stream passed through. The land seemed to hold a sense of power, as if it held control over how it could be cultivated. The Hawaiian word ʻāina encompasses the relationship between Hawaiians and the land. ʻĀina is not inanimate and passive, rather it is "that which feeds us," a relationship built on keeping the land happy through love and care.

As we trekked out into the wetlands in borrowed boots, we paused briefly as one of the farm workers explained the history of the land. Kākoʻo ʻŌiwi, the farm we stood on, was a part of Heʻeia, a census designated region in Honolulu. Prior to foreign occupation of Hawaiʻi, Heʻeia was one of the most important taro cultivation sites in Oʻahu. In addition to being a part of Hawaiian self-sufficiency, taro contributed to the health of the ecosystem, filtering water from the mountains that ran off into nearby estuaries and coral reefs.

The farm worker gestured to an orange plastic basket holding several medium sized taro stalks. As we picked one up to pass around, the farm worker cautioned, "be careful, you're holding my ancestor." There was a weight to the taro, and a robustness I felt as I held it with both my hands, appreciating the smoothness of the deep green plant. Taro, called kalo in Hawaiian, is a nutrient rich staple crop with a role in the native Hawaiian creation story. Kalo is treated as a big brother, with a reciprocal relationship that must be maintained with respect.

The farm workers demonstrated how to plant the kalo in pairs of two with a partner, adding to the familial significance of the plant. We followed along, cracking the earth open with a shovel then placing the taro stalks in pairs. As we pressed soil around the stalks to hold them upright, the farm workers instructed us to feed the plant with positive thoughts, thinking about posterity who would benefit from the growth of the kalo. We planted sweet potatoes too, watching carefully as we were taught how to indent the soft soil with our heels, submerging the nodes of sweet potato plant cuttings.

After planting we transitioned into weeding, also giving us a chance to talk to the farm workers. I remember in particular a 23 year old named Grace who shared her experience working at the farm. She mentioned how much admiration she had for her coworkers—or family as she called them—for clearing out the previous vegetation to allow native Hawaiian species to grow. She gestured to a mangrove tree, explaining how the entire surrounding area had been covered in mangroves that her coworkers had tirelessly worked to clear.

I was confused at first, as I'd only ever learned that mangroves improved water quality and protected shorelines. Grace explained that mangroves actually harm native plants as they are invasive to the area. I realized this simple misunderstanding represents a larger pattern of ignorance and disregard for indigenous agricultural nuances, which are tailored to suit the needs of the ʻāina native Hawaiians have spent generations building a relationship with.

As we scoured the grass for thin creepers with heart shaped leaves Grace shared her thoughts on foreigners on the island. "You know some college kids overstay their welcome," she said, but she also explained how she felt conflicted as she used to travel a lot herself, and loved experiencing different cultures. For Grace, working on the farm feels like her purpose. She always wanted to work in agriculture, but never knew how she would make it happen, but now this is where she wants to be.