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The Kalo Crisis on Kauai
by Joan Conrow on 27 July 2005 published in Honolulu Weekly
In the midst of
a statewide taro shortage, a lone Kaua’i taro farmer fights
to keep his lease on four acres managed by Hanalei Poi—one of
a handful of milling companies bent on monopolizing Hawai’i’s
most meaningful food.
By all appearances, Kaua‘i’s North Shore is a peaceful,
pretty, perfect place. From Hanalei to Hä‘ena, the lush
landscape is dominated by well-tended taro fields and weathered mountain
peaks. It’s a realm of rainbows and rain squalls, and equally
broad expanses of sky and sea. It seems, to the casual observer, that
life here would be so simple, so sweet.
Those who know it know better
The tropical
tranquility is merely a veneer that’s as idealized and illusive
as a picture postcard. Scratch the surface, and a much different portrait
emerges, one that is far more complex, troubled—even dark—than
would seem possible in this land of luminous light.
Ka‘imi Hermosura is more familiar with the details of that shadowy
image than he’d like to be. Trained from an early age by his
father, fisherman and hunter Vicente “Bito” Hermosura
Jr., to be keenly aware of his surroundings, Hermosura has been a
reluctant witness to the near complete transformation of his homeland.
He sees new fences and “no trespassing” signs blocking
ancient trails to the mountains and the sea, mansions crowding once-empty
beaches, locals made homeless by the unregulated vacation-rental trade.
He sees keiki left home alone or raised by tütü while parents
do time in low-wage tourism jobs or jail. He sees the gates that separate
affluent newcomers from the community. And he sees the ice use, rental
car rip-offs and vandalism that represent, to the disempowered, subversive
strikes against the system that brings these changes.
That’s the reality Hermosura encounters as he moves through
the rural, isolated region where he was born and raised, and it bears
little resemblance to the fantasy North Shore life portrayed in real
estate flyers and tourism brochures. Even the extensively photographed
and widely admired taro fields play into the charade, conveying the
reassuring misimpression that here, at least, the Hawaiian culture
still thrives.
The millers’ tale
In fact, the number of Hawaiians who derive their food or livelihood
from these North Shore lo‘i has been declining since even 1850,
when the first Christian missionaries, Abner Wilcox and Edward Johnson,
reported that disease had ravaged the district’s original 6,000
to 8,000 inhabitants to little more than 2,000—110 of whom were
taro farmers. As the Hawaiian population declined, the rich, loamy
taro fields of Hanalei and adjacent Wai‘oli—once among
the most extensive in Hawai‘i, according to accounts from those
early evangelicals—began to fall idle.
Chinese and Japanese immigrants, brought to the islands as contract
workers for sugar plantations, began raising rice and a little bit
of taro. When the rice industry collapsed in 1961, they switched nearly
en masse to taro, one of the few lucrative crops available to small
farmers. It was hard work, with planting, weeding and harvesting done
by hand. The crop took 14 months to mature, but the plants were hardy
and resilient. Farmers could pretty much count on harvesting every
taro huli they planted, whereas weather, insect pests and hungry birds
could wipe out a field of grain or vegetables.
In those halcyon pre-development-boom days, when farmers had access
to ample, low-cost land and water, taro cultivation thrived once again.
By the mid-1960s, some 14 million pounds of taro were being harvested
each year from thousands of acres across the state. Honolulu Poi Company,
now known as HPC LLC, bought much of it. The firm cooked the nutritious
purple corms and milled them into poi, which was bagged and sold to
city folk for as little as 13 cents a pound. In this way, a traditional
Polynesian staple, a crop once raised almost solely by Hawaiian families
for personal use, became a modern farm commodity, with kanaka maoli
playing, at best, a small, supporting role.
Some 40 years later, that trend continues, although the industry is
tougher, and almost cutthroat competitive, in the face of declining
taro supplies and rising taro profits. There’s still money to
be made in the flooded fields of Hanalei, where state archaeologists
recorded one of the earliest human cultivation sites, dating back
perhaps 1,300 years. But the big bucks don’t go to those who
toil through blazing sun and pouring rain in mud infested with the
latest taro-patch scourge: sharp-shelled apple snails that inflict
deep cuts in bare flesh, exposing victims to leptospirosis, a potentially
lethal strain of freshwater bacteria.
No, the real profit lies in the processed fruits of that field labor,
in products like flour, chips, rolls and poi. Depending on the time
of year, demand and availability, poi fetches upwards of $5.99 per
pound. By comparison, last year island farmers got an average 54 cents
per pound of taro, according to state agricultural statistics, and
even less—52.5 cents per pound—on Kaua‘i, where
the bulk of the crop is sold to HPC, which dictates the price. Maui
taro farmers, by comparison, receive 55 cents per pound, while Big
Island farmers have been averaging 60 cents for nearly a decade, primarily
because they sell to several millers, which helps keep prices competitive.
Combined, the islands grow about 5.1 million pounds of taro, a commodity
valued at just under $3 million annually. Millers buy the crop and
turn it predominantly into poi, which generates revenues topping $23
million each year. That’s a $20 million increase over the farm
gate price, and none of it trickles back down to the farmers.
Of course, profits dip when production is down, as it is right now,
due to the extensive New Year’s Day flooding that kept North
Shore taro plants under water too long, retarding their growth. These
weather-related, seasonal production fluctuations are exacerbated
by the steady overall decline in taro cultivation. Hawai’i lost
60 small taro farms between 1994 and 2004, bringing the total down
to about 130. At the same time, the amount of land planted with taro
plummeted from 550 to 370 acres. Farmers and agricultural experts
blame the decline on skyrocketing land values and stagnant commodity
prices that haven’t kept pace with rising farming costs.
To keep their own profits high and steady, the major millers need
a consistent taro supply. To attain that, they must cultivate their
own crops or more tightly manage the local farmers who do it for them.
HPC buys only from Kaua‘i growers who can meet a production
quota of five 80-pound bags per week. Another option is to import
taro from other nations, with Tahiti reportedly identified as one
likely source. Any one of these tactics would further increase the
millers’ dominion over Hawai‘i’s most culturally
significant crop.
Millers already control the market, from the wholesale price paid
farmers—who must sell to the mills or not at all—to the
retail price charged consumers, who must buy from the mills, or not
at all. Now millers are looking to dominate the production side as
well. Companies like HPC, the state’s largest buyer of independently
produced taro, and Hanalei Poi Co.—which has expanded through
Internet sales and an inter-island distribution network—already
have negotiated master leases for taro land owned by Grove Farm Co.
near Koloa, and the Gaylord and Carol Wilcox Family Trust in Hanalei.
A strategy that makes economic sense for profit-driven corporations
is bound to take a human toll on Kaua‘i, where small family
farms from Waimea to Wainiha produce 75 percent of the state’s
wetland taro. Most of them are entirely at the mercy of HPC, whose
broadening foray into production is viewed by some as cause for worry.
Ironically, Hanalei Poi, which initially promoted itself as an alternative
to HPC’s near-monopoly and a friend to small, independent farmers,
is following in the footsteps of its rival.
New landlord
To Ka‘imi Hermosura, the maneuverings and manipulations within
the taro industry are yet another manifestation of the larger socioeconomic
trends reshaping the North Shore. It’s a force he ruefully calls
“the squeeze,” a strategy that uses primarily economic
forces—like budget-breaking property taxes, lawsuits, mortgage
defaults, quiet title actions, fines and fees—to drive locals
out of their homes and off their farms.
He’s been feeling the squeeze for at least the last 10 of his
22 years, although never quite so intensely as now. Hermosura and
his family are facing eviction from their Hanalei taro farm, waiting
for Public Safety Director Gary Saiki to execute the writ of possession
that District Judge Frank Rothschild granted on May 27. Technically,
it’s his father’s fight; Bito Hermosura signed the 1992
month-to-month lease that authorizes him to farm four acres of wetlands
on a 39-acre parcel owned by Gaylord and Carol Wilcox, and located
mauka of the shopping center the couple developed in downtown Hanalei.
The Hermosuras farmed their taro patch as a family, with Bito, his
wife, Raelene, and their four sons—Hanalei, Kanaloa, Ka‘imi
and Kekoa—pitching in. The small parcel linked the clan to their
culture; it provided kalo to accompany fish that Bito caught and space
to raise a few pigs and cows for food and a small income that made
a big difference in a household of modest means. The farm kept the
close-knit family together, even after the two oldest boys left home.
It was where they reunited as ‘ohana at pau hana time to tend
the lo’i and the animals before going their separate ways or
heading home to Wainiha, some five miles away.
All that began to change when Wilcox asked Hanalei Poi, which is co-owned
by his nephew, Hobey Beck, and Michael “Bino” Fitzgerald,
to take over the taro lot. Wilcox, contacted by e-mail, said he’d
had continual tenant problems and didn’t have the time or expertise
to properly oversee the land. The new management took effect Jan.
1, 2004, but it wasn’t until March 5 that Wilcox sent a letter
advising Bito to seek a lease from his new landlord, Hanalei Poi.
Wilcox said his letter “was necessitated by eviction legalities,”
because Hanalei Poi had already notified farmers of the change back
in 2003. The Hermosuras never got a copy of that letter, however,
reportedly because Hanalei Poi didn’t know where to send it.
The family had heard rumors about the changeover, though, and both
Hermosura and his mother had been trying for weeks to reach Beck and
Fitzgerald to learn more. Hermosura said he thought the two men were
avoiding him because they hadn’t paid for taro he’d delivered
months earlier, “when they were begging for kalo and I was pulling
everything I had, even young ones, because they didn’t have
any taro for their mill.” In late March, Fitzgerald called to
say the check had been mailed. It arrived just ahead of a formal notice
of eviction sent by attorney Mal Dohrman, Beck’s stepfather.
The family was stunned. Unfamiliar with the legal system—neither
Hermosura nor his father had ever set foot in a courtroom—and
unable to afford an attorney, they intensified their efforts to meet
with Beck or Fitzgerald and caught up on their back rent, thinking
perhaps that was the cause for the action. On June 1, with the court
hearing eight days away, Beck agreed to a meeting at the Hermosura
farm.
During the session, also attended by John and Wilbert Haumea, brothers
who farm the neighboring patch, Beck said he wouldn’t lease
to Bito because he was behind in rent. Beck, who didn’t return
calls seeking comment for this article, acknowledged, however, that
nearly all the other tenants were in arrears and he had worked out
repayment plans under new leases.
Hermosura says Beck was unaware their rent had been paid up until
Raelene showed him the receipt. Beck then said it didn’t matter
because Bito was hard to get along with and the other farmers didn’t
want him there. The Haumeas disputed that claim, saying all the tenants
squabbled; they suggested Beck meet with the farmers as a group to
iron out the problems. Hermosura said that he wanted to take over
the lease from his father, as he was already doing most of the work.
Still Beck resisted, saying he was thinking of bringing in some Big
Island farmers to work the land. When asked where they would live,
given Kaua‘i’s rental shortage, Beck said he was working
on a long-term master plan for the Wilcox acreage that would include
farm dwellings and walking tours of the taro fields. Hermosura says
that’s when he realized Beck wanted to replace his maverick
father with farmers who would be beholden to Hanalei Poi and unlikely
to oppose development plans. The Hermosura farm is strategically located
should a road be built to parcels that lack vehicular access.
Hermosura still pursued a lease, however, and the Haumeas backed him
up, urging Beck to “give the boy a chance” because he
was a hard worker. Indeed, at that time, Hermosura, who does all the
cultivation by hand, had more of his land planted than any other tenant,
and still does today.
Beck finally relented and said he would consider leasing to Hermosura
if he removed the animals, a derelict car and a tractor by July 1.
Beck also agreed to meet with all the farmers on July 10 to discuss
his master plan for the land. He further agreed to put a hold on court
proceedings set for later that month. At Hermosura’s request,
the agreement was reiterated in a June 3 letter from Beck’s
attorney, with the court date pushed to July 28.
Hermosura, elated at the breakthrough, got to work. A crew member
of the Hökule‘a, he skipped a Northwestern Hawaiian Islands
excursion to meet Beck’s July 1 deadline. Despite heavy rains
that made progress difficult, he completed the clean up on time and
met with the other farmers, who supported his plan to assume the lease.
The July 1 deadline came and went, as did the July 10 meeting date
with the farmers. But Beck hadn’t postponed the June 9 court
hearing, as promised. Thinking they weren’t due in court until
July, the Hermosuras didn’t show up, and Hanalei Poi won a default
judgment.
Kangaroo court
What followed was nearly a year of legal wranglings, with attorney
Peter Morimoto agreeing to represent the family pro bono in its courtroom
proceedings, the most recent of which was a trial held over two days,
weeks apart, in the Koloa courthouse, on the opposite side of the
island.
The proceedings left Morimoto with a bad taste in his mouth, and the
feeling that his clients had been shafted. Before Morimoto even made
his final statement, the judge—a close friend of Beck’s
father—announced he was ready to rule in favor of Hanalei Poi.
“I was well aware of that three weeks ago, or whenever this
trial started,” Morimoto says. “It was obvious then that
the writing was on the wall, so to speak. My clients merely wanted
a fair shot in a Western court of law and they wanted the rules to
be applied fairly and equitably. I don’t think that’s
happened, but that’s the way it’s gonna be and they fully
understood they were facing an uphill battle. But they believe that
they are entitled to farm that property as kanaka maoli and will continue
to do so.”
Judge Rothschild, however, took aim at Hermosura, the sole witness
called for the defense after the judge, during the first day of testimony,
disregarded the rules of evidence and allowed Hanalei Poi to introduce
documents and testimony without the proper foundations, essentially
handing them the case. In his testimony, which Rothschild later ordered
stricken from the record, Hermosura asserted he had inherent and genealogical
rights to farm the land, and was also exercising his native rights
related to consumption.
“We have lots of folks coming to our courts and serving all
kinds of rights and defenses intended to give them immunity from our
laws,” the judge said. “People say they’re not bound
by the rules of the road that the rest of us follow because they belong
to the Kingdom of Hawai‘i. My response is, I don’t care
if you’re from the Kingdom of Tonga or any other kingdom. When
you come here, to this land, you’re required to follow the rules
and the laws of the state of Hawai’i.”
As far as he could see, the co-owners of Hanalei Poi had “bent
over backwards” to help the farmers. They had tried to work
with the defendants, setting forth conditions that the Hermosuras
did not meet, until they were finally forced into legal action. “This
was not something these gentlemen enjoyed doing, coming into court
like this.”
Wilcox, who testified on behalf of Hanalei Poi, later commented by
e-mail that “Given what I know and what I’ve heard….I
have to support Hanalei Poi in this case. Landlords have to deal with
evictions. They are unpleasant, no matter what the circumstances—particularly
with long-term residents and an old paddling friend.”
Wilcox also said that Hanalei Poi had been “more than fair”
when before the trial it offered Hermosura a one-year lease, with
the provision Bito stay away from the farm. “I’m sure
there are other taro opportunities around, and I wish Ka‘imi
well in taro farming.”
Hermosura says the offer was an insult—taro is a 14-month crop
and Beck’s earlier actions had eroded his trust in Hanalei Poi.
“Do they think I’m stupid?” says Hermosura. “That
I’d do all the work and then they could kick me out in a year
and keep all my taro? And then trying to turn me against my Dad like
that, as if I could control him even if I wanted to.”
Rothschild’s decision and Wilcox’s endorsement of his
agents may have legally resolved the matter, but it doesn’t
feel settled to Hermosura. Too many things about the process don’t
sit right with him, hardening his resolve to see it through to a different
conclusion. He still feels the toll the lawsuit took on his family:
the anxiety, worry and stress it provoked, the conflict it fanned,
the fear and doubt it fostered. The farm that once kept them together
had become an instrument for tearing them apart.
But as his family pulled away from the lo‘i, Hermosura became
closer to it. He does most of the planting, harvesting, mowing and
weeding alone, relying on the black mud squishing beneath his feet
to work its therapeutic magic, draining residual rage and bitterness
from his body. The farm, always a retreat of sorts to Hermosura, has
come to assume additional importance as his port in the storm, his
refuge from the unrelenting changes disrupting the landscape, lifestyle
and lives dearest to him.
He won’t be driven from the farm, certainly not by an action
with such a base motivation. “I know what it’s about,”
he says, his jaw tightening. “It’s about money.”
It’s never been his god, but he knows its power, so he plans
to use whatever tools are available to him—boycotts, documentaries,
word of mouth, picketing—to exert some downward pressure on
Hanalei Poi sales. He doesn’t want to destroy the company, which
employs some of his friends and neighbors, and he wishes no harm toward
its owners. He just wants them to give him a reasonable lease so he
doesn’t have to waste any more energy on this fight.
In the meantime, he says, “I’ll just live like I’m
supposed to be living.” Hermosura also intends to heed Rothschild’s
final words, at least the ones that pertained to fairness, and how
it “goes both ways.” And the judge’s admonishment
that those who come to a place must heed the existing rule of laws
set forth by the government in power most certainly echoes loudly
in his head.
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