Three Farms

My friends are coming from Sweden to wwoof for over two months in Hawaii. I can barely contain my excitement! To maximize their chances of finding the perfect farm to stay and work on, I've been driving all over the island and meeting with farmers. The problem with Oahu is that the South side is all concrete, therefore there aren't many farms within comfortable driving distance. Most farms are on the north shore or out on the west side, at least the farms that are requesting wwoofers.

I went and met with a farmer from Honolulu Farms, a tiny property hidden up in the backlands of Palolo Valley. The place is often described as, "The land that time forgot." I drove along the bumpiest dirt road through the thickest jungle I've ever seen here on Oahu. I was praying that my 4-wheel-drive wouldn't fail me as I bumped along, careful not to run over the stray chickens or dogs from neighboring farms. I was following directions over the phone, from the farmer that I had only been in email contact with. I must admit, it was a bit nerve-wracking,not knowing where this man was leading me... I felt like the mountain was gobbling me up into a deleterious labyrinth of vines and enormous tree roots. It was breathtakingly beautiful, but almost a bit scary. I found the farm, finally and parked next to a chicken enclosure. The sun shone at its 5 o'clock september strength, not exactly weak, but mild enough to caress the enormous kabocha pumpkins growing in a nearby patch, with a warm glow. Where on earth had a I just driven to? I could see the honolulu skyline and the south shore far off in the distance, but I felt like I was in some sort of other world, and that the distant buildings were past some sort of portal, in a sphere that I was no longer part of. I can't describe it any better, it was just surreal. The farmer gave me a tour of his enchanting property and I nibbled on lots of new species: acerola cherries, gotu kola leaves, Honohono grass shoots. I saw a true-cinnamon plant (there is an enormous difference between true cinnamon and what most people buy at the store, called cassia) as well as a cassia tree. I ate a handful of the most fragrant strawberry guavas I've ever tasted, and washed this abundance of fresh snacks down with coconut water that a young man had just collected from a freshly-harvested coconut. The word "paradise" can be applied to so many situations and places, and everyone knows that I've used that word to describe Rosenhill (the farm in Sweden where I have spent a lot of time wwoofing), but I have to add this farm-experience to my list of Paradises.

It was a delight to see the permaculture and organic farming methods in action, especially since the cafe were I work buys vegetables from this farm. Those very kabocha pumpkins go into the miso soup that we make, as do the radishes and sometimes the eggplants. Knowing where my food comes from, and making the ethical decision as to which foods to support is such a big part of my life. I wish I could grow all of my own food, or at least work very closely with the people who do grow or produce it. It's somehow settling to have seen the kabochas in their rosy afternoon glow, almost smiling up at me from their patch, as if to say, "we're having a happy life, so when you eat us, you'll follow suit. "

When I left the farm, night had already fallen, and I fearfully bumped my way back down the mountain. The farm contained me in a way I've never felt before, sucking me back from reality, and holding onto me. Driving down and around the rocky hairpin-turns felt like an eternity, until finally I hit concrete and before I knew it I was on the highway again. The transition of road-surfaces was bizarre. Driving on a normal road felt like I was gliding on yogurt, or honey, or some other incredibly smooth food.

* * *

I visited the second farm yesterday, one in Waimanalo called "Nalolicious Farm." It's a start-up farm, running since this April and has been taking wwoofers since June. I'd called the farmer a week ago to ask if I could come volunteer and check out the property, and he was more than happy to have me at the farm's big work-day (which ended up not taking place.) When I met with the him it turned out that he's buddies with my dad, and that he filmed a commercial for my dad's museum in which my sister and I appeared. Small world. It was awesome to see some wwoofers again. It's been a week since I've been with any, and that's already too long. There were eight of them; three from California, two from Idaho, one from Illinois, one from upstate New York, and one whose location I don't remember. I jumped right into work, drilling 1"diameter holes into plastic pots to make drain covers. Chatting with the wwoofers was great, and it gave me a fuzzy feeling inside. I can't really explain it, but there is some sort of connection between people who decide to travel just to volunteer on a farm, or maybe that's just me, but I highly doubt it. 

Around noon we went into the house for lunch, which was prepared by a girl who was the "cook-wwoofer." She made a delicious salad from greens that they grew in their garden, with roasted lentils, onions, carrots, sunflower sprouts and some fresh basil, along with a quinoa salad and fresh tilapia that they had raised in their aquaponic system. We sat around an oblong table, with mismatching plates and held hands. The wwoofer from Illinois said the verse, "Uno, Two, Tre, HEY!" And then we dug in. I could have cried tears of joy. Just the previous night I was feeling so blue that our food culture is mostly lost. We hardly ever eat together, and when we do it's hurried and stressed. Most people eat on the go, in their cars, rushed so that they can get back to work. I love, love, love holding hands and saying some sort of blessing, verse, poem, song before eating. It's not about religion or honoring the lord or anything like that. It's just about having an appreciation and understanding about the food, and that all meal-eaters are on the same page. As we "mmm-ed" and shoveled the last grains of quinoa onto our forks, I had a chance to look around the room. The kitchen was really just a long L-shaped counter/stove/fridge that lined the entrance hall and opened up into the living/ dining room. Cast-iron pans hung from hooks in the ceiling, as did a whole row of cups  and utensils above the counter. It was such a European image, a quaint kitchen, somehow managing to be orderly despite the lack of space. 

Wwoofers cleaning up after lunch

After lunch the farmer gave me a tour of his property. It turns out that the place was actually an abandoned nursery. Some twenty years of neglect made the rows of potted ficus' grow wild, sending roots through their plastic pots and into the soil. I couldn't believe my eyes. We stood in a true jungle. I mean, these trees were HUGE, and we could see overturned tables and plastic pots trapped between the roots and the soil. Black screen-curtains hung ripped and tangled with vines and hanging roots. Random plants invaded the cracks between the concrete slabs of the once-running nursery. I felt like I was in some ruined city, perhaps not as beautiful as Ankor Wat in Cambodia, but it definitely could have been. All that needed to happen for me to be convinced that I was in the Jungle-Book was for King Louie the orangutan to come out and sing, "Now I'm the king of the swingers, ohh the jungle VIP...." It was again, surreal.  Clearly nature does not abide by mans rules, and will take over if it gets the chance. So much life force in those ficus'.

With the help of the wwoofers, they farmers had managed to clear most of the jungled growth to make room for an aquaponic system (using fish in tanks to fertilize the soil by transporting their waste to the plants) and had basically set up the farm within 5 months. I was really impressed. The place still has a dilapidated edge to it, but I can see the potential for a gorgeous farm. It had quite a bit of whimsical charm to it as well. 

On my way home I stopped at Koko Crater Stables, one of my old hang-out spots, as a very close friend of mine used to live there. The new and crazy farm experiences were great, but it was also grounding to be back on familiar soil. 

I love September. The rains are starting again and planting season is right around the corner. Although the land is still dry form the hot summer, the tips of the mountains are bushy and green, and the lovely lush color is coming back.  I'll be planting soon, hopefully this week. I plan to have a row of lettuce and one of beets (the two are good companion plants) and maybe some chard paired with purple beans (also good companions.) I'm am going to start some thyme, lemon balm and oregano, maybe in hanging baskets to use up the vertical space that my minuscule garden has to offer. I also need to transplant the papaya tree into the soil, and find a larger container for the tomato, which has 4 flowers, hopefully tomatoes to-be. I got a free packet of rutabaga seeds at the store, and am wondering what to do with them. Rutabagas are also known as Swedes, yes... they have something to do with Sweden! That's their country of origin. Apparently the vikings created the rutabaga by cross-breeding a turnip with a cabbage. I'm not sure if they grow in hawaii, but it's worth a try. 

I'm trying to keep my mood up, despite the fact that it's impossible for me to have my own farm at this time. Until that happens, I'll have to live vicariously through other farms, and my ray-of-hope-garden bed, which now has a sign that says, "Wwoofers Welcome"– in the sense that they are welcome to have coffee in the garden with me :)