Pele and Kamapua'a,
Why You Shouldn't Bring Pork Over the Pali,
A Hawaiian sleep story of fire,
Rain,
And respect.
Aloha e,
Close your eyes and take a deep breath in,
And slowly out.
Feel the soft trade winds brushing against your cheeks,
The gentle scent of plumeria drifting on the night air.
You're in Hawai'i,
Where every breeze carries a story,
Every wave remembers a song.
Tonight,
We'll journey across time,
From fire to rain,
From the glowing cliffs of Kīlauea to the misty heights of the Pali.
And along the way,
We'll learn why locals still whisper,
Never bring bacon over the Pali.
Part One,
Pele's Fire.
Long ago,
Before any road wound through these mountains,
There lived a goddess,
Pele Honuamea,
She who shapes the land with fire.
Pele traveled from Kahiki across the Pacific,
Searching for a home where her flames could live and breathe.
She touched each island,
First Kauai,
Then O'ahu,
Then Maui,
But each time,
The sea cooled her lava,
Hissing and steaming until the fire went out.
At last,
She reached Hawai'i Island,
Where the earth was young and welcoming.
There,
She dug deep,
A pit of molten light that became Halema'uma'u Crater,
Her sacred home at Kīlauea.
Pele is the keeper of lava,
But she is also the giver of life.
Her lava flows create new aina,
Turning black rock into fertile soil for ohia trees and the red lehua blossoms that bloom where her tears once fell.
People still bring her offerings,
Oheloberries,
Flowers,
Even a whispered mahalo,
For we walk upon her body and we live by her breath.
Across the sea,
Another akua watched Pele with admiration,
Kamapua,
The pig god,
Wild spirit of the forest and rain.
He was strong and handsome,
But also playful and mischievous,
A protector of streams and taro patches.
The word Kamapua'a means the pig child.
He could shapeshift from man to boar,
From fish to cloud.
When he and Pele met,
The world trembled with their energy.
Fire met rain,
Passion met patience,
Creation met renewal.
They loved,
They quarreled,
And they made thunder from their arguments and rainbows from their reunions.
But opposites must find balance,
And soon they parted.
Pele returned to her volcano on Hawaii Island,
And Kamapua'a journeyed north,
Settling in the misty valleys of Oahu.
The cliffs between them became a border,
A sacred line between fire and water.
People called that place Nuuanupali,
The cliff where the gods no longer met.
Time passed,
Foot trails became roads,
And the roads became the modern Pali Highway.
Yet the cliffs still breathe with old power,
And the same mist,
The same wind,
And the same hidden heartbeat of the mountain.
When travelers cross from Honolulu to Kailua,
They pass from Pele's dry,
Sunny slopes into Kamapua'a's green and rain-washed valleys.
That's why elders remind us,
Don't carry pork,
Kamapua'a's food,
Across the Pali,
Because Pele guards her side,
And Kamapua'a guards his.
Even the wind knows the line between them.
The Pali is not just a road,
It is a bridge between worlds.
History sleeps in these cliffs,
Too.
In 1795,
The great Kamehameha I stood here during the Battle of Nuuanu.
His victory united the islands into one kingdom.
Some say that on misty nights,
You can still feel the presence of the warriors,
Or see shapes moving through the clouds,
Carried by the wind.
Many years later,
A family was driving home to Kailua after visiting relatives in town.
The city lights of Honolulu faded behind them,
And the night air grew cool,
Thick with fog.
In the back seat,
A little girl slept,
And her brother hummed softly beside her.
In the back seat,
A little girl slept,
Her brother humming softly beside her.
On the seat between them sat a small cooler,
Filled with leftover musubi,
Mango,
And a few strips of bacon from breakfast.
The car began to climb the mountain.
The wind picked up,
Swirling across the windshield.
The headlights flickered.
The engine coughed,
Then slowed.
The father frowned.
That's strange,
He murmured.
The mother felt the air change,
The same way it does before heavy rain,
And before something unseen passes by.
Then she smelled it.
Bacon.
And she remembered.
Her tutu had once said,
Never bring pork over the pali.
Kamapua'a's food does not belong in Pele's wind.
If you forget,
The mountain will remind you.
The mother smiled softly,
Understanding.
She opened the door,
Stepped out into the cool mist,
And placed the wrapped bacon gently on the ground.
E kalamai,
Pele,
She whispered.
Forgive us,
We didn't mean disrespect.
The wind eased immediately,
Turning gentle and warm.
And when she returned to the car,
The engine started on the first try.
They drove through the tunnel,
Emerging into the moonlit green of Kailua.
The air smelled of rain and fresh earth.
The little girl stirred and whispered,
We made it home.
And her mother said quietly,
Mahalo,
Pele.
Mahalo,
Kamapua'a.
Behind them,
The mountain exhaled,
Calm again.
Some stories are not about fear.
They are about respect.
About remembering that everything is connected.
Pele's fire and Kamapua'a's rain.
Mountain and sea.
Day and night.
Each has its time,
Its place,
Its balance.
In Hawaiian thought,
We call this pono.
Harmony or right relationship.
The custom of not bringing pork across the Pali reminds us to travel with awareness.
To honor the unseen.
To move gently upon this land.
Even today,
Some people leave a lei or a small flower when they cross sacred ground.
Others whisper,
Mahalo to the wind.
However you do it,
The meaning is the same.
Gratitude and respect for the living spirit of Hawaii.
Take one more slow deep breath in.
And out.
The island breathes with you.
From mountain to sea.
From fire to water.
Pele's glow still flickers far away.
Deep beneath the stars.
Kamapua'a's rain drifts softly across the valleys.
Carrying dreams to sleeping hearts.
You are safe.
You are home.
And may the fire within you bring warmth.
And the rain around you bring calm.
Aloha oi.
Good night.
Sweet dreams.
