Soon after our landing on Moloka'i, I was thinking about whether we'd committed an error.
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Straight from the lavish and elegant climate of Honolulu, my significant other and I wound up gazing at dried red earth and dried up growth. It appeared like the center of no place. Indeed, even the small air terminal helped me to remember every one of those end-of-the-earth little island airstrips I had flown into in the South Pacific: roll-away stairs to get off the plane, a modest, ash piece terminal, and two or three stout folks hurling things on a seat.
"You're in the nation now," a kindred traveler said to me as we landed the plane. He was an island neighborhood, returning home from Oahu, and he probably saw my distracted expression. I was struck by how he said it, however; he was glad, not contrite.
OK, so it wasn't rainforest, palm trees, and white sandy shorelines. We had chosen we needed to escape, truly escape. So notwithstanding its at first fruitless appearance, perhaps Moloka'i was only the ticket.
Right now, however, things didn't look encouraging. Our rental auto had neglected to appear at the airplane terminal. A call to the office just brought about a voice-mail. So we were left sitting on the check, pondering what to do. At last, I contacted Ray Miller, the land operator from whom (over the web) we'd leased a sea front apartment suite for the week.
"I'll turn out and lift you up," he said. After fifteen minutes, Ray was helping us stack our baggage into his to some degree battered, blue pickup truck. He was tall, slender, white-haired, mild-mannered, and surprisingly hopeful. "Try not to stress," he said as he drove, "you'll have an auto."
A couple of minutes after the fact, we were in his office in Kaunakakai. While Ray made a couple telephone calls to attempt and find our auto, we went outside to glance around.
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