Nalani Kahananui

I was born in Hana. My grandmother's land borders the highway — the part of it most tourists drive past without stopping, which is most of it. I've been on this road my entire life: as a child riding to school, as a teenager sneaking into the bamboo forest swimming hole, as an adult teaching Hana district history at the community school. The Road to Hana is not a road to me. It's a map of everyone I know.

There's a gate on the highway that leads to a private garden and then to a bamboo forest with a swimming hole. The owner is a woman I've known since I was eight years old. She lets me bring guests through because she knows I'll bring people who are actually present — not people filming TikToks, but people who want to be somewhere real. That's the access I offer. It doesn't exist in any app or guidebook.

I teach Hana district history partly because almost nobody knows it. Hana was one of the most isolated communities in Hawaii for much of the 20th century — the road existed but was barely passable. The families who stayed, stayed because they couldn't leave or because they didn't want to. My grandmother chose to stay. She raised 11 children on that land. She knew the medicinal use of every plant on the roadside.

The thing I want visitors to leave with isn't a list of hidden waterfalls. It's the understanding that this road is still inhabited. The people who live behind the hedgerows have been here for generations. The families who run the fruit stands have been running them since 1949. The road belongs to them, and I'm fortunate that enough of them know me to let me share it.

I make every trip slightly different depending on the season and who I'm with. Some guests want the history. Some want the food. Some want to swim and be quiet. The bamboo forest is always on the itinerary. The silence inside it — away from the road, in the cold green dark — is the thing people mention when they email me two years later.