Known for its laid-back charm, Kaimukī sits mauka of Diamond Head and Waikīkī. It’s a neighborhood of striking contrasts, where longtime family-owned diners and mom-and-pop shops are juxtaposed alongside fast food joints and corporate chains. Modest, early twentieth-century plantation-style homes stand beside newer, more modern homes and towering “monster houses,” revealing an ongoing tension between preservation and progress.
Kaimukī has retained a slower pace in the face of change. It’s a place where old legends linger in the landscape, where neighbors still know each other, and where modern life coexists with the stories of Hawaiʻi’s past. With its rocky land and red soil, Kaimukī was the first major subdivision in Hawaiʻi.
Before the towering skyscrapers of Waikīkī blotted out the shoreline, Kaimukī had sweeping views of the ocean. In 1914, when the neighborhood was still new, Ed Towse, former Justice of Hawaiʻi’s Territorial Supreme Court, wrote, “Those sunsets of which Stevenson wrote so graphically when at Waikīkī seem to have double value from the upland of Kaimukī. Almost every evening in the year, all sit on the lanais or lawns and feast the eyes with the panoramic play of azures and golds until the sun drops into the ocean. Then follow the mysteries of the long afterglow.”
As for the name “Kaimukī,” its origin is uncertain. One story suggests the Menehune once used the area to make their imu for roasting ti plants, safely away from the troublesome pig-god Kamapuaʻa. According to this interpretation, Kaimukī breaks down to ka (the), imu (oven), and kī (ti plant), meaning “The Ti Oven.”
Although the area was dry with no immediate source for fresh water, developers built a reservoir at the top of Puʻu o Kaimukī, piping the water along Kaimukī Avenue and out to the individual plots of land for houses.
Puʻu o Kaimukī is one of the area’s defining natural features. Sometimes called “Kaimukī Hill,” it has served various roles over the years, including a water reservoir, a telegraph station, an observatory, and now, a public park. Locals know it by several names. One of the most familiar is “Christmas Tree Park” due to the lighted tree at its top during the holidays, but some kūpuna still call it “Reservoir Park.” During World War II, it was given the nickname “Bunker Hill” after being used as a military observation post. Still others refer to it as “Menehune Hill,” tied to a legend that a lone Menehune once inhabited the area.
Historically, Kaimukī played a role in Kamehameha’s campaign to conquer Oʻahu after his victories over Maui and Molokai. He landed his forces at Waikīkī with the intent of seizing the island, a move that would nearly complete his unification of the Hawaiian Islands, though only Kauaʻi remained separate. From the slopes of Pu‘u o Kaimukī, scouts could monitor the movements of Kalanikūpule’s warriors across the Kona district of Oʻahu. Messengers ran reports of enemy activity back to Kamehameha, who waited at Waikīkī.
On the eastern slope of Pu‘u o Kaimukī are the remnants of an ancient heiau. Though it’s still debated, most Kaimukī residents accept the name of the heiau as Kukuionapeha, meaning Napeha’s light or beacon. Some historians believe that Kukuionapeha heiau was dedicated to navigation and wayfinding, a fitting purpose given its hilltop location and the meaning of its name. Others think the heiau may have been a heiau ho‘ola, dedicated to healing the sick or injured.
Sadly, there isn’t much history of the ancient structure other than Thrum’s note that it was in Kaimukī, “at the town side of old signal station. All destroyed.”
Today, Pu‘u o Kaimukī is a peaceful park with beautiful panoramic views, but its rich history gives rise to ancient legends that remain relevant in modern times.
A person I met on one of my tours told me that he grew up in a house near the Kaimukī fire station and that, more often than not, he would spend his evenings at Pu‘u o Kaimukī Park with his mother.
“She would always talk about a female procession of spirits who came right through the park and through our home,” he said. “She was adamant about it, even though nothing ever happened in our house.”
As a boy, he would sit and listen to these fantastic tales for hours. When he was older, his mother became more specific, telling him that in the mauka direction, across Wai‘alae Avenue atop a little hill, once stood Maumae Heiau and the compound of the O‘ahu Ali‘i Kakuhihewa.
“I believe this wahine procession comes from that place, through this park and our home, and then other houses in this upper part of Kaimukī, until it disappears somewhere in Kapahulu,” she told him. “I believe it’s a procession of wahine who are kapu.”
Years later, the man’s mother chose to spend her final moments at home. The experience was overwhelming, and one night, he decided to go for a walk. Ending up at Pu‘u o Kaimukī Park, he sat there, drowning in grief, paying little attention to the lights of the city. Then movement caught his attention.
“There they were,” he said, “Very faint at first, but very much there. A long procession of Hawaiian women. It was just like my mother said. They came through the park and were heading toward my house. I ran home at full speed. The dogs in the neighborhood barked wildly, and it made me run faster. I must have burst through the door because everyone in the living room let out a shout of surprise.”
He paused for a second, remembering.
“I was just in time to hold my mother’s hands before she went. She wasn’t looking at me, though; she was looking behind me like there were other people there. Then she passed peacefully.”
In 2020, just as we were starting to host in-person tours again, I met someone who has since become a great friend and, as we would later discover, a family member through a mutual blood tie on the island of Hawai‘i.
Due to his line of work, he’s had numerous encounters with spirits, burials, and a few deaths while on the job. On one occasion, we broached the topic of the huaka‘i pō, the night marchers. In a very matter-of-fact tone, my friend said that there is a female night marcher procession that travels during the Hua moon phase when it rises over Molokai. Their march goes past the fire station, through Kukuionapeha Heiau and Pu‘u o Kaimukī, and through the neighborhood, toward Diamond Head.
“It disappears on Esther Street, near the school for the deaf and blind, and resurfaces at the Natatorium,” he said.
These two stories were shared with me years apart, where one confirmed and completed the other. No matter how much our neighborhood changes, there appears to be more history, spiritual and otherwise, about Kaimukī of which we are not entirely aware.
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