The Bones of Kona
An Arizona golf-course developer stirs things up in rural South Kona.

Catherine Black

July 25, 2001

The Bones of Kona
Picture two and a half miles of pristine shoreline in South Kona, with its backshore a steep ascent upslope toward Hualälai and Mauna Loa to breathtaking blue-ocean views. Listen to the quietude of a district that has evaded asphalt and concrete for the last century. Imagine this shore as it was 200 years ago. Remnants of ancient Hawai‘i are everywhere: numerous heiau, burial sites and habitations of a once-thriving population. The air is saturated with the past. This is where Höküli‘a, a 1,550-acre golf-course and luxury-home development, will eventually sit.
      For the better part of a century, the Hokulia property was private ranch land, its treasures hidden until 1990, when development mogul Lyle Anderson, in partnership with Japan Airlines, bought it for one of his signature, Jack Nicklaus-designed-golf-course-with-homes, development projects.
      Anderson, also known as "The King of Arizona Golf," had already left behind a trail of angry residents and at least one lawsuit in the southwest. Critics say that the developer had showered communities with promises of public improvements but that he ended up overtaxing water and land resources and had nothing to show for it but sprawling, gated subdivisions.
      Anderson’s Höküli‘a, three years into the first phase of construction and riddled with complications ranging from water pollution to unearthed burials, is now embroiled in a contentious lawsuit over environmental and cultural negligence. The accountability of state and county government is in doubt, and South Kona is faced with the question of whether to accept the same pattern of foreign-backed development that has roiled the Islands for years, or risk its tenuous economy and social cohesion in the pursuit of some alternative.

War on two fronts
Backtrack to July 2000, when a public meeting was convened over the Keöpuka Lands Project, a separate golf-course and luxury-homes subdivision proposed for 660 acres abutting Kealakekua Bay. Also owned by Anderson, the Keöpuka Lands Project was entering its initial round of permit-seeking. Employees at nearby Höküli‘a had been asked to attend and show their support.
      Jack Kelly, a coffee farmer and writer who had moved to Kona 12 years ago, was alerted to the meeting by his friend (and then Höküli‘a employee) Jim Medeiros. A vocal figure with strong anti-development sentiments, Kelly and some like-minded residents "crashed," he says, "what was basically supposed to be a public-relations party."
      Arguing that luxury golf-course subdivisions are an inappropriate use of agricultural and conservation lands, Kelly’s group, with the help of Sierra Club activist David Kimo Frankel, successfully petitioned the state Land Use Commission to rule that the Keöpuka Lands Project was urban in nature and would need a state-land-use-boundary amendment in order to proceed. The project stalled in September 2000, and the developer has failed to overturn the decision in three appeals.
      This first winning battle spawned Keep Kealakekua Wild (KKW), a group headed by Kelly and supported by the Sierra Club. KKW soon gave birth to a sister organization with a cultural focus by the name of Protect Keöpuka ‘Ohana (PKO), of which Medeiros — a lineal descendant of Hawaiians buried on the property, he claims — is president.
      These two groups now head a two-pronged assault on both Anderson projects. Their court victories, along with their promotion of a conservation-based future for South Kona without large developments like Höküli‘a, are raising serious questions about local government’s ability to balance public and private interests, and the community’s willingness to confront its economic vulnerability.

The rains of Kane
Right before the LUC’s ruling on Keöpuka Lands last September, heavy rains hit South Kona. At Höküli‘a, large quantities of imported soil being used to terraform the golf course washed into the ocean, covering the reef with mud. Alerted to the damage by paddlers, KKW jumped at the opportunity to launch another attack on Anderson’s plans.
      Because the South Kona coastline has Class AA-rated marine waters, the highest classification as ranked by the state Department of Health, Kelly, along with three others, sued Höküli‘a for violating the Clean Water Act. In a case of what Rick Humphries, then president of Oceanside 1250 — the company developing Höküli‘a — called "very bad timing," rains struck again while the case was in court. This time, the mudslides were promptly photographed and assessed, and a temporary restraining order stopped construction for nearly two months.
      Bill Walsh, a state marine biologist, later testified that the runoff had resulted in a significant death of coral. Although Dick Frye, Oceanside 1250’s vice president of development, had earlier told West Hawai‘i Today that, "except for a small test early on in the project, [Höküli‘a] has not been using chemicals to kill weeds," evidence of Roundup, a commercial herbicide toxic to marine life, was found in the sediment several days after the discharge.
      In December 2000, Third Circuit Court Judge Ronald Ibarra offered Kelly and his co-plaintiffs a settlement that included a permanent injunction against Höküli‘a not to pollute the water again; the court also ordered the developer to employ a permanent water monitor and to develop a system of erosion control. Kelly et al had won their first two battles, but the war was far from finished.

Ka iwi
Meanwhile, a series of incidents were leading to what would become the grit and gristle of the lawsuit. Medeiros, a resident of nearby Honaunau, had been hired to work on the Höküli‘a project in 1999 through cousin Gordon Leslie’s contracting company, Mälama ‘Äina. Medeiros eventually headed the "cultural crew," which was primarily responsible for clearing historic trails on the Höküli‘a property.
      Medeiros is a soft-spoken man trained by his late father, a master canoe and ki‘i carver. Raised on a family farm in old Hawaiian style, he learned the area’s ancient history. Before Höküli‘a, he retired from construction work to look after the farm but then, at his cousin’s invitation, joined the project.
      Although Leslie and Medeiros are relatives (as are many Höküli‘a employees), serious disagreements arose between the two over the project’s cultural sensitivity. As bones and burial remains were repeatedly unearthed during construction of the golf course, Medeiros became increasingly critical of Hokulia management and its commitment to protecting the burial sites.
      Medeiros witnessed what he calls "the shameful desecration of Hawaiian graves," including bulldozers turning up heaps of bone-strewn dirt and the temporary storage of burial remains in Ziploc bags and freezer paper.
      A pivotal event occurred in early 2000, when Medeiros and his sister, Violet Mamac, were assigned to look for the historic Ala Loa, or "Stepping Stones" or "King’s Trail." Dating back as far as 600 A.D., the round-the-island trail was used in religious ceremonies including the annual Makahiki ceremony. It is composed of large river rocks transported by hand and laid in the ground three abreast, "each one set with a specific prayer," according to Medeiros.
      The Medeiroses found and excavated the trail on the Höküli‘a property from under two feet of dirt. Both later testified that Leslie warned them "not to tell anyone about it, especially any Hawaiian groups," and "to not make this trail their life’s work" — something Leslie flatly denies. One section of the trail runs through what would be the middle of the golf course’s 16th fairway. According to Medeiros, one day he returned to work, only to find that this portion was dismantled so a hill could be graded.
      After this incident, a furious Jim Medeiros left the company. His PKO joined Kelly and the other plaintiffs in the lawsuit, and one day after reaching the water quality settlement, they filed a second complaint against Hokulia, the state Department of Land and Natural Resources (DLNR) and Hawai‘i County.
      They sought an injunction to halt construction; this time, their grievance was the illegal treatment of burials and historic sites. The complaint put Medeiros at serious odds not only with Leslie, but with many friends and relatives also employed by Höküli‘a.
      Because iwi, or bones, retain deep spiritual significance for many Hawaiians as a crucial link between ancestors, descendants and the land, Medeiros takes his responsibility for safeguarding the area’s burial remains with an uncompromising zeal few fully understand or accept.
      "I have to drive around this town with a hundred people hating me because they think they might lose their jobs," Medeiros says in an interview at his home overlooking Hönaunau’s City of Refuge, as spinner dolphins arc on the bay behind him, and a faded Hawaiian flag flutters in the wind.
      "And that hurts. But people should not be allowed to play golf on a graveyard. They call us activists, but we’re just protecting this land and its culture for our children and grandchildren. Money can’t make a Hawaiian perpetuate his identity, it’s walking in the footsteps of his ancestors and maintaining a spiritual connection to the ‘äina that does."

‘We screwed up’
Three months of hearings wrapped up this May. What came to light during that time reveals some disturbing errors on Höküli‘a part, but perhaps more significantly, it throws the DLNR’s State Historic Preservation Division’s (SHPD) ability to carry out its mandate into serious doubt.
      Among other things, SHPD is mandated with responsibility for ensuring that the state’s archaeological and burial sites are protected at construction projects. SHPD’s 22-member staff reviews an average of 180 projects monthly. Its Archaeology Branch oversees the protection of archaeological sites. The Burial Sites Program, along with each island’s volunteer burial council and any known lineal or cultural descendants, ensures that burial treatment plans are followed for the protection of graves.
      Critics charge inconsistencies in SHPD’s handling of the Höküli‘a project, however, pointing to fault lines in the division’s internal organization, as well as a lack of professionalism among some of its employees.
      First, there’s the issue of permitting. On three occasions, grading and grubbing permits for construction were approved by SHPD before the Burials Sites Program could address them. Because these permits, which enable bulldozing and clearing vegetation, can lead to damage to unknown burials, treatment plans developed by the Burial Sites Program and island burial council are required before SHPD approval.
      The first permit for the golf course, issued in 1999, was signed by archaeologist Mark Smith before the Big Island burial council had been notified. Another grading permit for highway construction was signed by the Archeology Branch three months into the litigation hearings, although, again, a burial treatment plan had not yet been developed.
      Dawn Chang, an attorney representing the SHPD, says, "For whatever reason, the burial treatment plan and the council wasn’t considered." In an internal memo dated Feb. 23, 1999, Archeology Branch chief Ross Cordy admitted, "We screwed up, because a few burials were present and the council should have approved the protection measures too."
      Ka‘iana Markell, head of the Burial Sites Program, argues the program is underfunded while also overwhelmed with the moral and spiritual responsibility of the work. He concedes that serious questions have been raised by the lawsuit about the state’s ability to safeguard burial sites.
      "Nobody enjoys being sued," Markell says. "But if we are truly doing something wrong, we want to be the first to know because the price of performing our jobs wrong is much too high. We are responsible for safeguarding all unmarked burial sites in Hawai‘i. Some people have estimated that there could be close to 1 million unmarked burial sites."
      Finally, there is the case of Kala‘au Wahilani, who represented the Burial Sites Program at Hokulia. In court, Wahilani admitted receiving a check in his name for $1,000 from Höküli‘a, apparently a donation to his church on O‘ahu. Medeiros testified that Wahilani once told him he worked for both the state of Hawai‘i and Lyle Anderson, and that Wahilani showed him a log containing numerous, unreported burial violations worth over $80,000 in fines.
      Wahilani has since been removed from the project and a state investigation into his actions is pending.
      "There was no evidence in trial that any of Mr. Wahilani’s actions compromised his ability to do his job at Höküli‘a," says state attorney Chang. "If anything, he tried to ensure that the developer followed the law."
      Nevertheless, Markell notes, "Even the appearance of impropriety or influence is of great concern since the program relies heavily on integrity and trust, especially with the Native Hawaiian community."

Perks for all?
What about Höküli‘a itself? This is a decade-old, multimillion-dollar project, one Oceanside 1250 has fought tooth and nail to defend. Reading the publicity wars between the developer and detractors on the Big Island is like watching a tennis match, where editorial guest viewpoints slam the pros and cons of the project back and forth with almost weekly regularity.
      On its Web site (www.hokulia.com), the project advertises its prime location: "Originally a playground to Hawaiian Royalty"; and its cultural sensitivity: "The development team has approached this land with the sensitivity, honor, respect and stewardship such a precious place deserves." The fact that these are historic, ancestral lands is something Oceanside 1250 conspicuously cites as an asset, rather than a problem.
      "The development of Höküli‘a has enabled extensive archaeological studies that have opened a window into the past, for the benefit of the community," reads a viewpoint article published in West Hawai‘i Today by former Oceanside 1250 President Rick Humphries.
      "When this was ranch land there wasn’t any access to the coastline. A lot of the cultural and lineal descendants in this area have been located through this project," echoes Oceanside communications manager Karin Shaw.
      Oceanside 1250’s defense essentially rests on the argument that, "unintentional and infrequent human error" aside, Höküli‘a is contributing more to the community than it is taking away. A "precedent-setting" developer’s agreement signed with the County of Hawai‘i in 1998 is often cited as illustrating the project’s public accountability. The agreement contains a series of conditions that Höküli‘a has promised to meet. The most notable is the construction of a $20 million bypass highway to alleviate congestion along the two-lane Mämalahoa artery through Kona’s sleepy mountain towns.
      "In 1993, when Höküli‘a was going through early rezoning approvals ... the big carrot was the bypass road," says South Kona District Councilmember Nancy Pisicchio. "At that time even conservative people weren’t thrilled about a project of that magnitude being built in a local community, but people were so desperate that they felt that to get something, they had to give something in return." Pisicchio also points out that the public still sees the bypass highway as a "gift" from Höküli‘a, although construction costs will actually be reimbursed by adjacent landowners.
      Another perk is a shoreline park extending the length of the property — open to the public, but designed and maintained by Oceanside 1250, and managed by Höküli‘a homeowners. Only 25 public parking spaces are stipulated in the agreement.
      Höküli‘a also has donated over two acres to a county park, provided material improvements for community groups like the Kona Outdoor Circle and sponsored local paddling teams. Charity donations are collected at Christmas fundraisers, a parking lot was built for one church and a stoplight installed on a road near the project.
      Then there’s the big one: Höküli‘a is currently South Kona’s biggest employer, currently providing 400 mostly construction jobs; upon completion of the golf course and 750-lot subdivision, the workforce at Höküli‘a is projected to number about 400 mostly custodial and service positions, according to Hokulia spokesperson Karin Shaw.
      Many Höküli‘a employees are related, and until recently, a large number of these — including Jim Medeiros — were subcontracted through Leslie’s company, Mälama ‘Äina, which provided much of the labor.
      "It would be devastating to the families around here if the project was shut down," Gordon Leslie says. Employee loyalty to the project appears firm, even with the high number of Hawaiian employees — a loyalty no doubt strengthened by paychecks that continued to go out during two temporary shutdowns ordered by the court, one of which lasted for more than a month.
      Leslie himself was once one of Kona’s most ardent Hawaiian activists, widely known for his fierce anti-development actions, which included chaining himself to bulldozers and halting several large hotel projects in the ’70s. He was approached by Höküli‘a management early on to be a community liaison. He invited thousands to the site and helped negotiate concessions like a lower home density, a smaller golf course and public shoreline access.
      After heading Mälama ‘Äina for several years, he is now moving on to work directly for Anderson, Nicklaus and Frye, with whom he is "very tight." Leslie firmly believes in his bosses’ "sensitivity to the land, the people and the community," and describes opposition to Höküli‘a as being primarily non-Hawaiian and not from South Kona.
      About the burials controversy, he comments, "It’s always good to make people aware, but when people use archaeology in the wrong way just to forward their cause, that makes developers more sneaky because it becomes a humbug to deal with."
      All things considered, Höküli‘a can validly claim making a greater effort than most developers to create a project agreeable to the South Kona community. It’s also clear that detractors can point to serious instances of environmental and cultural desecration and negligent government regulation.
      Perhaps the more important question is, how does the broader South Kona community itself feel about Höküli‘a?
      Pisicchio, who made her name by fighting Höküli‘a in its early days, describes the current political climate in Kona as "drastically different from back then. You can’t totally blame the developer, because government at the time was not representing the best interests of the community — only those of economic interests."
      Under former Mayor Steve Yamashiro’s administration, Pisicchio notes, the atmosphere was uncompromisingly business-friendly and development-biased, to the point where million-dollar mansions could be built as "agricultural dwellings."

The will to change
On the heels of Mayor Harry Kim’s election last November, Pisicchio and others report that the level of public involvement and empowerment has risen dramatically. Turnout at public-planning meetings is much higher, and the revisions to the County General Plan that have been proposed by the mayor for South Kona reflect real community concerns. Big chunks of urban designation would be removed, agricultural areas upgraded and a significant chunk of the makai land at Keöpuka would be designated conservation.
      "Basically people want the character of the area to stay the same. They don’t want large scale development in South Kona, and I think the general plan reflects that," reports County Planning Director Chris Yuen.
      Nevertheless, South Kona has recently begun to attract low-density luxury home developments with its acres of open ag land. Höküli‘a led the pack in this respect, and several other projects in the area are pending, Yuen said.
      John DeFries, a Hawaiian well known in resort development circles, was just appointed Höküli‘a’s interim president. Acknowledging a "broad spectrum" of reactions to the project, he submits that the project could help revitalize the community, primarily through rich homeowners and their ability to be patrons of the arts, museums and education.
      "The only value I have to Japan Airlines and Lyle Anderson," he says, "is as an advocate of Kona. We’re developing a new community that is going to have to peacefully co-exist with an older community, of which I’m a resident. If it’s not developed and guided properly, it’ll continue to be an explosive and divisive force. The way I see it, while I’m here representing a partnership between Japan and America, the joint-venture partner is the community, and we’re not going anywhere without that partner."
      But as long as that partner remains divided over its cultural and environmental priorities, economic development will continue to be either stalled or masterminded from outside. "Economic welfare has been the line of argument all along," says Pisicchio, "but we have to start developing a diversified economy so there are more opportunities for people than digging ditches. There has to be a will to change, and while it’s not going to happen overnight, I think it’s happening already."