Except for
short shopping distances in Honolulu, I have never seen a native man
or woman walking. They think walking a degradation, and I have seen
men take the trouble to mount horses to go 100 yards.
I have no time to tell you of a three days' expedition which five of
us made into the heart of the nearer mountainous district, attended
by some mounted natives. Mr. K., from whose house we started, has
the finest mango grove on the islands. It is a fine foliaged tree,
but is everywhere covered with a black blight, which gives the
groves the appearance of being in mourning, as the tough, glutinous
film covers all the older leaves. The mango is an exotic fruit, and
people think a great deal of it, and send boxes of mangoes as
presents to their friends. It is yellow, with a reddish bloom,
something like a magnum bonum plum, three times magnified. The only
way of eating it in comfort is to have a tub of water beside you.
It should be eaten in private by any one who wants to retain the
admiration of his friends. It has an immense stone, and a
disproportionately small pulp. I think it tastes strongly of
turpentine at first, but this is a heresy.
Beyond Waielva and its mango groves there is a very curious sand
bank about 60 feet high, formed by wind and currents, and of a
steep, uniform angle from top to bottom.
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