At my reading in Denver some relatives of a man who had been exiled to Kalaupapa came forward, seeking details of his life. This has been happening with increasing frequency, and it underscores what I came to realize in writing the book: that this “deep injustice,” as the New York Times put it in their review of the book, continues to haunt families. I’ve received dozens of e-mails from people hunting ancestors who vanished in the colony, and letters from others whose relatives appear in the book and who now want to know more–or share more–about those lost family members. As the letters accumulate, I’ll post a few on this site. And, of course, I’ll be happy to open my research to anyone hunting details on a loved one, or a lost ancestor. Just send me an e-mail.

I was on the radio this weekend with Peter Greenberg, the Today Show’s Travel Detective. As he explained during the interview, Peter has toured Kalaupapa. Like most people who enter the community, however, he first had to make his way down the immense cliff that seals off the colony. It’s a descent that has not become appreciably easier than it was in late 1800s, when this account was written:

“We were dropping, slipping, shambling down a sharp flank of the cliff, that cut the air like a flying buttress. By a series of irregular steps we descended, leaping from rock to rock when practicable, but often putting off our packs, sliding into the little ledge below, and then dragging the packs after us….On each side of us was a dense growth of brush, a kind of natural parapet, over which we could hurl a stone a thousand feet into the sheer depths, but could not hear it strike. Sea-birds soared above us and below us; sometimes they hovered just over our heads, and eyed us curiously; then with a stroke of their powerful wings they would soar away, with a cry that was half fearful, half defiant.”

The initial step of the journey, the visitor wrote, was “like plunging into space.”

Over the years hundreds of cattle, sheep, and horses tumbled from the cliff, bursting on the rocks at its base. Often a frightened or confused lead animal would bolt from the path and leap into the air, trailing a line of doomed followers. Of course, livestock were not the only fatalities—several residents also plummeted from the cliff, including one physician. These days, however, the path has been enlarged and made slightly safer. But winter storms still cause washouts, making the trail impassable and—once again—isolating the community.

So how did the Travel Detective navigate the trail? Simple—he rode a mule.

Elsewhere on this site I’ve written about the colony as a tourist destination. (Visiting sites of national tragedies is nothing new—there’s even a slightly-sinister phrase that’s employed to describe such jaunts: “dark tourism.”) Kalaupapa is less than thirty minutes by air from Waikiki, but it feels a century or more removed. The brutal isolation that made the peninsula so appealing as a prison served to protect it from the rampant development that has marred much of Hawaii. In a story rich with ironies, this is yet another: the colony was founded as one of the worst places in the world; it’s now one of the last unspoiled places in America. As such, Kalaupapa holds a powerful attraction for travelers. Last year, one of the 10,000 outsiders who were able to visit Kalaupapa was the New York Times’ Adam Nagourney. Here’s a snippet from his travelogue:

However you get there, you will find yourself in a place that was chosen because it so hard to get to - or, more precisely, to escape - as becomes clear when you hear the tales about how lepers 100 years ago were deposited into the churning ocean waters just offshore and told, in effect, to sink or swim. About 30 people still live there today, along with some employees, though they are there by choice and they call themselves residents rather than lepers.

These striking geographical features contribute to a place that is at once very beautiful, if a little disconcerting, and absolutely compelling, particularly if you are lucky enough to draw Richard Marks, who has lived most of his life there, as your guide.

Stopping frequently to catch his breath, speaking so quietly that our group nestled as close as it could to try to catch every word and tale, Mr. Marks told us the story of the colony, a searing indictment made all the more powerful by his understated tone. He drove us on an old school bus to the small cottages that he and the other residents call home, and to the church with holes drilled in the floor that allowed lepers to spit during services without having to leave.