KALAPANA, Hawaii » Uncle Robert Keli‘i­ho‘o­malu’s life changed forever a quarter-century ago when lava wrapped around his compound of homes and buried the highway in front of his house.

Since then too many tourists to count have wandered down to the end of the road that now leads directly to Uncle Robert’s driveway.

Last week, as a molten stream crept through nearby Pahoa and visitors continued turning up at the 4-acre property bordered by a field of cooled and hardened lava, Keli‘i­ho‘o­malu opined that the changes to his life and home since 1990 are neither good nor bad. "There is a meaning for everything," said Keli‘i­ho‘o­malu, 75. "You just accept what it is."

And that’s the advice that Keli‘i­ho‘o­malu offers to the people of Pahoa, who live about 11 miles away and worry about the river of lava threatening their homes, roads and landmarks.

The coastal town of Kala­pana was destroyed in 1990 by the same type of slow-moving pa­hoe­hoe oozing into Pahoa. Over a period of six months, the lava moved in fits and starts and followed an unpredictable path across Kala­pana just like the circuitous route it’s taken over four months to reach Pahoa.

Eventually the lava buried Kala­pana and cut off Kala­pana-Ka­poho Road right in front of Keli‘i­ho‘o­malu’s compound.

To Keli‘iho‘omalu it was nothing less than an act of God.

"God is in control," he said. "He created everything, including Madam Pele, the fire goddess. I respect her."

In 1990, as lava closed in on his home, Keli‘i­ho‘o­malu turned to prayer. God, in turn, "turned to Madam Pele and asked her to go back to Hale­mau­mau where she belongs," Keli‘i­ho‘o­malu said. "It made me realize there is a God."

Pure Hawaiian blood runs through the Keli‘i­ho‘o­malu family. They advocate for Hawaiian sovereignty and are working toward getting off the power grid while growing enough food to take care of the 26 family members and friends who live on the property.

The name Keli‘i­ho‘o­malu means "prince of peace" in Hawaiian, and Uncle Robert — everyone calls him that — is a devout Christian.

Even so, for Keli‘i­ho‘o­malu and his family, Madam Pele looms large. Keli‘i­ho‘o­malu’s daughter, Princess, for instance, has posed in paintings as the Hawaiian goddess of fire.

MALIHINI WELCOME

In the aftermath of jarring terrain changes, at least one thing remains unchanged: Keli‘i­ho‘o­malu’s reputation for serving up hospitality.

Before lava flowed into Kala­pana, the property — which includes six houses and several other structures — was a weekend gathering place for parties and music for family and friends.

These days, Keli‘i­ho‘o­malu and his family continue to embrace everyone who arrives at the end of the road — longtime friends and lost tourists alike.

Now there’s a weekly Uncle Robert’s Farmers Market and a permanent Uncle Robert’s ‘Awa Bar. A couple dozen outside vendors sell smoothies, breakfast, barbecue, jewelry and clothes and provide tours of the neighboring lava field for visitors.

"We’re not rich people," Keli‘i­ho‘o­malu said, "but we get the electric paid and the water gets paid."

And then there are the three-times-a-week evening music and hula blowouts that have drawn as many as 1,200 people.

Sam Keli‘iho‘omalu, 50, the second oldest of Uncle Robert’s 11 children, plays ukulele in Sam’s ‘Awa Bar Band on Wednesday, Friday and Saturday nights.

While onstage, Sam usually welcomes visitors to the "Kingdom of Hawaii," which gives the family an opportunity to educate outsiders about the sovereignty movement.

"It’s pretty much an expansion of what we grew up with," Sam said. "Everyone’s welcome to come and have a good time. But we do throw in a little about the Kingdom of Hawaii."

A hand-painted, rain-beaten, wooden sign along the side of Kala­pana-Ka­pono Road at the entrance to Keli‘i­ho‘o­malu’s reads, "Kingdom of Hawaii Is Still Here We Never Left."

Everyone is welcome to visit, enjoy a party and learn a bit about Hawaiian heritage. But anyone who wants to stay — and work — has to be voted in.

"I feel very lucky to be here," said newcomer Kenneth Ferguson, 37, a Texas native who has lived in Alaska, Oahu and Kai­lua-Kona. Ferguson was allowed to move into Uncle Robert’s in February after a vote of the residents.

Ferguson grew up dreaming of living off of the grid, without the need for money, and believes his dream is getting closer to reality at Keli‘i­ho‘o­malu’s, where he’s one of three people working on a "sustainability team."

"Sam and Uncle Robert said, ‘We’ll give you a place to stay if you plant trees,’" Ferguson said. "They’re almost off of the grid here except for electricity. Solar is way too expensive." In addition, the residents have fresh- and saltwater fish, and their own supply of pork.

"I’ve learned about the real Hawaii here," Ferguson said. "We have so much to learn from the Hawaiians about sustainability."

After he was invited to live in a bungalow across the lava field and down by the beach, Ferguson said, he feared he would not be able to hold up his end of the agreement to grow ulu (breadfruit) trees for the family and their friends in the compound.

"Because I couldn’t keep a houseplant alive," Ferguson said.

But then something that Ferguson still cannot reconcile happened, and 200 ulu plants under his care started thriving.

Pressed to explain, Ferguson paused for a moment, then said:

"I feel I understand the moods of the trees. I’m on a spiritual land. Every single tree here has done well on solid lava."

Ferguson then paused again before adding, "I feel like whenever I come up to a tree, I know exactly what it needs. And I have no experience with plants. I think I’ve become connected to the aina. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. I just cannot get my head around it."

Ferguson is no mali­hini to the islands, but believes his Hawaii — and Hawaiian — education finally began in February.

"It’s not luaus and tiki torches at Uncle Robert’s," Ferguson said. "I’m embarrassed and ashamed because I knew nothing about sovereignty. I thought it was the Hawaiians who wanted statehood. I love America. But Americans need an America we can proud of, not one we should be ashamed of. Not one that’s been rewritten in the history books."

MISSING TIMES PAST

Neighbor Clarence "Aku" Hau­anio is not yet committed to the sovereignty movement, but he is committed to listening to the discussions whenever he comes down to Uncle Robert’s for food and music.

"The vibe is really good," Hau­anio said.

After lava shut down Kala­pana-Ka­poho Road in front of Uncle Robert’s, Hau­anio moved his own two-bed, one-bath house out of harm’s way in 1991 before lava buried his 2.8-acre property in lava 100 feet deep.

Hauanio retired from Hawaii Volcanoes National Park in May at the age of 62 after 29 years as a park pest control worker. So he has plenty of experience dealing with curious visitors.

While he’s happy to be welcomed at Uncle Robert’s, Hau­anio said, he misses the old days when tourists would just keep driving down Kala­pana-Ka­poho Road instead of stopping throughout the day.

"I liked the old style, when nobody was around," Hau­anio said. "Just us. Just the family."

But like the never-ending series of volcanic eruptions that have flowed from Kilauea for nearly 32 years — and the tourists they attract to Kala­pana — Hau­anio knows he cannot control the inevitable.

His advice for the residents of Pahoa echoes Keli‘i­ho‘o­malu’s.

"If it comes, no need get mad," Hau­anio said. "It’s what it is."

And for anyone who comes to Uncle Robert’s property for a look at what life is like at the place where Madam Pele spared a family with the name "prince of peace," Hau­anio said, "Come with a good heart," then added, "And leave with a good heart."