It is very dark despite the full moon, hidden behind storm clouds. On a lush private property halfway up Oahu's Windward side, I follow couples and families pulling children in wagons toward the muffled sound of a drumbeat. With no lights or signage, I am unsure why I'm the only one using an iPhone flashlight, but perhaps, as this is the Lunar Vibes gathering, we are meant to be guided by the moon.
Lunar Vibes calls itself "an audio-visual movement meditation community retreat," but the focus is fire. Specifically, fire dancing. At these quarterly, invitation-only retreats, much of Oahu's fire dance community is here performing. In a grassy clearing surrounded by jungle, ringed by yurts, tents and canopies, with a stage and scaffolding in the back center of the space, giant speakers pump tribal EDM. In front of the stage, an area of the earth is cordoned off by a semicircle of LED tube lights, marking the performers' zone. Some people wait for the show on blankets and camping chairs; others mill around, hug and reunite with old friends. "I haven't seen you since FireDrums," I hear at least three people exclaim. Vendors in pop-up tents sell crystal jewelry, festival garb and kombucha.
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(LEFT) Lunar Vibes organizer and "Flamekeeper" Dhevhan Keith dances with a fire staff at Lunar Vibes. (RIGHT) Davey Kay burns off excess fuel by spinning his fire staff at Lunar Vibes.
The playlist ends, and a woman approaches the mic wearing a Virgin Madonna-like crown and witchy Stevie Nicks getup. She strums a soulful, ethereal version of Michael Jackson's "Thriller" while a handful of people stretch and practice twirling unlit staffs and other instruments. The vibe is very Burning Man-Mother Gaia meets post-apocalyptic steampunk meets nouveau shaman with a harmless dose of cultural appropriation.
Two dancers dip their respective instruments into lighter fluid, flames ignite and they dance. One man spins a staff with two burning rings on each end-a dragonstaff, it's called-balancing the shaft on various parts of his body, from shoulders into clavicle, down to biceps, then forearm, undulating beneath the blazing apparatus. A young woman in a leather bikini ignites two large, claw-like instruments-a fire fan-and dances sensually. Their flames burn for about the duration of a song; when they peter out, a new pair of dancers steps up, often with new implements, like a fire sword, swinging "poi" balls and fire knives.
Lunar Vibes has been happening for nearly four years now, organized by "Flamekeeper" Dhevhan Keith and "Vibemaster" Cory Rothwell (a.k.a. DJ Pair-a-Dice) of Trial by Fire, a community of fire dancers and "flow artists" who gather various times a week near the Waikiki War Memorial Natatorium and at Barefoot Cafe near Queens Beach.
"This has become a safe place for us," says Dhevhan. "The point of Lunar Vibes is the fire, but fire dancers gather the other arts. So, we'll have slam poetry, musicians, DJs, meditation, yoga. It creates an ecosystem, but the main mission is to gather and nurture artists. We connect through the spark, and then we build a community based on that, instead of ideologies or doctrines."
Zachary Augustin spins “poi balls” to music by ukulele virtuoso Taimane.
Almost on cue, thunder booms at the end of the woman's set, and rain comes down in torrents, scattering people to their tents, tarp walls whipping in the wind. A man next to me asks a woman if she has an extra hair tie, and I can't quite tell if that's a pickup line. She can't either. The person on my other side asks me if the structure next door is the "Cuddle Tent," and I shrug. "No, dude," someone replies, "that's the Goddess Lounge."
The rain stops, and folks file back onto the squishy ground, lighting up and spinning flames in the mist, illuminated by the stage lights. The music and fire dancing will continue late into the night, followed by yoga in the morning, aerial hoop-dancing and workshops of all kinds: acupuncture, tea ceremonies, belly dancing, sound healing, kung fu, even a fashion show avec catwalk.
While modern fire-and-flow arts communities exist all over the globe, with popular fire-focused festivals happening across the country, the particularly welcoming fire dance community on Oahu is largely made up of transitory residents and kamaaina. Though various flow arts, fire dance circles and jam sessions have been happening around the Islands for decades, Trial by Fire created Lunar Vibes to be a safe and family-friendly alternative, free of alcohol and other intoxicants-as well as any inappropriate or nonconsensual behavior-not unknown to such gatherings. For this crew the focus is more the art than the party.
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(LEFT) Flexibility and focus are integral to “flow arts” like fire dance. Yaniv Grafi hangs loose in elevated lotus pose. (RIGHT) Keith as spirit animal at Lunar Vibes.
What do people who play with fire do for their day jobs? "You'd be surprised who's into this," says Ryan Siu, a photographer who documents much of the modern fire dance community on the island. He points to the guy who was spinning the dragonstaff. "He works in pharmaceuticals. That guy," he gestures to a man writhing on the ground with a burning staff, "owns an escape room business in town. Those two?" he says, nodding to a couple on deck awaiting their turn, "One of them is in advertising; the other did voice-acting for Netflix and Disney."
A fire dancer's "first burn" is a rite of passage. You can become adept at spinning a staff, but once you set it ablaze, everything changes. Now you're in a relationship with a destructive force, with higher stakes.
Fire dancing "is an accomplishment," says Srikanta Barefoot, a dancer, choreographer and co-founder of Fusion Arts, an event entertainment agency and contemporary circus company that also offers week-long fire dance retreats out of Montpellier, France. A former Cirque du Soleil performer, Srikanta, along with his wife, Jen, leads fire dancing retreats around the world, including in Hawaii, with the help of Trial by Fire. For him, as for many of his students, fire dancing is about more than just learning a performance art. "Often, lighting up for the first time will signify some kind of evolution in a person's life, and that's interesting to facilitate," he says. "It's transformational."
Darian “Ace” Nieves performs with a fire sword.
When I join his Oahu retreat with a group of eight women, I am 100 percent certain that Srikanta Barefoot is not a real name. A stage name, perhaps, or a festival name. Maybe one adopted at the denouement of a mushroom trip. But I am wrong. His last name is in fact Barefoot, a common(ish) English surname, and Srikanta ("keeper of knowledge and wisdom") was given to him at birth by a guru from the commune in the Santa Cruz Mountains, where Srikanta was born and raised. This same guru also taught him how to wield a staff via an ancient Indian martial art, which gave Srikanta a leg up in fire dancing. A dozen Burning Mans and a stint with Cirque du Soleil later, he met Jen (a trained contemporary dancer and circus performer) in Macau. The two eventually moved back to her home in France and created Fusion Arts.
Srikanta has gathered the group on a lawn behind the tennis courts at the base of Diamond Head, somewhat isolated from other park-goers. Most of the women will endure their trial by fire, their first burns today, and the tension is palpable. Srikanta clears away some dead twigs and dry ironwood leaves and picks up a can of fuel from a Costco bin. Srikanta, Jen and a helper demonstrate some safety protocols including the what-to-do-if-you-set-yourself-on-fire spiel. Then he beckons the first volunteer.
A middle-age woman from Boston steps forth confidently. She'd just done a wardrobe change into something more ... memorable ... while her partner gets the iPhone angle right. Srikanta plays a moody South Asian-influenced track on the portable speaker. The woman dips each end of her staff into the fire and spins the shaft in her palms carefully, the two growing flames roaring softly against a cool trade wind. Her confidence blossoms, and she shimmies, getting more comfortable with the twin consequences. She twirls and even tosses the burning staff in the air, going off-script it seems, trying a few new moves I hadn't seen her attempt over the course of the week. She bends forward and rests the staff on her lower back, letting it roll down her spine, catching it in the crook of her neck, nearly burning herself. The ten of us gasp in unison.
"Chief Tui," a.k.a Bryan Hinton, is one of the "crossover" artists bridging the realms of Polynesian with contemporary fire dance. "It's a good scene with good people, and many of them are very talented," he says of Oahu's Trial by Fire arts community.
But this is her moment, and she's making a meal of it. I feel as if we're witnessing some kind of rebirth or out-of-body experience. The roar fades to a whisper, and her flame burns out. She bows solemnly, eyes watering and face beaming while we applaud. It feels like she was one person five minutes ago and someone new now. Srikanta was right.
Technically, Trial by Fire is a registered nonprofit, but clearly, it's a vibe. On a Sunday evening, beneath the canopy of a banyan tree near the Barefoot Cafe, a man wearing an animal mask and a Matrix-length duster trench coat is DJing trance music while fire dancers take turns in the LED-lit circle. Passersby from nearby Kapiolani Park, tourists lathered in sunscreen and confused elderly local couples stop and watch. The crowd thickens as night falls.
This is ground zero for Hawaii's modern fire dance scene, where dozens of dancers spin at least twice weekly until around 9 p.m. The adjacent performance space, usually popping off on Wednesdays, is beside the natatorium. Often there are workshops before sunset. I just walked over from one where a woman taught a dozen students (unlit) staff techniques.
"Fire speaks to all of us in a very unique way," says world-renowned fire dancer Srikanta Barefoot, seen above teaching a fundamentals workshop on Oahu. "We've all found it means something." Being that this will be the first time some of the students in Barefoot's class have danced with an active flame, that something could mean a "first burn," an often painful rite of initiation.
Dhevhan, wizard-chic in a body scarf that flutters theatrically with any small gesture, explains that Trial by Fire started in part as a way to legitimize fire dancing as an art form. Every time they light up, he clears it with HPD and alerts the Fire Department. The Trial by Fire dos and don'ts are posted at every gathering. Alcohol is not permitted, Dhevhan says, because booze and fire don't mix. Donations for fuel are always appreciated, by the way.
Looking at the crowd, I ask him what I've often wondered: What is it about fire? "I definitely feel a very spiritual connection to the fire," says Dhevhan. "Although I'm no longer religious, fire has always, through humanity's history, had this power of gathering people. It gathers everybody, no matter who they are, no matter what creed or ideology they have. ... That's basically the main draw for me: seeing that spark in people's eyes. They're united in this."
Downfield, a splinter group is twirling fire. Outside the circle, a couple juggles while another practices acro-yoga, their two bodies balanced one on the other, blurred by the night, becoming one amorphous creature that crawls into the circle and spins fire.
All this happening in Polynesia begs an inevitable question: How much of this is connected with traditional fire dancing, specifically Samoan fire knife dancing that's performed across the Islands? Do those fire swords ever cross?
“I definitely feel a very spiritual connection to the fire,” says Dhevhan Keith, one of the founders of the nonprofit Trial by Fire, which organizes gatherings twice a week near Barefoot Café at Queens Beach in addition to its quarterly Lunar Vibes event (seen above). “Throughout humanity’s history, fire has had this power to gather people. It gathers everybody, no matter who they are, no matter what creed or ideology they have.”
"I guess I'd be considered 'the crossover guy,'" says Bryan Hinton, a.k.a. "Chief Tui," a professional Samoan fire knife dancer and former University of Hawaii running back. A student of venerated fire knife teacher Fue Maneafaiga and a former student of the Island-based Toa Ole Afi fire knife school, Chief Tui has performed just about everywhere: dozens of hotels around Waikiki, countless weddings, cruise ships, convention centers, concerts, TV shows and music videos. "I've become friends with everybody in Trial by Fire. Before hanging out I thought they were going to be shocked when they saw how I fire-danced. But then after watching a lot of them, it's like, hey, they're pretty good! Coming from a Polynesian fire knife background like myself, I think a lot of them are really impressive."
So no issue with appropriation? "It's a good scene with good people, and many of them are very talented," says Chief Tui. "Why would I have a problem with that?"
Srikanta has led his group over, buzzing from their first burns. He lights up and steps into the circle with a blazing staff. Nimble and seasoned, he moves gracefully, without a hint of improvisation. A well-rehearsed performance, no stutters. Even the most respected members of the community stop to watch, like Taylor Reichle, a talented fire dancer who recently moved here from the Mainland.
"We're all from all over, we gather at festivals where we share knowledge and we grow together," she says, "but I've never seen a community like this-that's this big and so welcoming to everyone."
I ask her what her specialty is, and she counts on two hands: fire hoop, fire fans, poi balls, dragonstaff, contact staff, double staffs, fire eating, fire breathing and levitation wands.
"That's all that I own at the moment, but anything that is handed to me-if it lights on fire, I'll do it." Naturally. "Oh, and I have a fire whip, but I haven't lit that one up yet."
"A fire whip?" I ask. "Like Indiana Jones?"
"Yeah, I know. That one's a lot. It's five feet of fire," she says. "That one scares me."
