Archive for the ‘Aloha Oy’ Category
Tuesday, November 20th, 2007
They call it the washing machine, and with good reason. You are hurled about, coated in sea water, hurled about some more and then, ejected, stumbling into the bright Lahaina sunshine to dry. It’s only 45 minutes, but if you are prone to green and hurly, you will not enjoy it one bit. You might consider flying, even though it is more expensive and not nearly as, um, romantic? Though there is little romance in lying on your bed later, moaning a little bit, and then, the next day, freaking out as you have to get on oh my god, another boat.
Which, in case you are wondering, was fine. Though not for everyone. I saw one Japanese lady turn sheet white and head for the rail, and another rather studly looking dad turned a pale green and, oops, there goes another one. To my surprise, I was fine on this round, the trip to Molokai. There were some rather large swells, but it was early, the harbors were flat, and by the time we were halfway across the channel, I felt, well, okay actually.
Still, we are getting up at the shocking hour of 4am tomorrow (again, if you thought it was all vacation, voila, it is not) to take the 530 boat. The morning boats offer a shot at a smoother ride - the winds kick up nearly every afternoon and you are almost guaranteed a choppy ride. Bleh. The 530 transit time is a compromise so I won’t lose another half day to the side effects of hurling and Dramamine. How’s that for your romantic traveling life? Whee.
Molokai is almost too lovely to believe. I napped on a beach under a palm tree, the tropical beach of your dreams, for about 20 minutes. There were, count them, two people on the beach: Julius and yours truly. We were caught in a tropical downpour at Halawa, the east end of the road. Everything was shiny and wet with rain on the drive back. Really, the beauty of this place takes the breath right out of you. Kaunakakai, however, is a ramshackle little crossroads, it looks very poor, and that famous bakery is really quite a dive.
Lanai felt a little weird to me - we are, perhaps, too young and ironic to spend our time there, even though it’s also a stunningly beautiful place. We took our rented Jeep down to a beach that I can’t spell properly and again were almost the only humans there - though the wind ensured that we did not stay long. The drive is an adventure in and of itself - I have not been quite that dirty and smelly since crossing the outback in Australia. Because I was so ripe, it seemed essential to wander about the lobby of the very posh Four Seasons on the beach.
That’s why Lanai is so weird. There are these very posh resorts with all these 50 plus golfers and a few honeymooners, maybe one or two rough campers. I looked around the dining room in the evening and almost every guest was white. “Ah, the true Lanai experience!” I snarked. “You can relive the plantation lifestyle!” We left the waiter a huge tip and the next day, got lunch where the cops and locals hang out.
The very kind gent that runs the cultural center on Lanai got up early on Sunday morning to open the place so we could see what they’re doing there. “We’ve got 1000 years of Hawaiian occupation, 100 years of ranching, and 70 years of pineapple. There’s a rich cultural history here that visitors need to know about,” he told us. He grew up picking pineapple himself and was raised by a Hawaiian family, so his ties to Lanai are very strong. I get the feeling he was delighted to talk about the Hawaiian aspects of Lanai - something I suspect are overlooked all too much by the four wheeling golfers.
We have one more night on Maui and then, we’re off to Kauai, where we end our trip.
There’s an island across the sea, beautiful Kauai, beautiful Kauai…
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Friday, November 16th, 2007
I feel almost guilty admitting this, but it’s all starting to run together. The volcano is up the hill behind us, there are some green mountains over there that are partly covered in mist, somewhere below there is a perfect crescent of sand that is black or gray or gold or has sparkling bits of green. To the left, pineapple, to the right, sugar, somewhere a mile or so down the road a low rise mall with chain stores… I can tell I’m in a different place when I wake up but when we’re driving towards the water and stop for coffee in yet another touristy little town with “galleries” and “shopping” I can not tell this little town from the last little town with “galleries” and “shopping.” It’s rather frustrating, actually.
I am always looking for Hawaii. We proceed west or north or down some crazy winding road and we end up somewhere that feels like Hawaii or rather, somewhere that feels like Ocean Shores. It’s weird. Global tourism doesn’t just mean there’s a Subway and a Kinko’s (where I sit right now) but it also seems means that there’s a homogenization of what passes for a cute tourist town.
The blur means that the exceptional stands out all the more. So last night, when we slept in Hana at the Loana Spa in a yurt with a million dollar view, and this morning, when we took an outdoor shower with that same million dollar view, Things Were Different. Thank god for that. Also, the night before when we went to the slack key concert up at the Napili Kai resort, Things Were Different too. Hooray. Also, the night before when we stayed at the Old Wailuku Inn, a 1920s plantation home furnished with Chinese antiques, well, that was Different as well. I’ll be compiling a list of favorites - you’ll be seeing those here on Nerd’s Eye View (with pics) when we get home.
By the way, if you’re in the process of planning your trip to Maui, do try to stay the night in Hana. It’s a real treat to not rush back on the same day. After all, it’s a crazy long drive and to do it round trip on the one day - oh, there’s so much you’re missing. The only caveat is that there is almost nowhere to get dinner in Hana, so feed up at lunch time, spend a packet for a meal at the Hana Maui hotel, or get a condo with a kitchenette and cook your dinner from stuff you got at the Hasegawa General Store.
Yes, I did have a rather indulgent J snap a picture of me and my uke in front of the Hasegawa general store. Now…
On the island of Maui far from Waikiki, there’s a place called Hana that is heavenly and when you go there, you’ve got to see the Hasegawa General Store!
Disclaimer: Assume the stays were comped if I don’t say otherwise, okay? And trust me, just coz we had a comped room at the Sheraton does not mean I loved the Sheraton.
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Tuesday, November 13th, 2007
It’s true what they say, you do need to get up early to climb Diamond Head. It’s not so much the heat, though it is a warm climb. It’s the crowds. As we stood at the top of the spiral staircase at the very top of the peak, dozens of Japanese girls stumbled out into the daylight. When the lookout was chock full of them, we squeezed our way down and dozens more followed. They’re a funny bunch of travelers, in their knee socks, funny hats, carrying shiny handbags. The girls were followed by dozens of boys with perfect rock star hair. And all of them, the boys, the girls, the tour guides, the bus drivers, were shouting the sunniest, funniest ALOHAs at us as we made our way back down.
We saw another troup - a school, I think - later at the Pali lookout, the girls in gray skirts, white blouses, and floppy ties, the boys in pale blue shirts and long pants. They seemed as happy to see us as we were amused by them. They crowded the lookout for a group photo, snapped loads of pictures of each other and the view, shouted more ALOHAs at us, practiced the hang loose sign (c’mon, you know what I mean, right) and then, whoosh, they were gone.
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Sunday, November 11th, 2007
“I used to surf with these old guys at Waikiki, one guy, he was 89. He said that the 30s and 40s, that’s when Waikiki was magic. The beach boys, they were gigalos, really, teaching surfing lessons by day and then at night, taking the rich ladies out and playing the ukulele for them on the beach. They’d surf those heavy long boards, they were so stable you could put four people on them, but they’d ride them all the way to the beach. Nowadays, the kids are all over the place on their boards, we couldn’t do that on the old style boards. Of course, those boys, they’re so hopped up on testosterone - the good thing about being older is now I know which waves NOT to ride…
When we think about Waikiki, we’re all looking for that time that past, that kind of mythical Hawaii that doesn’t exist anymore. We’ve got some of it left up here in Haleiwa, but they want to put in five big hotels just up the road. Five hotels! We can’t support the traffic load for one hotel. We’re fighting against it, we have been for 30 years. It’s why we say ‘Keep it Country’ up here.” - Hurricane Bob Brown, Curator, North Shore Surfing and Cultural Museum
Oahu Oy: If you are booking a trip to a major crossroads, one of incredible historical significance and the home of surfing mania, well, you might want to do a little forward thinking and try to not plan your visit to Pearl Harbor and Oahu’s north shore around Veteran’s Day or the opening of the Van’s surfing competition, an event that brings, count them, 25000 people to the island. Unless you’re a fan of huge crowds and getting your rental car on luck alone. Just sayin’. (Thanks SO much, guy at the Thrify rental car counter!)
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Saturday, November 10th, 2007
We are, I think, being good travelers. We wear sunscreen, drive the speed limit, tip generously, and eat local. We apologize before asking dumb mainlander questions, we say aloha and mahalo, we even send thank you notes to our hosts. We are working hard, keeping the off topic frolicking to a minimum, and in general, we are very much On The Job. I would have though that our karma was in okay order, but on day three, over breakfast in a perfectly wonderful rainforest retreat, our laptop shorted out and is now nothing but ballast.
This is not the worst thing that can happen to a travel writer. There could be a coup, a tsunami, a contagious and embarrassing disease. But it’s damn inconvenient, let me tell you. And if, like me, you rely on writing things down to clear your buffer, it’s also damn frustrating. I have returned to the old school approach of using a notebook, scribbling single word reminders to myself of observations made, stops worth remembering. This is not the same thing as being able to sit down at the end of each very long day to unload my Hawaii addled brain. Also, I’m very sad that we’re not able to upload photos, write mail, and generally stay in touch. Plus, as forewarned, some nights I am unable to sleep, so bogged down in unwritten descriptive language am I. Oh, if only I could scribble 400 words about the resort-centric coast, then I would be off to the land of nod!
Never mind. Never mind. We rush from place to place all the same. Yesterday we had the kind of day that you imagine we are having every day - we got up early, drank coffee on our oceanside balcony and wandered down to the dock. There we boarded the Fair Winds II for a cruise to Kaleakakua Bay where we spent a few hours snorkeling and snacking, two things that make life worth living. On the way back I sat up top, my feet hanging over the rail, the blue Pacific meeting the blue of the sky in a perfect straight line. One of the deck hands told me that the humpbacks will be here soon. “They don’t eat here, you know, they just come to have sex and give birth.” “That’s because the restaurants are SO expensive!” I said. “What else are you gonna do?” said the nice guy from Lake Tahoe.
This morning we left the Big Island and we’re in Waikiki. It’s noisy, crowded, full of Japanese kids carrying shopping bags, and it just seems crazy after West Hawaii. So many cars, so much noise, and good god, the shopping! Wow! A woman yelled at me for snapping a photo of her display of dozens of cheap tourist ukes, and a very knowledgeable gent in Ukulele World told me that my Aloha Royal may be of blue blood uke descent as Kamaka and Kali used to make tourist ukes and sell them under the “Royal” label, complete with the crest that mine has.
We’re at the Wyland Waikiki, right in the middle of the city, walking distance from the beach. There’s no view, but our room is lovely. I’m having a little trouble shifting from the mellow state of watching fish eat coral to the active scene of shopping as a contact sport, but by the time I’ve had a shower and the sun is down, I think I’ll be ready to elbow those Germans away from the rack of discounted aloha shirts. The Japanese kids are younger than me, but they’re small and burdened with packages. I can take them.
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Thursday, November 8th, 2007
The first stop we make today is the site of a former village and temple. It’s also the place where an attempt on Kamehameha’s life went awry, ending K’s competition and consolidating his power – he went on to unify the island kingdom, changing the history of Hawaii. Reef sharks swim lazy circles in the bay, we can see them from the shore, their black tipped fins breaking the surface of the water. The ranger at the park HQ assures us that they’re scared of humans, that if we got near them they’d skitter away, but we don’t have plans to swim anyway.
The Kohala Coast is dry and scrubby, the beaches rocky and rough. They’re pretty, of course, in ways that clichéd language was made for. Blah blah blah rolling surf, blah blah blah black sand, blah blah blah uncrowded sandy swaths with gentle breakers, yadda yadda yadda. I’m not saying it like this to be jaded, I’m just telling you that it’s exactly how you picture it. Lovely, everywhere.
Our destination is Hawi, the north end of the island, to the look out over the Waipio Valley. About 15 miles outside of town, the landscape shifts from scrubby black to vibrant green. There are banana trees and bougainvillea, huge banyan trees. The town reflects the same bright colors of the landscape, the buildings are pink and blue and orange with reddish or green steel rooftops. I’m in love. Hawi is my kind of place, a hippie town with good coffee and snacks, battered pickup trucks in ramshackle yards, smiling girls in natural food stores. We get coffee and sit on the sidewalk. J. is flabbergasted at the site of a fallen down house, the roof caved in, palms invading. The entire space is stuffed to bursting with crushed Wurlitzer juke boxes.
At the end of the road, there’s a bit of a traffic jam. We park on the shoulder and wander down to the viewpoint – it’s spectacular, of course, and looks out across the cliffs of the coast – the pali – and down into the green valley. We can see surfers out in the breakers. Three local boys come flying down the pathway, boogie boards under their arms. They are fast in their flipflops, their faces dead serious as though they are late for a very important meeting.
We leave Hawi thinking that this will be the place that we cash it in for, but we’re wrong, of course. From Hawi, we wind up the slopes to Waimea, through green farmlands. We pass a pumpkin patch – the color of the pumpkins against the bright green of the meadows is an optical shock. There are horses and cows grazing the hillsides, and every now and then we see all the way back out to the ocean. At the Waimea crossroads, we wander in to the Hawaiian Style Café – breakfast and lunch only, until 130. I’m starving and delighted when I get a first rate chicken salad sandwich, J gives the burger a thumbs up. There are local dudes at the counter, the waitresses are wearing pink Hawaiian Style tank tops. I’m beyond content here with a giant glass of lemonade in a red plastic glass because in this crossroads diner, I feel like I’m in Hawaii.
We stop in a music shop and I ask directions to Huloaloa. I have to find the Ukulele Gallery. I feel a little guilty about this, it’s not one of my goals for the book, but a uke friend in Seattle has told me I have to go see this guy, that he’s a great guy and has lovely ukes. Armed with directions from the music store at the Parker Ranch shopping center, we head into yet another ecosystem. Here the black lava is punctuated with neon green grass, it’s another crazy treat for the eyes. The light is doing something amazing – I don’t know if it’s the condensation or the clouds or what, but it’s got that afternoon pink glow even though it’s only 2pm.
When we make the turn towards Holualoa, we’re in yet another climate. It’s crazy humid and it’s gone from dry lava to rich rain forest like jungle. This is the Kona Heritage Trail. The road is narrow and winds past coffee farm after coffee farm. Rolling in to Holualoa, I’m again smitten. This is a little one street village, again the domain of hippies and artists and free spirits. And there it is, on the left, the Ukulele Gallery.
Only it’s closed. I’m crushed until I see the sing on the door – Back in a Few Minutes – and I hear the distinctive sound of a uke being tuned. My. Dog. Has. Fleas! I wander down the block to a gallery where a woman with a Swedish accent sits in a plastic chair reading a paperback. “Can you tell me something about where I am?” I ask here, and she tells me a little about the town. “Take a walk, see the galleries,” she suggests, “and get some coffee.” But back on the sidewalk, J. waves me down and point to the Ukulele Gallery. It’s open.
I explain to Sam Rosen, the owner of the Uke Galley, what I’m doing there. “My friend Ben A. sent me, “ I tell him. “He insists you’ll remember him.” We chat for a while and Sam has no recollection. We do a little geography, a little description. Finally Sam says, “I know a guy named Uncle Ben – is that him? You should have just said Uncle Ben!” He remember him perfectly, asks after him, and the ice is broken. (There must be an island phrase for that.)
Sam teaches uke making workshops in his tiny store. There’s a contented student finishing up his new instrument – he hands it to me and it’s pretty and clean. He’s just finishing up. And I’m playing the ukes, of course, sitting on a thatched stool and noodling with ukes that cost more than I’ll earn this month.
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