Lustrous Black Coral or Nasty Black Coffee?
Cousin Shortz, our tour bus driver, smiled through gritted teeth as he warmed to his favorite subject: “Before the arrival of the Europeans, the Hawaiians lived in peaceful harmony with nature, with no class system or property to create conflict among the Hawaiian brothers. Do you know the book, ‘Utopia,’ written by Thomas More in 1516? It was like that here, before the arrival of your ancestors…”
Cousin Shortz was lecturing to all us “cousins” through the speaker system of the tour bus. We were a captive audience of 20 or so, travelling as a merry family through the spectacular scenery of O’ahu. We were on our way to the next look-out point, far from the sheltered enclave of Waikiki in Honolulu. Expressed in the nicest possible way, Cousin Shortz’s recurring theme seemed to be, “Enjoy your vacation then get the hell out, but kindly empty your wallets first.”
John, sitting next to me in the front seat, whispered, “Our driver doesn’t mention anything about the Kapu system in effect back then. If your shadow happened to fall on a ruler, you were executed.” But John and I sensed it was unwise to interrupt Cousin Shortz’s impassioned soliloquies, especially after he’d confided that he’d left behind a disagreeable couple on a previous tour.
Historically, the average Hawaiian that felt the wrath of the king probably found it less than utopian. Before the arrival of the hoards of missionaries who introduced written language to the natives, history was maintained by oral tradition. The details are fuzzy, but the Hawaiian Religion’s harsh system of Kapu is well documented. Death was demanded for the breaking of a kapu. For example, men and women were not allowed to eat together. Death seems a little harsh for sharing a coconut with your beau.
All the regular folks were slaves to the chiefs, and the chiefs were slaves to their superiors, with the King and Queen on top. Naturally the royals knew just what the gods desired; the occasional sacrifice of a subject or two. “No property” actually meant ownership by the ruling class; the subjects couldn’t use anything without getting permission. To me, this does not sound utopian; more like hell with better weather. But hey, as an American, resentment of monarchies is in my DNA.
Not that the Europeans were any better, introducing STDs, rats, small pox to an unsuspecting populace. But the Hawaiians introduced poi, the ukulele, and Don Ho to an unsuspecting world…a harsh revenge.
“Everyone please look to your right at the yellow fruit hanging above that brick wall,” said Cousin Shortz. “Who can identify that fruit, which is a major crop here in Hawaii?” Ah, so there WAS going to be a test. I was pretty sure it was a grapefruit, but didn’t answer. The honor of being “teacher’s pet” required too much reading in utopian political theory.
After an uncomfortable silence, someone said, “A papaya?” in a thick Midwestern accent. “No! Grapefruit!” boomed Cousin Shortz. “I think I’m going to have to adjust my impression of the average IQ in this group,” he said jokingly, which elicited careful laughing. Yes, adjusted UP, I thought.
Next stop: Hanauma Bay. Cousin Shortz pulled into the parking lot, and said, “Better use the restroom now, in a minute comes a big bus. We are heah for 20 minutes. Don’t spend it in line!” While Cousin Shortz strung together with super-fluidity the pile-up of vowels that is the Hawaiian language, a few consonants sounded foreign to his tongue, and there were syllabic mishaps. “Here” came out like “heah,” which sounded like the deep South. “Property,” a word featured prominently in his lectures, came out like “pro-PER-ty.”
I dashed to the restroom. When I emerged, a torrent of Japanese tourists was spewing from a behemoth bus and were running my way. I hurried away from the onslaught. Instantly, the queue for the restroom was long enough you’d have to choose between physical relief or the spectacular view. The driver of that bus was another native; a plump woman in a Hawaiian print dress that covered every inch of her short neck and extended well down past any hint of indecent toe exposure. I had this feeling she had instructed her attentive brood to call her “Aunty.”
From the parking lot, I wandered over to see the bay. Sigh…20 minutes was not nearly long enough here. The bay is world famous for its reef full of colorful, curious fish, and a haven for snorkelers. The beach with its undulating palm trees and white sand looked enchanted. The long path down to the beach made dipping our toes in the turquoise water an impossibility. But, Dammit, here was the place I wanted to spend the day. I thought about desertion. Maybe I could walk the 15 miles back on the narrow, mountainous highway. We’d only started, but I’d already become weary of the company of my somewhat daffy “Cousin.”
I decided against escape. I was no longer solo; there was John to consider and the whole B.L.O.I.N.G. experiment (Benet/Lancaster Official Investigation of Nesting Ground). I’d try to think of the tour bus as a microcosm; we’d get through it together. So I made do with the small pleasures to be found in the parking lot of Eden. “Oh, look! A mongoose!” someone shouted. It dashed from a tree to the stone wall, then disappeared into a tiny crevice. What a handsome rascal…oh wait, Cousin Shortz says the mongoose was introduced by the white man to control the rats he’d introduced and was wreaking havoc on…wow, now I was sounding like him.
There were gangs of wild fowl living in the green area of the parking lot. In fact, everywhere we went had colorful hens and rooster loitering about. With his telephoto lens, John captured several close-ups of stern roosters. “Time is up!” Cousin Shortz demanded. There was a tear in my eye as we drove away from Hanauma Bay, where I wanted to spend the rest of my week.
From there we went to the Halona “Blowhole” Lookout, to gander at the spectacular spewing of ocean waves through a gap in the spectacular rocks, created by ceaseless pounding of surf. Also visible as a faraway strip of land, the spectacular beach where the famous grinding-in-the-sand scene had been filmed for “From Here to Eternity.” Unless otherwise specified, just assume every stop afforded a view that was “spectacular.” In Hawaii, everything is so damned spectacular, after a while, you just want to shout, “C’mon! Again?”
Next stop, inland to the Pali look-out, where Cousin Shortz untethered us for 20 minutes of “ooh”-ing, then to the Byodo-In Temple for 20 minutes of “aah”-ing. At the temple’s koi pond, John, with his telephoto lens and polarizing filter, took frame-filling shots of the frolicking koi. The filter eliminated the water’s reflections so that the koi seemed to float, sharing the space above with an annoyed swan. At lunch, John showed me a few of the photos. Not for the first time, I was a bit jealous of John’s equipment…his camera equipment.
We Lunched at “Crouching Lion Inn and Restaurant.” The hostess tried to herd us all together in a tidy row and pack us at four per table, but most of us spread out as though we were normal people, rather than cattle from a tour bus. After a simple lunch of pineapple-laced burger and local beer, I spoke with a friendly couple at the nearest table. Newlyweds from Australia, they were a bit giddy about being able to wear sandals and shorts. In Sydney, the funnel-web and redback spiders make cavalier outfits a bit risky.
Sated, John and I wandered the lush grounds. I searched for the “crouching lion” carved by the wind and rain on the mountainside above the restaurant. It takes a creative eye, squinting, and a natural ability for seeing phantoms to make it out. So, no problem.
As we drove to our next stop, it was impossible not to notice the steep incline to our left. I’d never seen anything like it; a massive undulating wave of mountain, nearly vertical, climbing into the far, misty clouds. O’ahu is a small island, but to get anywhere you had to follow a single road around the perimeter because of formations like these; the Ko Olau Mountains. The hand-drawn map given to us by the tour company was comically inadequate at conveying their ominous presence. I couldn’t sense their scale; one mile away, or ten?
“And now we enter the Waimanalo Hawaiian Homestead area. This land was set aside by the imperialists as a token to the real Hawaiians that had lived through the epidemics introduced by the Europeans.” Ah, Cousin Shortz, adding just the right touch to a claustrophobic situation. “The homes cannot be sold, they can only be inherited by authentic Hawaiians. And now, let’s talk about the beauty of Hawaii’s state jewel, black coral.” Our dear Cousin, master of the abrupt segue, launched into sales banter.
After a five minute spiel designed to put us in a froth of desire for the polished luster of black coral, we arrived at a dilapidated strip mall and were directed to a store to satisfy our lust. I was more in the mood for ice-cream. When we’d pulled in, I’d seen a sign for it at the other end, so I walked there but the store was closed. John had joined me with the same idea. Disappointed, we walked back past a café catering to local culinary tastes; piles of macaroni salad and Spam. I entered the café to get a coffee, the worst I’ve ever tasted, then coming out I received a blood-freezing look from a group of oversized locals, clearly displeased that we’d wandering past the confines of the store designed to separate tourists from their loot. We quickly made our way back to the bus, where I sipped my bitter brew and contemplated the wall of mountain to the left. We were a long way from the open arms of Waikiki. (to be continued…)
artygerard 