Island Bounty

December 25, 2016, WAIKALOA, HAWAI'I—If you are a coffee lover, the Big Island of Hawai'i is a great place. Just a few miles down the coast from where we are staying, there are terrific coffee farms that grow 100 percent Kona coffee. When we picked up our rental car, Jeffrey the agent told us to buy local as much as possible to support the local economy.

We eat an enormous amount of food, said one person.

"Oh, and don't go to Starbucks," he said as we exited the building. "There's so much good local coffee that there's no need to go to Starbucks."

Nevertheless, yesterday, as I went to the market to get some local eggs for breakfast, the Starbucks was jam packed with people eating muffins and drinking huge silos of coffee or people gripping Venti Frappacinos. The price of two of those drinks would have bought nearly a half a pound of fine Kona coffee at the market that was just a stone's throw away.

"Drink local coffee," I said to a quartet of handsome dudes dressed in mainland fashions that they had obviously painstakingly selected for their honeymoons on the island.

"How rude!" one of the Style Boys retorted.

And perhaps it was, so I went home and pondered the matter over another cup of delicious Kona coffee as we prepared eggs and island potatoes. 

The locals sniffed out Captain Cook, decided he was

not a God, so they bludgeoned him to death near

here. This is the true price of fear.

For the gaggle of gay men, the coffee advice dispensed to them by an aging fat man with a sunburn who was wearing an ensemble from Kohl's probably made about as much sense to them as the story of Kamehameha I's rise to power that was written in the Hawaiian language on a plaque at the nearby Pu’ukohala Heiau National Historic Park did to me. Although there are only 13 letters in the Hawaiian language, they are all still very confusing—at least to English speakers.

What was not confusing is how, no matter where you go, mankind seems to build political and social structures that end up with the ordinary doing all the work and paying all the taxes so that the rich and privileged can continue to maintain the lifestyles to which they are accustomed without lifting a finger. Thirteen letters or not, that was the bottom line of the Kamehameha story. It's no wonder the term "Big Kahuna" remains in the English and Hawaiian lexicons nearly 300 years after the Beefy King's rise to power. Kamehameha was named king after he hefted a giant stone, fulfilling a prophesy that bamboozled the superstitious commoners into accepting "unification" that eventually turned them into slaves for the wealthy and powerful. We've seen the same thing today with the appointment of Donald J. Trump as our new leader. He pulled off a miracle, and now the ordinary rabble will march through fire against their own better judgment, working against their own best interests, for at least the next four years.

Big-Island breakfast

As we drove down the coast, I wondered whether President Obama, ensconced for Christmas with his family on a nearby island, was having a similar revelation.

The sight of a whale spout in the brilliant blue waters just off the coast shook me from my stuporous thoughts, so we pulled over and prepared to hike down to the shore—which was about a mile away downhill over unsteady lava-strewn terrain. Just as we departed, a vehicle full of young Hawaiian hooligans—all drinking Carling Black Label at 11 a.m.—made me reconsider our idea. 

"You've got quite a journey ahead of you, Brah," the driver said.

I walked up to the passenger side window. The young woman's eyes were nearly closed, the side effect of morning beers and an intense seaside Wake-'n-bake session, most likely. The couple in the back of the 4x4 vehicle giggled at me. How rude, I thought to myself. The occupants eyed our rental car as I looked on the ground at the patches of broken window glass from previously parked vehicles.

"Yeah, I've never seen whales before," I said. "About how far is it to the shoreline?"

"About half an hour, Brah."

"Good to know. Mele Kalikimaka!"

The sushi rocks at Sushi Rock!

They watched us walk toward the beach in their rear-view mirror. After they got on the road, we turned around and went back to our car.

"They'll be back just after we're out of sight and our car will be ruined," I said to Caroline, motioning to the shattered and pillaged vehicle that had been abandoned at the edge of the road below us. Broken glass, tires, and various remnants of fabric and plastic lay haphazardly next to the useless hulk. We made the decision to find a better spot for whale watching. 

Sure enough, about five minutes down the road, we saw the gray SUV and its occupants heading back down main highway toward where we had been.

We were hungry and anxious to celebrate Caroline's birthday, so we stopped in Hawi for some sushi and a cool drink. The Sushi Rock restaurant was fantastic in every way, and one of the waitresses wore a Santa hat with a faux leopard-skin fringe. Mele Kalikimaka, indeed! We ate a chef's choice sushi special, which meant they shoveled a mystery array of delicious rolls our way—44 pieces in all. It was the perfect choice for Caroline's special day.

We made our way north toward the end of the road. After visiting Pololu beach—a big hike that attracts many to the parking lot high above the valley, but not nearly as many to the stony black beach below—we headed back south for dinner. We had stocked up on tons of local comestibles at the farmer's market in Kona a day earlier, so each of our meals have been fresh feasts. A papaya, passion fruit and local lime makes for a lovely breakfast, and stir-fry is easy and plentiful here. In between we snack on nuts, local breads, and island-distilled spirits. Not only is this place a paradise for the eyes, but for the stomach as well.

The black beach at Pololu, near the northern tip
of the Big Island

Some while back when we first visited the Big Island, a friend of ours remarked that we "eat an enormous amount of food." It's a true statement. We always have, and even though I'm a big person, I will never match Kamehameha's stature, but I'll never turn into a sumo wrestler type, like the 12-year-old kid we saw sucking on a popsicle by the Kawaihae Harbor, where we watched the setting sun and the last spouting whale of the day. 

With so much great local fish and fruit on this island, it's hard to imagine how a place like the Macaroni Grill and other chain restaurants survive here. But then I think back to the encounter at Starbucks, the history of Kamehameha I, and our recent election of Donald Trump. People throughout the ages hate chaos. They like a sure bet. Why gamble on a home-made cup of coffee or one prepared at a local coffee shack when you can be sure that a cup of Starbucks will taste the same no matter where you are on the planet? Why gamble on continuing socio-economic uncertainty when a larger-than-life demigod can assign you a known place in society, even if that place is endlessly toiling in service of the Elites and the powerful?

Fear is a huge motivator, and it stops us in our tracks. It's better to erase the unknowns from life than it is to find out firsthand whether the guy in the gray SUV was coming back to smash your windows and steal your beach towels or whether, fueled by a little early Christmas Spirit and the goodwill buzz of some kind Kona gold bud, he was checking to make sure that no other hooligans were disrupting the vacation of a couple of tourists from the mainland, isn't it?

Merry Christmas, and we'll see you on down the road!

A panorama of Pololu beach near low tide.

Andre the Giant has a Posse

LOS ALAMOS, N.M., Nov. 29, 2015—A week ago we left the tropical paradise of Kauai, Hawaii, a mostly unspoiled refuge for wildlife and people. After giving thanks during this year's holiday at home for all of the marvelous accouterments with which we have been bestowed throughout this strange and wonderful journey that we call "Life," I have returned to this blog to wrap up a few loose ends before I return to the daily activities that comprise my normal existence. In case you weren't certain, that's all just a fancy way for me to say I had a few leftover photographs and memories that needed to be burned here. So let's begin, shall we?

We have your back, Andre—all of us.

Some of you may be wondering, "why the title?" It's a good question. Why indeed? To explain, I need to digress for a moment.

For those of you unfamiliar with a visit to the Hawaiian islands, there's a peculiar phenomenon associated with a traveler's arrival and departure to America's island paradise. It's a long flight each way. The flight to the islands is usually filled with giddy excitement, so it's not that big of a deal, except that you usually get in late in the afternoon or early in the evening, so you essentially lose a day. The return flight generally leaves late in the evening—usually around 10 p.m. Hawaii time or so. It's understood that most people will simply sleep during the bulk of the flight and awake uncomfortably at sunrise just in time for a dairy-rich breakfast and a landing at an airport on the mainland somewhere in the Western United States. As the seasoned lesbians on Cap'n Andy's boat so astutely stated, "if you go to Hawaii for a week, you essentially lose two days."

Wailua Falls is more beautiful than this photo would indicate.

For some people, departure day becomes an unsettling experience. Since check-out times at most hotels and condominiums are 12 hours before airplane departure times, the last day on the island can be a limbo. Travelers are forced to stuff their belongings into the rental car and wander for the day. Last time we were in Hawaii, we enjoyed a day at the beach and a cold shower at beach side before dressing for the flight. This time around, we were fortunate to have gotten agreement from our condominium owner to use the apartment all day until we left to the airport.

This meant we gained an entire day back. Because the heavy rains a couple of days earlier had driven us away from the island waterfalls, we decided to visit them on this sunny day. Our morning started with a visit to the falls. Taxi cabs loaded with excited travelers lined the roads. Their passengers paraded to the edge of the lookout for the compulsory waterfall photo. A man on a motorcycle with no front teeth rode to the lookout. A dirty dog peered out of the man's jacket. As the motorcycle man set up an offering of woven bowls on the wall of the overlook, the dog wandered through the parking lot scratching himself manically. We captured our Kodak Moment in front of Wailua Falls and began exiting the parking lot. We kept a sharp eye out for the wandering dog, who roamed behind vehicles while his owner showed no concern for the canine's well being whatsoever.

The Russian Fort is a pile of rubble, its history is summed
up in a few fading panels nearby.

We returned home for a quick bite to eat. The coral cut on my foot had healed somewhat, but not enough to allow for a carefree dip in the ocean for a final day of snorkeling. We opted to drive to Waimea Canyon, also known as "Hawaii's Grand Canyon." Our travels took us to the west side of the island. There were fewer resorts there and a lot of locals. It was a refreshing change. Things here seemed genuine.

On our way to Waimea, we stopped at the old Russian Fort that survived for a short period of time on Kauai before the Russians were kicked out by the natives. The star-shaped fort was mostly just a shapeless pile of rubble. The interpretive posters were sparse on information. They didn't answer the obvious question: What did the Russians do that pissed of the islanders so much that the Cossacks were banished and their fort destroyed? We never found the answer.

A sculpture at Koloa illustrates the cultures that led to the
success of the Sugar Cane Industry on Kauai.

We passed the island's last sugar cane plantation—an expansive stretch of privately owned land that was off limits. Sugar built the islands, but it also did a fair amount of lasting damage to them. What was great about our trip was seeing that the Hawaiians have taken great pride in their culture and have done much to preserve it. The sticky sweet call of inculturation coming from the Sugar Plantations was largely ignored by a key group of islanders, and these folks have remained steadfast in preserving the old ways. Hawaiian greetings, tikis, and hospitality are more than just good tourism—they are authentic, and something I appreciate every visit.

The clouds began rolling in as we began our dizzying ascent toward the Waimea Canyon overlook. In just two short miles we were already 2,000 feet above the beaches. We captured a quick glimpse of the edge of the canyon. Someone had pasted an homage to Andre the Giant on a guardrail post where we stopped. Hopefully the Hawaiian Culture has a posse as active as Andre the Giant's, and the culture will be remembered long after the islands have been successfully pillaged for economic gains by the Corporate P.T. Barnums of Modern Day. Larry Ellison has purchased an entire island off of Maui that he plans to develop into a luxury playground for the Super Rich, according to one of the island locals we met. Ground-floor rooms without a beach view are rumored to start at $1,000 a night—an order of magnitude higher in price than the current beach-view rooms at the resorts on Kauai.

The Waimea Canyon area from a lookout well below the
canyon lookout.

What this means for the future, I can't say, though the concept of purchasing an island and giving its inhabitants the choice to leave or become "employees" of the plantation master seems repulsive in this day and age. I guess it depends on your perspective. But apparently, Ellison and others out there are longing to leave their modern stamps on the world, like the figures pecked into the lava rock by ancient Polynesians.

Waimea Canyon was socked in by dense fog. We didn't get to see its full splendor, but the miasma gives us an excuse to return some day. Back at the condominium, we enjoyed a cool shower, and we polished off the last of the rum in some fine home-made guava coladas. We ate beans and rice as our final meal on the island, despite knowing that the meal's after effects would be unpleasant to us and others trapped in the confined quarters of an airplane.

Like a good traveler, I slept most of the way back. Caroline was not so fortunate; she enjoyed only a few minutes of distracted sleep. The heavy breakfast of milk and milk products was disagreeable, but we ate it anyway. In Phoenix, the flight crew was distracted. Our landing in Albuquerque was smooth. The icy air on our skin was a shocking but welcome contrast to the warm days we had experienced on the island. 

Our view from the lanai at sunset during our
last day on Kauai.

In Albuquerque we picked up our convalescing dog. Had I been able to speak to her, I would have explained that her life is much better than the life of the dog we saw at the waterfall, even though our dog was wearing the Cone of Shame and walking with a limp. Those who know nothing other than their own immediate circumstances lack the value of perspective. Andre the Giant probably didn't know he had fans spread out across the globe, the itchy dog on Kauai probably didn't know that there are other dogs out there who get regular meals and mange treatment, and Larry Ellison probably has no idea that the concept of buying an entire island—just because you can—is patently offensive to the ancestors of those who settled the island in the first place.

Our vacation this year gave us a valuable perspective and and appreciation for all facets of our lives. And in that sense, it was the best vacation we've ever had.

See you on down the road.