Authors: Olivia Black
Falling Forward (5 page)
Although it was about 8 AM local time, having been awake almost 24 hours, I was ready to transcend to what I hoped was the commencement of my new life. I laid down fully clothed, shoes still on, and that was it. I don’t remember falling asleep that morning.
I awoke at about noon local time. Michelle was still asleep. I went in the bathroom to wash my face. I pulled my hair up and snuck out of our room. I walked across the street to the world-famous Waikiki Beach. The ocean and activities are quite breathtaking, making my lame Florida beaches seem like a forgotten 1960s ghetto. The beach itself is much smaller than I had expected. In some places, there was maybe 50 feet from the adjoining sidewalks to the edge of the ocean during low tide. At the left end, there was a pedestrian pier with a covered lookout. To the far left was the Diamond Head mountain, an extinct volcano. I sure hope they were right – about the
extinct
part. To the right, you could almost see the entire curve of Waikiki beach from where I was standing. There was a huge wall of rocks that a local told me was put there to save some of the beach from erosion. People were swimming in the man-made lagoon between that break and the beach, some jumping from the rocks into the lagoon. Large fish were swimming in the calm water. Of course, I worried about sharks. Or piranhas. Or other man-eating things that you didn’t typically worry about in New Jersey.
I walked a little further down along the beach and dipped my toes into the crystal-clear teal-blue water. I was amazed to see tiny almost transparent fish dancing between my feet as I walked along the small cresting waves. Being from New Jersey, I was used to dark grayish-green oceans. It was rare to see your feet in the water once they were more than a few inches deep. This experience was a true treat. This is the Hawaiian experience I had always dreamed about.
Maybe a mile or so down the beach, you were forced off the beach and towards a sidewalk over a sea wall that stood roughly ten feet over what was left of the beach. It looked like some of the hotels just gave up on maintaining a beach in that area. There were very large swimming pools on the hotel side of the sidewalk, which I suppose supplanted the ocean in those areas. I turned around, choosing to keep my toes in the soft white-ish imported sand. I knew from reading an article on the plane that natural Hawaiian sand was supposed to be jet black, generated from years of disintegrated lava flows that overwhelmed the white calcium deposits left from decomposed sea shells. But this light sand looked like it may have come from Miami. I bent down to scoop some up, and did manage to see black sand mixing with the white.
The water was warm. I wanted to go further out for a swim, but decided it wouldn’t be a good idea to go alone – and I was still dressed. I found an empty spot in the sand and I sat for a moment. A white pigeon joined me. I had seen many pigeons in my days, but never had I seen a white pigeon. I wondered how he got here. I wondered how anyone or anything got here – this island paradise that is literally in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Apparently, people had been here for thousands of years. There were no cruise ships or airplanes until the last century. Someone had to manually build a small handmade boat, figure out how to safely sail thousands of miles away, with no maps or navigation, for what may have been several weeks at a time. They didn’t know what kind of weather or monsters they might encounter. What brave men – and
women
– those first Hawaiians must have been. You can’t grow a civilization without women, although I am certain some misogynist somewhere is trying to figure that out as we speak. Sadly, thanks to people who look a lot like me, there are very few native Hawaiians left.
I quickly shook off my underlying feelings of guilt and depression. After all, I didn’t have anything to do with this place. I had never been here before. And as far as I know, my ancestors didn’t have a part in the collective takeover and decimation of the original inhabitants of these islands. Besides, what could I do about it anyway? The natives say being Hawaiian today has nothing to do with your blood or the color of your skin – it’s what’s in your heart that makes you a true Hawaiian. I liked that. I liked that a lot. I think I could be Hawaiian – if I wanted to.
I hoped I would soon encounter many more new and exciting things I had never experienced. The stuff of pleasant dreams would certainly be welcomed to snuff out the nightmares of futures past. I smiled warmly as I buried my feet in the sand next to a small Japanese boy who was digging a hole so deep he might be able to funnel his way home.
Both Joe and Michelle had been to Oahu before – ironically never together. Knowing I couldn’t be away from work for too long, the both of them planned an exhausting itinerary that was supposed to get us through all the must-see stuff in a couple of days. The alarm went off at 6 AM Hawaii time, which was more like noon back home. We were all out of sorts, but personally, I felt pretty well rested. I went through my damaged suitcase and found a plain white t-shirt that surprisingly wasn’t too damaged and a pair of loose khaki-colored shorts that also survived intact. I figured that would keep me pretty cool. I didn’t mind sweating at all, but I didn’t want to freak out the other tourists. Sweaty people freaked me out. I was pretty impressed with the quality of my suitcase, given their torture by the mad Hawaiian driver.
I walked over to the sliding glass door, and slid it open to stand on the balcony. It was slightly overcast, and we weren’t quite sure what to expect weather-wise. It was definitely an up-do kind of day. There were already several people in the ocean. A myriad of colorful rental surfboards adorned the beaches. Michelle found something to wear and we headed downstairs. “We gotta get some clothes, girlfriend! You ready to go shopping?” she said in her cattiest voice ever. I nodded.
As we got off the elevator, we waded through scores of non-English speaking Japanese tourists who had their own dedicated tour buses and guides. I was secretly hoping to run into Kalani again, just not literally. I was cautious to look for speeding white vans as we walked outside and sat on the curb. I was concerned for all the small children, and there were quite a few. All the benches were already filled with Japanese tourists. I was surprised to see how close they sit to each other. Americans have unwritten space requirements – kind of like safe zones. But these Japanese folks apparently don’t have the same rules. One heavier man was practically sitting on the woman to his right. She didn’t seem to mind. I hoped she knew him. He was sweating profusely. I was disgusted and had to look away.
Our tour guide pulled up in a non-descript white van, at a normal speed, and right on time. There was a small handwritten and well-worn cardboard box sign that displayed the name of our tour. Definitely a small family business. I liked that. The driver introduced himself as David, a tall, balding white man with one hell of a tan sporting a blonde-ish but greying goatee. He was fairly soft-spoken, which worried me, since our van looked like it was going to be full. I hoped he had a microphone so we could hear what he had to say.
After signing three or four obligatory waivers, we climbed up into the back of the van and began our adventure. A quiet and nerdy Canadian group of four thirty-something men from Alberta would be our touring partners on this adventure. Apparently, Canadian men really like cologne because there was no escaping the potpourri of smells in that van. Michelle held her nose and frowned. I asked David if we could jump off for a moment to grab some coffee from the shop in the lobby to escape the odor, but he told us he was on a tight schedule. Michelle wasn’t pleased. I hoped she would bite her own sharp tongue.
As David drove through Honolulu, he shared us some interesting facts about the state and its culture, including pointing out the former school and boyhood home of Oahu’s favorite son, President Barack Obama. We slowly drove by the only palace on American soil, and learned Hawaii’s beloved queen was imprisoned there for a number of years while American Marines seized control of this sovereign nation and former British territory. It helped to further explain why what few native Hawaiians are left are still pissed off at Americans. David was very well versed for a Caucasian retired military man who had only lived on Oahu for just over four years.
Our first stop was one of the many retired old sugar mills. We drove up a hill and down a bumpy dirt road leading to a building with discarded and rusted old tractors and equipment adorning its front entrance. This particular mill had been converted into a pseudo-coffee and cacao plantation. We were ushered into the tour’s first tourist trap that had a few scattered coffee and cacao plants laying around outside, filled with the same coffee beans, spices, and other silliness we had already encountered in the several ABC stores and other tourist traps all over Oahu. I tried a free sample of a baked cacao bean, the precursor to chocolate. I had always wanted to do try one, so that was a big thrill. It was like biting into a nut, with its frilly and papery shell dissolving on my tongue. Inside, you could definitely taste a very bitter hint of chocolate, even more bitter than the darkest chocolate you can buy. I wondered how much sugar chocolate factories had to add to make chocolate palatable. I bought a few small bags to bring home, but ended up finishing them off on the tour that day.
There were also free coffee samples featuring authentic Kona coffee, supposedly only found in Hawaii. Michelle is a coffee connoisseur and regularly purchases Kona, but she wasn’t overly impressed with this place’s brewing techniques. She was skeptical that these beans may not be real Kona. She asked a young salesman, but he kind of smiled and nodded, obviously avoiding the question. Michelle made a face and tossed her nearly full cup into a trash can.
I was coaxed into trying a “world famous shaved ice” by one of the more charismatic workers who was telling guests all about their homemade custom “natural” flavorings. This Haole’s arm had a sleeve of tattoos from the back of his hand up to either shoulder. Knowing what some of my employees paid for much smaller and much more conspicuous tattoos back home, I imagined this guy must have sold a shitload of shaved ice to pay for all that ink. Five bucks (apparently, it’s expensive to
ship
the “custom home made flavoring” – even though it was supposedly made here, thus not needing to be shipped anywhere) and a few bites later, I chewed on a piece of plastic tape that had somehow fallen into my “natural” mango concoction. That would be the permanent end of my shaved ice experience. Not wanting to discover any other surprises in my mouth, I spit the whole thing out as the Canadians watched in shock. We got back on the van and continued to the next stop.
We drove through the charming little North Shore surfing town of Haleiwa and spied its quaint little shops and restaurants filled with even more Japanese tourists. There was a bar or restaurant on the corner of a strip mall with a rustic wood look. Its outside seating looked especially inviting. Michelle and I really wanted to go back there later that day, but decided not to when we heard that a cab ride would have cost over $100 each way from Waikiki. Apparently, this capitalism thing is working out very well for some of these people of paradise. I hoped that
trickle-down
theory fared better here than it did in the rest of the world. I thought renting a car for a day made more sense. Maybe I might do that later in the week.
Our next stop was Waimea Valley. According to of native Hawaiian history, of which I learned was recorded not in writing, but in the dance known as Hula, this beautiful rain forest had been a sacred place limited to royalty for more than 700 years. I imagined there might be a little slack in that timing, considering history communicated via dance might be subject to individual interpretation.
We donned our rain gear and David lead us through an informal yet informative tour of their world famous botanical gardens containing thousands of species of tropical flowering plants, and ancient archaeological sites. Since we had a fairly small group, David was able to address all of our silly questions and gave us ample time to snap hundreds of photographs. It was rainy and actually a bit chilly, unlike you’d expect a rain forest to be.
We wound our way through the park and passed by several tourists wearing bathing suits. It was raining, but the underlying chill in the air made that particular wardrobe choice appear unwise. We wondered what that was about. Minutes later, we came upon a gorgeous waterfall known as Waimea Falls. There was a small lake at the bottom of the falls, leading to a stream that meandered its way back down the small mountain we had just ascended. Michelle and I had to dip our bare feet into the small rock covered lake at the bottom of the falls. Several people were swimming towards the bottom of the falling water. Michelle and I stopped at about knee-high water. I seemed to remember this picturesque waterfall from a movie I had seen, but I still can’t remember which one. Michelle was also at a loss. We spent about a half hour tooling about around the bottom of this picturesque landscape. I didn’t want to leave. I was falling in love with the beauty of Hawaii.
About an hour or so later, we were dropped off at Ehukai Beach Park, otherwise known as the world-renowned “Bonzai Pipeline” surfing location. Waves are kind of lame in the spring, but it’s always a great photo opportunity. There were several photographers with really long lenses scattered all over the beach, even though there wasn’t anyone surfing on that particular day. It was hard to believe such a world famous place was situated in nothing more than a tiny public beach park with parking for maybe 20 to 30 cars. It looks so much larger on television. David told us that during surf contests, it’s not uncommon for contestants, spectators, and food trucks to park three or four miles down the narrow two-lane road, as traffic backs up even further than that. I imagined non-business owning locals might have a hard time with that, which was evidenced by the large fences sporting huge NO PARKING signs in front of the local homes.
As we pulled out of the park, we were informed that it was time for lunch at one of the North Shore’s more famous shrimp stands. David carried a menu in the van, took notes, and phoned in to pre-order our meals. Lunch was ready upon our arrival. I ordered what was supposed to be salmon on the menu. It turned out to be catfish – apparently, they were either out of salmon, or they didn’t carry it any longer. No one seemed to know. Michelle got their chicken dish. We both kind of picked at our Styrofoam containers, hoping there would be somewhere later in the tour where we could get snacks. The Canadian boys ate every last piece from their plates. I think one of them had a bite of Styrofoam too. David sat with our group during lunch and we talked about Hawaii’s biodiversity and culture. Of course, Michelle asked the questions no one else would ever ask.
“So, why do these Hawaiians hate us?” she asked, trying to be a smart ass while pretending to be innocent.”
David looked at her for a moment, I suppose to determine if she was serious. “Well,” he said solemnly, “your people came over here and jacked up their land. Wouldn’t you be pissed if someone with guns pulled up in your back yard and told you to pack your shit up and get out with no explanation?”
I was scared to death that Michelle was going to bitch slap David. I repeated in my head, over and over, “Please, Michelle, let this go…” fortunately, she did. Michelle didn’t say another word.
Suddenly, someone walked up behind Michelle and I and put one hand on each of our shoulders. I jumped in fear, hoping it wasn’t some angry locals, or worse, angry police.
“Aloha!” said the confident male voice with a strong hand. We turned around and were surprised to see… it was Kalani! “I didn’t see your bags in the driveway here, so I wasn’t sure it was you.”
I smiled. Ha ha, very funny, I thought. Michelle gave him a dirty look, but I snickered. I noticed a couple of rope bracelets on his wrists, but there was no ring on his left hand. But maybe that didn’t mean anything. I wasn’t sure how Hawaiians symbolized marriage.
Kalani continued. “I see you’ve been introduced to Hawaiian shrimp stands,” as he shook David’s hand. “But neither of you ordered shrimp. That’s very interesting.” The goofy Canadian guys snickered as they scarfed down whatever bits of food were left in their containers.
“Honestly? We’re not big into roadside shrimp served at what looks like a portable stand with an outhouse in the middle of nowhere.” Michelle cackled as I peeked at the Canadians. My unusually sharp words appeared to hit right where I aimed them. “But… I bet it’s great, if you’re into that kind of thing.” I struggled to regain my composure and look friendly, desperately trying to cover my sarcasm. “How are your surf lessons coming along?” I gave Michelle a dirty look as I realized she was definitely beginning to rub off.
Kalani shook his head. “Well, not so great. Couple of Canadian ladies trying to find their mojo, and I don’t think it’s working out for them. One of them said her arm or shoulder hurt, and she wasn’t breathing so well, so she sat on the beach. She looked kind of sick – thinks she might have a touch of food poisoning. They’re having fun though; they laugh a lot and don’t take it too seriously. I like that.”
I thought that was refreshing. But Michelle intervened. “Apparently, you don’t take driving seriously, either, Mr. Magoo.” I nudged Michelle under the table and she smiled at me.
Kalani laughed. His chuckle was adorable. And, he had great teeth. They were as white as the clouds, and almost perfectly straight. Props to his orthodontist, if they had that type of service out here. “Ouch! I guess I deserved that. Hey, I’d better get back to the van. Don’t forget to call me, OK? Aloha.” Kalani turned and walked to the pickup window, collected his lunch, and headed to his van.
I looked at Michelle for a moment. She was thinking exactly what I was thinking, and although we weren’t on duty, we took an oath. We knew what we were supposed to do in a situation like this. Michelle made that awful duck face with her lips and whined, “But Liv, we’re on vacation!” She then made that annoying clicking sound with her tongue and pushed her chicken towards the Canadian guys. “Here, boys. Chicken of the sea. Eat up. Momma got some work to do.” She got up. I joined her.
