A Few Loose Ends

July 27, 2007

It's been a while since my last entry here, partly because I have been fairly busy, and partly because I have had some difficulty focusing in on any one particular subject. With that in mind, I'm going to use this opportunity to tidy up[ a bunch of random thoughts about island life that have been floating around unexpressed, poking at my conscience, leaving unsightly hair in the sink and generally being a nuisance.

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The word on the street is that this island is one of the most desired vacation places in the world, holding the Number One spot in Conde Nasts' list of Top Ten Islands In The World for going on nearly ten years and always in the top three on any other ritzy publication's list. That's just peachy and all, but I can't figure out what the vacationers are doing when they get here. I would have thought for sure that relaxing on the beach would be on the agenda, but apparently this is not so.
There's only a couple of beaches on this island that you can consider being a traditional sandy sun-and-fun beach. One of them is on the other side of the mountains in an isolated resort area, and it is very nice, winning another Best In The World listing. Chances are that you probably can't afford to sunbathe there. The other is about three minutes from our crib...Maipoina Oe Iau Park ("Forget-Me-Not") on the Ma'alaea Bay shores. This is a beautiful beach, perfect for most shoreline relaxation activities, with exquisite sand and clear blue water. The only thing missing from it is vacationers. Brian and I visit this beach regularly, at various times of the day, and we almost never see any more than ten people for as far as the eye can see, which is several miles. On the one hand, this is nice in that it's never crowded, and it feels as though we have our own private beach. On the other hand, the severe deficit of bikini bunnies fuels the fear that my monastic lifestyle may never end.


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Maui is an expensive place to live, and the coming development of vacation real estate only makes it more difficult for the native-born Hawaiian to have (or keep) a home or car. Many of them only have bicycles for transportation...and boy, is it easy to pick them out.
The local bicycle is a strange and unique creation, each one as different and unique as it's owner. Parts are scrapped together from whatever is found lying in a ditch covered in weeds, and they are installed backwards, upwards, amended and with every other term for modified that you can think of. Bags and pouches are strapped into whatever spaces the frame might have, and if that's not enough space, then more frame is added until you can mange to create a two-wheeled, human-powered condominium. Paint schemes are equally unique, as every Hawaiian cyclist imagines himself to be an artist. There are tiger stripes and polka dots and mosaics and a wide variety of mottled shades of grey, black, and rust. With my somewhat limited vocabulary, it's difficult to describe them accurately; the best way I can tell you is that they look like what would happen if Salvador Dali had built the Mars rover.


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The newcomer might be amused by the Hawaiian license plate: a rainbow on a plain white field. Don't worry--it doesn't mean that we are all gay.

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I've done quite a bit of listening to modern Hawaiian music on the radio while traveling around the island, and I've noticed something interesting about it: Hawaiians have very little to write about. There's a few love songs, and a few historical songs--songs about great storms, conquests of King Kamehameha, and a very popular one about the demigod Maui ("The one original ultimate Hawaiian Superman!!")--but mostly there are songs about fishing. Lots and lots of fishing songs. At first this seems funny after a lifetime of mainland music which tackles such a vast array of subjects from depressing isolationism to all-night partying to political grandstanding to pickup trucks and everything you can think of in between; but then it becomes charming in it's innocence and simplicity. I don't know the names of the artists because the station never announces them (I hate that), but I take delight in hearing one minstrel sing about walking along the rocks and netfishing, with every line answered by the voice of a young girl singing the same lines in the native Hawaiian tongue. He keeps his message simple:

"I walk on the rocks and I see all the mullet
I fit plenty fish in my five-gallon bucket
I cast my net so far and wide
I love to fish at Hale Aloha, Hawaii!"

Another fave of mine is "Mr. Polebender":

"Mister Polebender, where are you?
I gonna bait my hook and line
And then I'm coming for you!"

Now, this is not traditional Hawaiian music....it's not ukeleles and slide guitars and Don Ho falsettos singing "Tiny Bubbles". Modern Hawaiian music is nothing more than standard Jamaican reggae, but without the politics and drug references. It has it's own name: Jawaiian. There is an AM station that does play nothing but traditional Hawaiian music from more modern artists such as Grammy winner Isreal Kamakawiwe'ole (affectionately known as Bradda Iz) to music recorded as far back as the 40's. I occasionally listen to this music also, and it is a beautiful language to hear when set to music. The only problem is that this station is very badly managed, and you often hear the same six-song sets repeated back-to-back, and again an hour later. What really surprised me was that when first hearing it, I found that I was familiar with all of it! That struck me as very strange, because I don't remember ever being exposed to very much of it before I found that station. It seems that even when you hear just little bits and pieces of it when passing by tourist shops and hotel luaus, they stick into your subconscious with a much firmer grip than other popular musics do.

My Dirty Little Secret

 I finally understand the inner turmoil that the transsexual goes through. I am having my own inner conflict to deal with, and the battle rages on between both sides of my conscience. Every day I wake up and trudge through my life wondering who I really am, and desperately seeking a resolution.
 
  You see, I'm a fisherman trapped in a landlubber's body.
 
  I've tried to push it away; then one day I found myself at a yard sale forking over $35 for two 6' open reels. Thankfully, nobody I knew was there to see it. When I got home, my roommates were gone, so I snuck them into my room and spent the next 20 minutes fondling them...caressing them...I felt so ashamed; I can't name even one fish that swims the Ma'alaea Bay.
 
  I pondered what I had done, and tried to summon repentance, but I was hooked.  I had no defense against my inner desires, and was soon down at Long's Drugs, averting my eyes from strangers as I sought out  tackle department. My eyes glazed over as I scanned the display board--hooks....sinkers....floats....scalers....leader lines...snap swivels....slide bait stoppers...grubs filled with reflective multi-colored foil confetti. Rivers of anticipation ran down my inseam as I selected my first tackle box.
 
  Back at home I cast caution to the wind and indulged in an orgy of frantic package-ripping, line-knotting and bait-threading. I rushed down to the bay feeling alive and free! I felt a hole in my soul shrink five sizes smaller as I splashed my way into the surf, fighting the undertow, feeling glee as the waves crashed against my body! I unlocked the reel....I leaned back, my head just above the waterline...I tightened my grip around my rod, and I CAST!  I cast with all the might I could muster!  The hooked grub sailed out to sea, defying the mighty winds!  It splashed....sank....I reeled with joy....
 
  I hooked a rock. Repeatedly. Ashamed and dejected, I slouched back to my '91 Camry as the sea laughed sadistically at me behind my back.
 
  Almost two weeks passed...two weeks of shame and humiliation. I felt so alone. Then, out of the blue, I recieved a call from Dr. Morifuji, and was stunned to hear him exclaim "I heard you bought a fishing pole!". I acknowledged that I had, and told him of my secret desire. He then invited me to join him and a friend on a fishing trip the next morning on the north side of Haleakala near the town of Haiku. He told me it was a secluded spot, and no-one would see us except others of our kind. My heart leapt into my throat as I choked out the words, "I'd love to!".  Alas, I was not alone after all!
 
  The next morning we all piled into a pickup truck and head down the road. Suddenly we turned onto a dirt path that winds around behind the pineapple fields, passing campsites of homeless Mauians  with their trucks and guard dogs. Soon we stopped at a high cliff overlooking a secluded bay.
 
  Well, it was staggering. A VERY narrow trail wound down the side of the cliff, with ropes staked into the ground at various intervals as makeshift handrails. At the bottom was a field of black lava rock, scattered with tide pools teeming with anemone, various minnows and mudskippers. The picture above cannot translate how immensely huge it all is! The tide was on it's way in, and the wind was blowing hard. Waves crashed violently against the rocky shoreline as we cast out our lines.
 
  I was climbing over the rocks and casting like a madman. Gary anchored a 10' pole in the ground and fit it with slide bait. Marc and I stayed with the cast-and-retrieve method.
 
  Slide-baiting was a new concept to me, and I found it to be interesting and clever. See, a large weight is tied on to the end of the line, with brass wires when anchor it to the ocean floor. About six feet up from there, a steel ring is attached to the line.  Back on shore, a smaller steel ring (like a keychain) is attached, with a baited hook on about four feet of leader line. This assembly slides down the pole's line, is stopped by the larger ring, and the bait--a live mudskipper from the tide pools-- swims around in circles on it's tether under the water.
 
  Marc had a big one get away. Gary caught a large eel. I caught a rock and Gary's ankle.
 
  Yet I remain determined to find my inner fisherman, and yesterday found myself back at Long's Drugs buying a 10' pole, slider tackle and various other minutia. God saw my despair, and sent to me a stranger who saw me shopping and stopped to offer loads of unsolicited fishing advice.  I bought a larger tackle box.
 
   Again I went home and indulged in that orgy of package-ripping and knot-tying. I went to the bay and cast my new reel, again feeling the joy of freedom from the constricting bonds of my landlubber past.
 
   I caught a rock.
 
   Maybe next weekend.

WHAT'S WITH THE RICE??

July 27, 2006


"Changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes"....There's a lyric that has often been repeated in my presence, and usually by my roommate Brian. Naturally I assumed there would be some changes in my attitude when I moved here, but more than that I wanted to escape the attitude of my old city of Greensboro-- mainly with respect to racism. Yes, I know that racism is everywhere and in many forms, and there is no way to escape it; but it's a little different here.
In my humble and useless opinion, Greensboro is the birthplace of modern racism. The Woolworth Lunch Counter Sit-in of February 1, 1960, could easily be considered the birthplace of the Civil Rights Movement. The Nazi-Klan Shootout of 1979 gave us more notoriety in racial affairs and a tasteless skit on Saturday Night Live. The NC A&T State University in Greensboro is the Alma Mater of Jessie Jackson ("I AM....an Aggie!"), and the resulting civic pride of the black community saw many seeking further leadership from Louis Farrakhan. Though the city is basically peaceful, underlying racial tension can be uncomfortable, especially when compounded by the fastest-growing Hispanic population in the US also clamoring for special "rights", and having to hear rednecks complain about it all.

Here on Maui, there is plenty of racism also; the difference is that everyone here is a minority, so racism is actually funny to most. It's treated more like good-natured smack talk between fans of opposing football teams. If, for some reason, the group that you are with are all of the same minority, then the group is forced to denigrate each other's hometowns. This is truly a melting pot, and everyone is having fun diving off of the rim.

One of the prevalent minorities is of Portuguese descent. The first family I met fell into this catagory and they have a blast bashing themselves. They way they explain it to me, there are two subclasses of Portuguese: There are the Portuguese--who sailed over in boats--- and then there are the Portugee (porta-GEE) who swam. That was the extent of the explaination, but I'm guessing that the former group doesn't indulge in near as much marijuana abuse as the latter.
Among the native Hawaiians, there appears to be three classes. The first are your basic, down-home friendly folk who enjoy cashing in on tourism. Sure, they'd like the island to remain in an undeveloped natural state, but the know they'd get bored, and, besides, they're gonna make a fortune in land prospecting. The second group finds tourism irritating, yet necessary....they know that they'd be unemployed without it, and their families didn't have the luxury of land ownership. They voice their sentiments with a message pasted on the rear windows of their cars: "WELCOME TO HAWAII...NOW GO HOME". The third class is the worst, and is considered to be an embarrassment: the Mokes. My friend Corey summed them up pretty well: "They're fat, they're drunk, and they're extremely racist...they are the official Hawaiian redneck". These guys enjoy harassing tourists and white locals. They are known to start fights in parks around the island, and are the ones often heard yelling "Hoale go home!". One of their favorite haunts is the Ioa Valley, where they enjoy burglarizing or stealing cars. The local wisdom says "you can always spot a tourist's car because the windows are cracked for air". It's just a bad idea to leave your car open in any way, anywhere. Now, I'm thinking that there's a good reason to be causing trouble in Ioa Valley if you're a moke: the valley, with it's pristine natural majesty, was the worship place for native gods; tourism can almost be seen as a desecration in the eyes of the proud Hawaiian native.
Haoles (HOW-lays: white people) are are becoming increasingly tolerated and accepted, and the word hoale doesn't have the racist connotation that it once had (unless you're a Moke). Twenty years ago, however, the word "haole" was almost always preceded by an adjective such as "stupid" or "fu***ng". Now, as it is with all minorities, haole is just what you are. If you're white, you're a haole. Get used to it.

My town of Kihei has a really large population of resident white people, so it's often referred to as Haolewood. As you leave Haolewood and cross the cane fields to Kahului, you can look at the mountainsides and see the towns of Wailuku, Waikupu, Pu'unene, Macawao, and Kula (Google a map). Just around the corner of the Haleakala volcano is Paia and Haiku. All of these towns' residents have a rivalry with each other, though I'm not sure why other than just to have something to talk about. Well, there are a couple of legitimate rivalries.... Wailuku hates Kahului because it became a sprawl town and took all Wailuku's business and jobs away. Kihei is a town with all the standard amenities, so it attracts white folk who like convenience (like me); and further down the highway past Kihei is Wailea, where all the rich white people with golf memberships live. The natives apparently had the foresight to decide that if they are going to be invaded by honkies, they should all be forced to reside in the desert.
Personally, I have a resentment against Wailuku because it's the county seat. When I went there to replace my "laminated" Social Security card, they made me take a number when I was the only person in the office. Seriously. I took a number, took one step, handed it to the receptionist and was called to the window. Screw them.

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"Okay", I thought....."I get that this is a predominantly Asian culture. But, seriously: what's with the rice???"
In the first stock-the-fridge trip to the grocery store, the rice selection caught my eye, and it was amusing at the time: stacks of 20-pound bags, and two flavors of Uncle Ben's about four small boxes deep. I should have seen that as a harbinger of things to come.
Here's the deal: you're going to eat white sticky rice. And you're going to like it.
On my birthday, we made a trip to Outback Steakhouse, and we were all excited about having a steak with that killer sweet potato on the side. But guess what? They DON'T SERVE the sweet potato! You will have white rice! At the Outback!!
I stopped for lunch at a grocery store deli counter...much to my surprise, there appeared to be some Southern fare for consumption! I ordered a lunch plate: a meat and two vegetables. Then this exchange happened with the little old Asian lady behind the counter:
"A lunch plate is a meat and two vegetables, right?"
"Yes"
"Okay, I'll have the stuffed cabbage..."
"You only get one!"
"Umm...right. And two vegetables, right?"
"Yes."
"Okay, I'll have the stuffed cabbage and..."
"You only get one!"
(eyes glaze over, bewilderment sets in)
"Does the cabbage have pork in it? I mean, is it a meat?"
"Yes"
"Okay, can I have two vegetables with it?"
"Yes"
"Okay....I'd like......a stuffed cabbage and..."
"But you only get one!"
( I hang my head. I ponder. I decide to try again. A different tactic.)
"Can I get some green beans?"
"Yes"
"Great! I'll have green beans and mashed potatoes with the stuffed cabbage!"
"Okay, but you only get one!"
(I'm at a loss. I still don't know what this means. Nevertheless, she opens the styrofoam container. I watch intently as she serves the green beans in the small corner compartment. Oh, yes. I'm getting green beans! Then she turns around...I can't see what's happening...she returns. I look. I blink. There's a mound of white rice in the other compartment!!)
"NO, No,no....I would like mashed potatoes! No rice!"
(She's puzzled, confused....she ponders. She reaches down with her spoon. She lifts out the white rice. She places it back down in the large entree compartment! My mind reels. I have no recourse but to giggle silently. She serves mashed potatoes in the small compartment. She asks if I want gravy. I say yes. She pours the gravy over the rice.)
"Do you want anything else?" she asks.
"Yes, the stuffed cabbage." (And an aspirin.)
"You only get one!" (Make that two aspirin.)
"One will be fine! Thanks!"
(She serves. I check out. $6.99 plus tax. I have ten minutes to return and eat.)

I started getting lunch across the street at a lunch plate store called Nagasako's, and that's just what it is: a lunch plate store. There's a deli hot foot display, a fountain and a cash register. After 3 visits, they figure me for a malihini (resident haole), and start increasing my serving sizes, complete with two mounds of white rice. Once I ordered macaroni salad, and was asked if I wanted gravy on it. I can only assume that Asians are taught in school that white people with southern accents like gravy, but weren't taught what gravy is served with.

But after much consideration, I have decided to surrender. I will do as the Romans do. I will embrace the rice. I will eat it with every meal. I may even go to the convenience mart on a whim and order a Spam Musubi (though probably not anytime soon). I will eat my rice plain if offered that way. I will smile, and be AS ONE with the rice. And the reason that I will do this is because I have magically gained 16 pounds since I have arrived....16 pounds that have eluded me for my entire life no matter how much I ate.

THAT'S what's with the rice.