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...without Spam |
 A view of the Hawai'ian surf from the Kalalau trail |
We revisit the islands,
but now we're 'ohana'
By JOYCE KIEFER
of TheColumnists.com
As a Californian I must seem like some kind of recluse.
I’ve been to Hawai‘i just twice in my fairly long lifetime.
We just returned from the islands of O'ahu and Kaua'i. A friend
tells me she’s been to the various islands 25-30 times;
she’s lost count. Hawai'i is a favorite escape for Californians.
I know it seems like going from one paradise to another, but
the grass is always greener beyond the reef.
The first time we traveled there we went as tourists. This time
we went as ohana –a large extended family that in
Hawai'i usually includes a number of races and cultures. My husband
Bill’s nephew, Drew, was getting married at the Kualoa Ranch
on the east side of O'ahu. His bride’s Japanese side of
the family has been in Hawai'i for four generations; her mother–red-haired
Irish from New Orleans–moved to the islands when she got
married. Drew’s marriage wed Bill’s extended family
and I to this ohana, adding German, English and Spanish
to the mix.
Being “family” made a difference in our perspective
of this trip. Tourists are explorers at their best and demanding
consumers at their worst. But “family” makes you more
than an observer: It drops you into the middle of everyday life.
And so I noticed the little things that get you through a day
in polygot Hawai'i .
I went to the Safeway Supermarket and looked around. The refrigerator
section carried such island specialties as poke and lau
lau, packaged up to be easily tossed into the shopping cart.
What I never expected was to bump into a half dozen prominently
displayed pallets of Spam! The Safeway was making a special offer:
six cans for $9.96. Who on earth would buy six cans at a time,
I wondered.
The Honolulu Star-Bulletin gave me the answer in its front
page above-the fold feature “Spam label will give Hawai'i
its due”. Hawaiians consume Spam at the highest rate per
person of any other state. The 1.2 million population buys more
than 5 million cans per year. Essentially, the Safeway offered
a deal on a year’s allotment for one person. To take full
advantage of this sale, a large household would need to send
out one of those pickup trucks that rust away next to shacks
with corrugated iron roofs, tucked behind impossible tangles
of greenery.
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Hormel is giving Hawai'i its own “collector’s edition” Spam label, which features hula dolls and a picture and recipe for Spam Musabi. Banners along the road in Kaua'i advertised “The Great Spam Musabi” fund raiser sponsored by the Rotary Club. What everyone would eat is a chunk of rice pressed into the shape of a Spam can, topped with a slice of Spam fried or raw, and tied with a taro leaf.
Spam entered the Island diet when World War II sailors tossed cans of the stuff overboard and local children swam out to rescue it for dinner.
Thank heavens for shave ice. Hawai'i ’s delicious response to gelato must have been invented to wash away that salty taste and dog food texture.
Actually, many of the mixed breed dogs don’t see formal dog food. I was told that such poi dogs penned up in the hills of Kaua'i hunt down pigs for private luaus. In 1992 Hurricane Iniki devastated the island and loosed livestock that still runs wild. Someone will tell their owner to get them a pig. He will then starve the dogs a few days and send them into the hills. They corner the pig, perhaps get gored by the tusks, lick their wounds, and go off again when the next order comes.
No one needs to hunt down the wild chickens. They are underfoot everywhere, crowing at all hours. The owner of our bed and breakfast said that the eggs in our omelet didn’t come from the chickens that live in the jungle canyon in back of her place, because they roost in trees and the eggs usually drop down and smash as soon as they’re laid. You really can’t eat these tough birds unless you cook them in papaya juice.
“The Garden Island,” Kaua'i's daily newspaper, revealed quite a bit about the hang-loose island life in its birth announcement section, displayed prominently on the upper left hand side of Page Two. Most of the parents had different last names in the issue I read. The remaining parents were listed as “Mr. and Mrs.” with the maiden name of the Mrs. also provided. Even if the surnames weren’t native Hawai'ian, the children’s names certainly were–Elijah Kawiwo ‘ole Kaaumoana, Cailin ‘Anelamaikalani, Sapphire Wailea. Our B&B hostess explained. “Everyone honors their Hawaiian blood. The unmarried couples will stay together a long time. Usually their children will be raised by an aunty or tutu (grandmother)–you know, extended family. And it all works out.”
The Midwestern ethos of our Kiefer ohana suffered a jolt when it came to the issue of time. Raised in Iowa, the groom’s father made sure we arrived at the restaurant for a family dinner a half hour early. Of course no one else in our party was there. When Bill and I arrived 20 minutes early for our nephew’s wedding, we ran into the mother of the bride. She was still wearing her Capri pants and seemed only mildly flustered. She couldn’t find the box where she’d packed her outfit. Fifteen minutes after start time for the ceremony, there was still no wedding. The groom’s father looked anxiously at his watch. But a half hour or so afterwards, the mother of the bride strolled down the aisle, beautifully dressed head to toe, totally relaxed.
We were on island time.
At the reception the bride’s uncle raised a Bansai toast to the bride and groom and to the new ohana whose land, I realized, now includes the brooding pali of the islands, the rolling hills of California, the jagged “Fourteener’s” of the Rockies, and the plains of Iowa.
The buffet was strictly island food prepared by the caterer who fed the film crew of “Pearl Harbor.” The chicken was tender with no trace of papaya softener. The pork in the roast had no taste of feral pig. And there was no Spam anywhere.
©2003 by Joyce Kiefer.
The photos are ©2003 by the author.
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