Livin' la Vida Aloha in Honolulu
The key living the good life in Hawaii? Tap into some ‘aloha’ to find out.
People don’t honk in Hawaii. Nor do they speed. Driving down Honolulu’s “congested” main highway, H-1, I quickly learned that my New York disposition was completely out of place. If my pale, ready-to-be-singed-by-the-sun skin didn’t completely give me away as a non-islander, then the fact that I was driving 59 miles per hour—four miles above the speed limit—and passing cars like I was on the Autobahn, did. This was my first time in Hawaii and, to be honest, I wasn’t sure if I’d like it. Images of overweight Midwestern tourists in thongs flashed through my mind. So did the late Don Ho, prefabricated beachside hotels, and people wearing muumuus. Then, minutes later, after arriving at a friend’s house on the island-state’s capital, I learned about “living aloha.”
When you arrive in Hawaii, someone inevitably greets you with “aloha,” a term that every American knows, whether they’ve set foot on Hawaiian soil or just watched too many episodes of Hawaii 5-0. It turns out, though, “aloha” is more than a mere greeting. In addition to functioning as “hello” and “goodbye,” as well as “I love you,” aloha is a state of mind. You might be old enough to remember the hospitality guests received on Fantasy Island. “Smiles everyone, smiles,” Mr. Rourke would say, his plane-spotting sidekick, Tattoo, glued to his side, as guests were just arriving. That’s aloha.
“It’s about being in harmony with yourself and with others around you,” my local friend told me. “Aloha is a spiritual way of life here.”
In 1776, English explorer Captain James Cook docked in Hawaii during the exact time the islanders were expecting the god of the harvest, Lonoikamakahiki (say that five times fast and out loud and you’ll turn into a crab). The Englishman was shown major aloha, the island’s chief even offering up his own daughter for Cook to have his way with. But when a scuffle ensued and Cook started bleeding—thus revealing he was no god, after all—the native Hawaiians bludgeoned him to death. Not very aloha.
On Oahu, one of the smallest, yet most populated of the seven islands, I drove aimlessly through Honolulu’s streets hoping to receive some good aloha from the locals. I found it in the form of the “shaka.” This gesture, made by forming a fist and leaving the thumb and pinky finger erect, has been appropriated all over the place now. People comeback from Costa Rica, for example, much more annoying than when they left, screaming “Pura vida, bro” and flashing the shaka hand sign at anyone within sight. California surfers, and the people who love them, brandish the shaka in an attempt to show that they are particularly stoked. But in Hawaii, the shaka is taken more seriously. I drove by a rotund man sitting on a bus stop bench and randomly flashed him the shaka—just to try it out—and without pausing, he raised his shaka above his head like a sluggish yet victorious boxer. I am still not sure if I was saying “hello,” “goodbye,” “I love you,” or something else entirely. It didn’t matter; I was in business.
On the mountainous Round Tree Drive, where the sky and sun give way to rainforests, I rolled into Puu Ualakaa State Park. From here, I could see Honolulu stretch from the massive crater at Diamond Head beach to Pearl Harbor. In between was the sprawl of boxy, high-rise, matchstick hotels and apartment buildings. On the way down, twisting and turning through patches of rain and sunshine, a 20-something man on a scooter flashed me the shaka as we passed each other. Nervous, as a first time shaka reciprocator, I stuck out my hand and … gave him the heavy metal devil sign instead. Clearly, I’m not yet practicing at a higher level of “aloha” than I’d hoped for.
The next day I woke up determined to give some proper aloha back to the people of Oahu. I visited the dumpy (now closed) Kam Super Swap Meet in West Honolulu near Pearl Harbor. As far as I could see, most people come here to buy reasonably priced fresh fish. Few seemed to care about the endless aisles of junk for sale. Under a shaded area near the snack bar, a few locals slumped over picnic tables, beaten down by the heat. A karaoke machine played instrumental music and a microphone lay unloved on a nearby table.
That is, until I grabbed the mic. It was time to give some aloha back to the Hawaiians in my own special way. “Let’s get this party started,” I belted into the mic, jarring all of the picnic-table-residing men out of their heat-induced slumber. As the opening riffs of Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” played out through the snack bar area, I screamed: “Where’s the aloha in this flea market today?”
“Tommy used to work on the docks,” I crooned, as people began to gather around the snack bar to marvel at this display of aloha taking place. “Union men on strike, he’s down on his luck, it’s tough. So tough ...” By the time I reached the infectious chorus—“Oh, we’re halfway there. Whoa-oh, livin’ on a prayer. Take my hand, we’ll make it I swear. Whoa-oh, livin’ on a prayer”—more people gathered and many began singing along with me. The guys who originally had the life zapped out of them by the sun were even clapping along. Some were fist pumping, their hands in the form of the shaka. It was like a real-life version of a rock video trope.
When the song ended, I said, “Thank you, Hawaii. I’m here all week.” I put the mic down and headed to the concession stand to quench my vocal chords. The woman who worked there gave me a free soda because she liked my performance. I was already getting a neat return on my aloha. I flashed her the shaka and she did it back to me.
A few days later while “speeding” past cars on the H-1—I know, I should have learned by now, but I was late for my flight home—I realized that my initial impression of Hawaii wasn’t completely wrong. I mean, it’s really difficult to take anyone seriously in a muumuu, right? But Hawaii isn’t so bad after all. Where else can you sing Bon Jovi songs at a swap meet snack bar (and get a healthy ovation), dress like an extra in a Jimmy Buffet video (without being pointed at, mocked, and laughed at) and—as I did on the way to the airport—get pulled over for driving five miles above the speed limit (and not get a ticket)?
Now that’s aloha.