Monday, April 23, 2007

Kama'aina...

A Hawaiian word that means native-born; host; native plant; child of the land...

The word “kama’aina” may mean what it says in the Hawaiian dictionary, but today’s reality is that a local driver’s license is enough proof to get you the kama’aina rate at hotels, car-rental services and many other places. So, if I am kama’aina there, how come I’m not kama’aina in the eyes of local people? Except maybe when one gets to know me and declares at one point, “Eh brah, you okay, you know. You kama’aina!” It’s hardly a moment to schlep the dictionary into the brotherly conversation and look up the true meaning. So, kama’aina may more than anything mean a state of mind, a sense of belonging and acceptance of Hawaii and its people, and to that notion I subscribe wholeheartedly. As a transplant from another place—northern Europe in my case—it’s nice to feel you have become part of your new land of choice. Or rather, island in the case of Hawaii.
For me that moment came when I left Hawaii after many years of domicile because I was hired as an art director for a Dallas paper. Not a moment too soon. The price of the paper my bank statement was printed on had approached the combined worth of the checking and savings accounts listed on it.
Hawaii was going through an economic downturn and the Mainland had become a beckoning refuge with jobs available, affordable rents, and living expenses way below Hawaii’s.
So I exchanged the Hawaiian winter for the Texas winter. Bad as that was, the difference was so extreme, anyone would have accepted me lamenting my new climate. However, when the summer came around it proved even more difficult to accept my new home state. Especially, when the job evaporated when a new editor was hired who insisted on bringing in her own art director.
Once jobless, things quickly took a turn not dissimilar from the situation I had faced in Hawaii and one day I found myself staring at the flat Texas landscape washing in colorless light by a blaring sun perched on a silvery cloud. Was this a landscape I wanted to stare at in the future?
I wanted to be back home—not in Europe, but in Hawaii. But how? Soon I would not even have money to buy food. For several months I lived hand to mouth on a few meager freelance jobs that came my way. I felt displaced and for the first time since arriving in the United States I felt like a decidedly non-resident alien.

Every evening the same Mexican came knocking on my door, selling fresh hot tamales from a cooler. Challenged by my lack of finances I tried to make the best of the situation, conveniently deciding it was a good time to shed some weight—by way of starvation. It wasn’t easy, though. All day long I smelled home cooking, pumped out of surrounding apartments by slaving air conditioners. At night barbecue parties spilled out of the front doors to underneath the corrugated metal roofs of still sweltering parking stalls. From my balcony I watched Mexican and African-American neighbors wave their chicken wings at me. Or was I already hallucinating? I had lost eleven pounds. I began to regret throwing out pants that had become too tight. Finally overpowered by hunger I’d drive up to the Taco Bueno window and order the Taco Platter: guacamole, risotto, shredded lettuce, sour cream, refried beans, and two chicken tacos—everything in minuscule quantities, yet the most wholesome variety $3.89 could buy.
Then came the day I had just enough money to leave.

As the DC-10 began its descent, I leaned closer to the window. It had been a while since I had seen land so green and luscious. Gliding past the coast, the miniature pop-up world glistening in the noontime sun, a kid in the next row over recognized the landmarks and began calling them out excitedly: “Diamond Head! Ala Moana! Aloha Tower! Pearl Harbor! Honolulu Airport!”
I quietly shared his excitement, absorbing the progressively more detailed scenery of strewn litter turning into neighborhoods, of beetles turning into cars. My lingering agony about the future began to ease, and hope that perhaps this time around everything would be less cataclysmic began to fill me.

With the trade wind blowing through my shirt, I watched Honolulu slide by, sitting next to my chattering pick up party in his vintage ‘58 Chevy BelAir. Honolulu never looked better. Except maybe the first time I arrived. It was beyond me how I could no longer appreciate the pastel colored storefronts; the waving palm trees; and the smell of big white Gardenias. I had come home and it was good.
My friend had grayed much since I'd last seen him. Nine months now seemed like years.
“Nice to have you back,” he had grinned. “No idea how you could survive in that fucking Texas. Not after living here!”
“I guess you have to leave Hawaii to realize it’s paradise after all,” I answered with a smile.
"Like a marriage," he mumbled.
We swung into downtown where office buildings just spewed hordes of secretaries.
“Pretty Asian girls everywhere,” remarked my friend, following my gaze. “Have you missed them?”
Then, with a drum roll on the steering wheel he bypassed my answer.

On Kaimana Beach people watching comes naturally. Twenty feet to my left a man with a body like a gym bag full of dumbbells rigidly installs himself on a towel. In front of me, silhouetted by the low sun, a curvaceous Asian girl in yellow bikini emerges from the sea, carrying an orange air mattress whose reflection sets her skin afire. As she rinses her toy in the shower little rainbows dance around her like elves revealing themselves to whoever believes in them. Near the lifeguard tower stands Patrick, E.R. nurse and sunset surfer who only wears shorts sewn by his mom in Miami. Behind him maneuver distant sail boats and dinner cruise ships, positioning themselves for another perfect sunset. I close my eyes and lean back on my towel, inhaling the mouth-watering scent of keawe wood firing up the barbecues of families gathering on the grass behind the beach. Someone’s soothing flute playing completes the allegory of my senses.
There’s no place like home for a kama’aina.

©2004 Rudolf Helder

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