|
How They Serve The Ham In Hawaii |
|||||
|
Thoughts
Without Boundaries Thoughts
of love & longing |
How they serve the ham in Hawaii is with special care. At the end of a long and loaded buffet, the steward holds the ham under an infra red cooker and slices as you ask for it. He gives it to you with a gracious smile. You try to balance the mountain of food on your plate and look for a table. Although its crowded, you can get a good seat close to the edge… that opens out on the beach. That way, you can see the water shimmering as the morning entices the sun-bathers onto the beach. They come in like children on a playground at break-time, excitedly gathering their kids, their umbrella’s, their towels and their holiday laziness. You work your way through the prunes and the Danish pastries so you can focus on the ham and eggs. You wonder about another glass of orange juice, but you’re suddenly distracted by the bikini floating about on the perimeter of your breezy consciousness.
As you finish breakfast and heave yourself onto the beach, you begin to understand why everything is served like the ham in Hawaii. With a wink and a smile. With the most mellifluous of cultures, with the most hospitable of traditions. So what if the sea is rocky and you can’t go in without bruising your feet. So what if the beach feels like rush hour. You speak to the man with the inflatable dinghies and he drawls you through the transaction and fixes the barbell that serves as an anchor. You drag the pleasure cruise out to the water and paddle your way out about a hundred meters. There, where the water is still only waist deep, you drop anchor. You’re the captain of your ship. No matter what she may say. The raft turns lazily on the water, the world turns into a microwave oven as you slowly bake, grill and simmer.
You spread suntan lotion over each other. More pressing matters of the ship take precedence. There appears to be too much sand in the raft, so you dip into the water where and swim around for a bit, so that the cool and excessively saline water adds flavour to your well done complexion. The sun arcs over and ponders its onward journey. The skyrise buildings begin to sway in the heat. The beer flows in the restaurants. The fruit cocktails take on the hues of a macaw. Like the one on the beach which you pay to get photographed with. The water scooters and the canoe folks are all back and lunch is very definitely on the agenda. Slow, deliberate and punctuated with rum and exotic fruit juices, lunch is lubricated by the voice of the crooner on the mike. He sweeps through the bars of “My Way” and “I’m All Shook Up”. He switches to a folk song. You can picture the hula dancers. But they don’t come on till the evening. When the lobby of the hotel looks like a picnic married to an airport.
You step out of the lift rubbing the six o’clock sleep out of your eyes and wonder which bar to grace. But you decide to sit on the beach for an hour or so. The blazing sky turns to black, the sea heaves in murky greenness and looks forebodingly dark and big. You sip your cocktail from sitting on the shore. You walk out on the pier to the edge of the land, and shiver at the sea all around. It’s unsettlingly overpoweringly ominously silent and potent.
You return to the karaoke bar and listen to the holiday folks take turns at cranking the ol’ voice box. You muster up courage and belt out Proud Mary. The DJ smiles at you and gives you the thums up. The room rocks. You rule. You sip your drink contentedly. The party goes on till the wee hours of the morning.
You hit the gym, feel that flab burn. Chase the sweat stream. Breakfast on your mind. But today there’s more. There’s the Crater. You join the ant-line of visitors to the high point of the Diamond Head Crater. The route is marked, and fenced. They give you a torch to negotiate the tunnel. There are maps and signposts on the 45 minute walk up. Nonetheless, it’s a good hard walk to the top. The panorama includes humungous amounts of sea, and then the quick accession from the beach to the skyrises to the cottages dotting the slopes to the hills that disappear into the low clouds. But it’s all in place. It’s organised and well presented. You wait your turn for the rock on which you get the best photos. You marvel at Yuri who comes up here and perches himself on a near unreachable point to do his daily exercises. You learn his name because you get good snaps of him which you think you could send him.
You climb down and sprint for the bus. You compare the bus with the sky trolley. The sky trolley is really a bus, but it’s like an open tram with lots of colours, brass and wood interiors, and a very festive character. The operator, a big man, possibly Jamaican, says it’s a fire hazard to stand on the steps, because anybody falls off, he gets fired. You observe the streets of Honolulu – it has the character of a birthday party. Everything has been taken care of by somebody else. Almost everybody is an invitee. The music never stops. The skyrises jostle with the quaint harbourside buildings. Contemporary scale versus old world character. Steel and concrete versus wood and glass. The schooners, the rigs and the motor launches queue up for attention. Silently and suddenly a tanker sails by, slicing the darkness with a breathtaking largeness and surprising stealth.
You dine on seafood, or steaks or Chinese or ribs and you dissipate yourself across the universe every now and then. You walk the tourist walk, and you do the quid pro quo photos with other couples who want photo’s taken together. You wander in and out of shops toying with temptation and tantalising yourself with fiscal temperance. You dress in your flowery best and smile at strangers. You indulge in bouts of mindless tomfoolery and inane conversations. You pose under traffic signs. You discuss philosophy and education. You talk about the Kama Sutra. You discuss economics and design fundamentals.
The time of departure draws near. You pack all your memories into your bag, and wander out onto the lobby for the last time. Look out onto the evening sun on the sea. Change back into real clothes, to tackle the San Francisco dawn temperature. Cousin Courtney comes to pick you up in his trademark red and yellow shirt and white van. He always calls you “youngsters” and refers to you as his “cousins”. He drives you to the Airport and plies you with any amount of conversation along the way.
Honolulu airport is like any other airport. But it’s a portal into a different kind of world. A world where everything is cut to size and appropriately garnished. Served with a smile. To be consumed at your own pace. With the tequila and the setting sun, or with orange juice and the morning laze. It’s delicately wild, and its daintily daring. And that’s how they Serve the Ham in Hawaii.
Nov 29, 2000
|
||||
|
|
|||||
