Travel
101, going on 29
by Diana Balham
“Welcome to Waikiki. Hey! Who’s your surgeon?”
In Honolulu, the biggest compliment anyone can pay you is to say how young you look. They all want you to guess their age. The curiously androgynous hotel manager – who says he is psychic but doesn’t notice that I am six months’ pregnant – has fine Hawaiian features that he can’t move. He is delighted to tell me that he is 61, not the fortysomething I politely suggest.
The 28-year-old dude on Waikiki Beach is attempting to throw a football to his mate. He’s drunk around noon and flings himself down on the sand between my female friend and me. He says we are 12 and 13, but, when we don’t look grateful, weaves off down the beach to underestimate some other people .
Lilé and Bill, an older couple, insist on joining us at the Royal Hawaiian hotel, where singer Augie Rey pulls in crowds of Botoxed moths from the mainland to shake fruit maracas and dance. Rey’s lounge-lizard shtick brings Lilé and her almost silent husband to the Mai Tai Bar every Sunday afternoon. “How old do you think I am?” she asks, predictably. I gaze at her old-goldiness: satin halter top, pants, shiny shoes, abundance of gold jewellery and unlined, but heavily made-up face. “Sixty-three,” I offer. “I’m 81!” she announces triumphantly, as if she has just cured cancer. “And Bill, here, is 78. Do you want to know how to stay young? Marry a younger man.”
Helen Sinclair wins the first prize, but her story is rather sad. She is nestled in her little shop at the Royal Hawaiian, completely surrounded by bling. Every item glitters with rhinestones, crystals, beads or glass – and the few that don’t are made of fur. Chandeliers flash and sparkle, photo frames and jewellery, lamps, dolls and sequinned bags, clocks, watches and things with no apparent function are crammed into the warm, pink space, which is like a very expensive womb. No coincidence, I think. Helen, a native of Vancouver, tells us she was one of nine poor kids with a very bad father. She swore that when she got out of Canada, she would surround herself with beautiful things. She has been standing – in sparkly high heels – behind her counter since 1987: a light-reflecting marvel in a gauzy dress, faux jewels and a mauve picture hat. Lilé tells us later that Helen is in her nineties.
Waikiki – the flashy heart of Honolulu – is a strange town. “Snowbirds” from the colder reaches of the US beat a path to its beaches in winter and spring. Most are white, well-upholstered and quick to tell you their life stories. Many local vehicles sport the yellow ribbon “Support Our Troops” stickers on their SUVs. Shopping centres that nudge the sky-scraping hotels nearly into the sea are neatly divided into designer-label chic and markets full of tourist tat. In a $2 Shop-style bargain mart that sells souvenir hula girls, fake pets and plastic dog turds I’m surprised to find a whole wall of subversive fridge magnets: “Republicans Are People Too. Mean, Selfish, Greedy People”; “Can You Impeach Someone Who Was Never Elected in the First Place?”; “George W – Making the World Safe for Frat Boys”; “Oh Well, I Wasn’t Using my Civil Liberties Anyway”. And some pot shots at Dubya’s Main Man: “I’ve Found Jesus. He Was Behind the Sofa All the Time” and “Jesus Is Coming. Look Busy”.
You can turn a buck selling anything around here. A couple of hustlers with parrots attach their birds to onlookers and take photos for money. The birds look practically comatose, but the men have purple scars all over their hands.
Down on the sand, beachcombers pick their way through the crowds, doing an odd, side-to-side dance with metal detectors. With so many wealthy tourists in the water, they could make a good living from lost jewellery and gold teeth.
But Waikiki is not just about money and eternal youth. It’s also got quick-fix fun. When you have tired of buying stuff, eating, swimming or surfing the “beginners’ slopes”, there is always the outrigger canoe experience. We sign on for a ride and meet some genuine Hawaiians – local folk who live around here and maintain a certain dignity while the blow-ins try to attract attention on the beach. Veronica tells us that she and her family live on land leased to them under the “Native Hawaiian” scheme. The plot is tiny, “but we don’t get much of anything”, she says. Ted, a tall, brown tree-trunk of a man, raced outriggers for more than 30 years. He is in handsome, fighting form and admits to being 57. This time, we really can’t believe it. Somewhat naively, we ask Ted if he knew Duke Kahanamoku, Hawaiian surfing legend and Olympic swimming gold medallist. Ted says that his mum introduced Duke to Nadine, Duke’s future wife. “He was totally humble, totally good,” Ted says.
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