Spirit of Aloha | Features | July/August 2007

Mo’ Betta’ Waikīkī
By Thelma Chang


The place has changed; the ghosts remain

The Last Laugh I wonder: How long has it been since musician-comic-raconteur Sterling Moss­man entertained at the Barefoot Bar in the Queen’s Surf Restaurant, bringing his diverse audience to its knees with his risqué jokes and antics? “The missionaries took my land—they got the last laugh,” the part-Hawaiian Moss­man would joke in his edgy pidgin style.

Near where Mossman performed was a tiny, almost private beach, and that’s where my friends and I would swim to our hearts’ content and where I nearly drowned one afternoon. Now, the buildings are gone, Mossman is gone, but the ghosts remain, adjacent to the Waikīkī Aquarium.

Over to Waikıīkī

Back then, we made the trek from Kaimukī to Waikīkī Beach through Ka­pa­hulu—Kaimukī and Kapahulu were modest neighborhoods of local working families—and we did so on a narrow roadway that has since become a multilane avenue. On this journey we always passed Lemon Road, which was named after an 1800s Frenchman and a developer named James Lemon. Lemon Road was short and was dotted with small houses that passed through what was known as a rough-and-tumble neighborhood. On our way home, we’d make a quick detour up Kalākaua Avenue. That was Waikīkī. We were drawn to the area like Alice in Won­derland.

Mo’ Betta’

Friendly lei vendors graced Kalākaua Avenue. They wore colorful mu‘umu‘u and warm smiles. Their stands were fragrant places, rich with flowers of every hue. Sweet smells of plumeria, pīkake, ginger, carnations and or­chids filled the air. Some of the lei ladies came from our neighborhoods. To us, they were “aunties.” One was a Hawai­ian woman whose face radiated the warmth of the sun. She used to call me “bright eyes.” Occasionally, she’d give me a sweet-smelling plumeria lei to wear home.

One afternoon, she must have sensed the sadness in my heart. This had started a few days earlier when I learned my dog, Sambo, had been given away. A year before, I had found the skinny, aban­doned part-German Shepherd pup­py in some bushes. I took her home, struggled to keep her, used my lunch money to buy her dog food and nourished her to joyful plumpness.

On this day, I moped behind my friends. Aunty beckoned, her warmth pal­pable. “Come, come, bright eyes,” she said, “Here one lei, mo’ betta’, you take home, otherwise make—goin’ die.”

I took the lei. It was the most magnificent garland I had ever worn, a thick pīkake lei of many strands and pure sweetness, which I would soak with tears that evening. I missed Sambo; I still do.

Black Velvet

Our Waikīkī excursions were mostly a breeze. We joined the throngs. Many kama‘āina, longtime residents, frequented the beach or the affordable eateries, such as the Waikīkī Sands or P.Y. Chong’s, where chances were great that they’d meet their friends. Traffic and parking were not problems.

Strolling by fortunetellers, we used to chuckle. They’d at­tempt to lure us into their small shops, complete with tables, crystal balls and flowered curtains. I was particularly fascinated by a stand selling Leeteg of Tahiti black-velvet paintings of nubile Tahitian women. Who buys velvet paintings? I always wondered.

Edgar Leeteg’s paintings are now famous, in their own way. Today, there is a new appreciation for his exotica. Head for the Internet and read stories about him, some of which compare him to Paul Gauguin. He’s also been called kitsch and The Father of Modern Velvet Painting.

Leeteg, the reputed boozer-vagabond and tortured artist with the roving eyes, gets the last chuckle.

To this day, I wonder: Who buys velvet paintings?

Dressing Up

Dressing up was fun when we attended fancy places in Waikīkī. We called them our “stuck-up clothes.” My mother was able to whip up sundresses for me at the drop of a thimble, complete with piping, fabric-covered buttons and belts and inner hems polished off with lace. She was my own Vera Wang. She could look at a picture or window display and, with her nimble, overworked hands, sew the most complicated outfits straight out of Vogue.

My girlfriends oohed and aahed at my dresses. They were under the im­pression I was a spoiled rich kid with a long ponytail.

I wasn’t. My mother’s talent created treasures beyond price.

Escape

All dressed up, we would head for the gorgeous Waikīkī Theatre on Kalākaua Avenue. This was the heart of Wai­kīkī. It was a place of escape for those of us who grew up in Honolulu during the ’50s and ’60s, when Doris Day and Mar­lon Brando movies reigned.

An elegant curved staircase led moviegoers to the art deco theater, where a greeter welcomed you at the lobby. There were usherettes and hand-painted murals. I relished the lush tropical setting of plants, monkeys, banana and coconut trees that decorated the walls on each side of the theater. A rainbow and palm trees framed the movie screen.

A well-dressed man played live music on a pipe organ. The rich organ sounds filled the dark, cavernous space, allowing us to close our eyes for a moment or gaze upward at the spectacular ceiling of twinkling stars and clouds. You could see this in Hawai‘i long before Caesar’s Pa­l­ace in Las Vegas cov­ered its vast shopping complex with fake clouds and fake sky.

We would rudely interrupt the romantic mood of the place by crackling open our cellophane bags of dried squid and scallops, which would release an intense aroma across several rows of movie­goers who did not appreciate lo­cal snacks. You could say we often cleared the area.

The Waikīkī Theatre is gone. The usherettes and the organ player are history. The replacement is a shopping-restaurant complex that offers pizza, shoes and other consumer goods.

Private Beach

Sometimes, my friends and I would pack lunches of Spam sandwiches and cans of Vienna sausage and visit our tiny “private” beach. On these trips, I would wear my mother’s swimsuit creation of shorts and a halter top. At a time when Brigitte Bardot was making the bikini famous, I seemed almost over­dressed.

While my friends sunned themselves on shore, I went to swim. I would float on my back, close my eyes, feel the sun, and enjoy the moment. Once, as I swam away, I felt my body tugged firmly in a downward motion. I struggled and yell­ed for attention, but nobody noticed. I was on my own.

I remember lapsing into a moment of inevitability—the naiveté of youth, the concept of death not fully understood. Then I stopped my struggle and relaxed. I was all right. I could see daylight. I started to drift to­ward shore, and to safety.

Back at the beach, in the pleasure of our privacy, we dined on our haute cuisine: Spam, sausages and Red Eye, a soft drink of Coca-Cola mixed with cherry juice.

Sometimes, I think about this day and its personal truths: That life is serendipitous, a crap shoot for all creatures great and small; that repercussions from youth­ful events can haunt you for a lifetime; that ponytails can float.

Honoring My Roots

I decided to be a stewardess. A stewardess in the ’70s became a flight attendant in the ’90s. I interviewed for my first stewardess job at the Hyatt Re­gen­cy, which now stands on the site of the old Waikīkī Biltmore Hotel. I was interviewed by a woman with blonde hair and dark roots. She said, “You don’t have the Doris Day look, you’re not blonde enough.”

I thought: “Hey, me, a blonde? And who are you to talk?” Then I walked out.

Today, Asians with blonde or multicolored hair are no big deal.

The airline that turned me down disappeared in the ’80s.

You Speak English?

The airline that hired me took me to different worlds. Waikīkī seemed far away. Barely 20 years old and among the first Asian-American stewardesses, my flying adventures were usually friend­ly, often bizarre, and sometimes irritating.

“You live in a grass hut?”

“You speak English?”

In my funkiest moods, I would reply, “No speakeee, no talkeee.”

Layover

When I took advantage of my airline’s military contract flights to South­east Asia, including Vietnam, at the height of the war, Hawai‘i was always a welcome stopover. Wai­kīkī was a special layover place for the crew and a place of rest for fortunate soldiers.

When we touched down at Honolulu’s air­port and the doors opened, the fresh fragrance of flowers would waft through the cabin.

“Hawai‘i always smells so sweet,” my Swedish colleague, Gunnel, would say.

We were usually comparing the smells of places like Danang, Bien Hoa and Saigon with Hawai‘i. The contrast was stark, the different realities startling.

In Honolulu, we would sleep for 12 hours, and then we’d head for Waikīkī. One weekend, we were invited to hear Three Dog Night in concert. “Oy to the World,” sang Gunnel, in her accent.

One afternoon, I took Gunnel to see the art sold by venders along the fences by the Honolulu Zoo. We walked and walked and I looked for special velvet memories, but my private beach had disappeared, and so had the lei ladies and the Leeteg stand.

Brando

I always wonder if Marlon Brando ever bought a Leeteg. He frequently flew from Los Angeles to his private Tahitian island paradise via Honolulu, and once, in the 1970s, he was on one of my working flights—in economy class.

A superstar in economy class? There was Brando, young, gorgeous, trim, strapped and trapped.

He was unspoiled and undemanding. He only asked for a cup of black coffee, and then he fell asleep.

For five hours I pretended he was mine.

Change

Waikīkī, like Brando, changed drastically over the years. There were more tourists and fewer locals like me walking along Kalākaua Avenue. The Interna­tion­al Mar­ket Place was busy. It had a feeling of spaciousness in the ’70s, with its old banyan tree as a strong centerpiece. At the top of the tree was a res­taurant and a studio, from which a popular Hawai‘i disc jockey broadcast his morn­ing show from lofty heights. You could watch and hum along.

Remembering Waikīkī

For old time’s sake, not so long ago, I wandered back to Waikīkī with an old buddy named Kathleen. We hadn’t visited the crowded alleys and streets of the beachside oasis for ages. We were looking for the lost.

“There’s another ABC Store,” said Kathleen.

The indescribable discount store, with resort prices, seemed to be at al­most every corner. Each one shared the area’s pricey space with visitors, cars, trucks, street hawkers, tattoo parlors, noodle shops, corner cafés, giant retailers and designer shops like Prada and Louis Vuit­ton. No lei ladies here, I thought.

But there was a fortuneteller, a high-tech version, with a bald head and a tattooed, sculpted body. He carried a sign that said, “Ask me anything. Truth. Life. Love.”

A mime in silver paint moved only when money was dropped in his pot. A juggler manipulated several balls. An ar­tist did a charcoal drawing of a woman. Nearby, a brown gorilla was setting up shop. “Hiya, gorilla,” said a 5-year-old boy. The gorilla flashed the mysterious Hawai‘i shaka sign.

Shoulder-to-shoulder crowds. Glitter­ing stalls. Key chains. Designer bags. Picture frames. Hula girl lamps. Samu­rai swords. Tahitian dolls dancing to “Pear­ly Shells.” Noodle snacks. The sound of Brother Iz’s “Over the Rainbow.”

I thought: Progress is best understood when gains are measured against what is lost

I thought: The lei ladies are gone. Long live the new Waikīkī.

THELMA CHANG is the author of Hale­külani: A Gracious History and I Can Never Forget: Men of the 100th/442nd.

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