At the horizon, the water is a ribbon of the darkest blue; closer
in
it sweeps to a brilliant turquoise and whitecaps at the last moment to
punch against the rocky shore. Here and there the spray plumes into
the air, or wrestles through holes in the rock, or pools up in jagged
baths to await high tide. Beyond the water's reach, a narrow swath of
parched grass and ground too hard packed for tent stakes. Finally a
highway and its steady stream of traffic and white noise, a sewage
treatment plant, and more parched grass on the brown mountains that crowd Oahu's west coast.
Its an unlikely spot for a campsite, let alone one that costs $20 a
day; but much of this side of the island is unlikely. The Nepali coast
of Kuaie [sp] is one of the rainiest places on Earth, but here it is
only green when the trade winds shift to bring winter rains. Most days the wind here just wafts the smell of shit.
The people I've met are surprised I would come to the west side and
shocked that I would travel alone. They insisted I share the campspot, but asked I move my tent; they travel in packs here. Five giant Coleman tents, a canopy to hide from the noonday sun, tables, chairs, lights, music, coolers of beer and trays of food, hordes of playful children and enormous adults. This Labor Day is all about family (and drinking once the little ones are put to bed), and I have the fortune to be an awkward extension of that family for a few days. Though we share little in common, the warm attitudes are genuine. This is Aloha, a sentiment of respect that grows strong here in the self-described "ghetto of Hawaii", but one I've run into time and time again over the past two months.
A friend in need is a friend indeed, but a stranger in need is a
friend waiting to be made. It often takes more courage than effort to
help someone far from home; let us all be a little braver.
it sweeps to a brilliant turquoise and whitecaps at the last moment to
punch against the rocky shore. Here and there the spray plumes into
the air, or wrestles through holes in the rock, or pools up in jagged
baths to await high tide. Beyond the water's reach, a narrow swath of
parched grass and ground too hard packed for tent stakes. Finally a
highway and its steady stream of traffic and white noise, a sewage
treatment plant, and more parched grass on the brown mountains that crowd Oahu's west coast.
Its an unlikely spot for a campsite, let alone one that costs $20 a
day; but much of this side of the island is unlikely. The Nepali coast
of Kuaie [sp] is one of the rainiest places on Earth, but here it is
only green when the trade winds shift to bring winter rains. Most days the wind here just wafts the smell of shit.
The people I've met are surprised I would come to the west side and
shocked that I would travel alone. They insisted I share the campspot, but asked I move my tent; they travel in packs here. Five giant Coleman tents, a canopy to hide from the noonday sun, tables, chairs, lights, music, coolers of beer and trays of food, hordes of playful children and enormous adults. This Labor Day is all about family (and drinking once the little ones are put to bed), and I have the fortune to be an awkward extension of that family for a few days. Though we share little in common, the warm attitudes are genuine. This is Aloha, a sentiment of respect that grows strong here in the self-described "ghetto of Hawaii", but one I've run into time and time again over the past two months.
A friend in need is a friend indeed, but a stranger in need is a
friend waiting to be made. It often takes more courage than effort to
help someone far from home; let us all be a little braver.
