WALKING STORIES
Star-Bulletin
Patrick Ching exercises his horse, Sunny, in Waimanalo.
Where suburbia meets
the countrysideThis is the third installment in the account of our journey on food around Oahu. Yesterday's trek went from Makapuu Beach Park to Kawainui Canal.
By Cynthia Oi
Star-Bulletin
Day 3: Makapuu to Kailua, 11.4 milesAT Makai Pier, Aaron and Cullen pack up their gear as the dawn edges gray clouds over Makapuu Point with a brilliant pink.
They've been fishing for papio since 6 a.m. but the rain dampens their enthusiasm for the spot they're trying for the first time. The two men, waiters at the Hawaii Prince Hotel, hope Maunalua Bay will be drier.
They drive off in Cullen's truck, the engine's rumble diminishing with distance. The sibilance of the waves fills the air, but only for a few seconds as the tires of hundreds of vehicles hiss over the wet asphalt.
Between Makapuu and Waimanalo, suburbia inches its way into the thin strip of land between the spine of the Koolaus and the ocean. Suburbanites here evacuate their neighborhoods for jobs in town.Not Rick, who is taking out the garbage. He works in telecommunications from his home near the former "Magnum, P.I." house on Kalanianaole Highway. His is a modest structure, one of a few left among the glass-and-concrete, dolphin-sculptured mini-mansions.
The contrast between a passing rural lifestyle and citification is strong in this area; on one side of the road are flashy houses, on the other is the Correa Ranch with its sheds, barns and horse corrals.
The shoreline appears hard-used. Under a hao tree near the pier, two wooden spools and a vinyl chair with rusty legs serve as a makeshift picnic spot. Bits of charcoal under a piece of wire fencing stretched over cinder blocks, evidence of recent barbeques.
Maybe Gary, Bonzo, Cabbage, Jeff, Dawon and Wayne hang out here. Their names, along with six others, are roughed into the concrete spread on boulders under the title "Bottom Hunters." And perhaps Myles was a friend who passed away; his name is on another boulder with "9-9-98" inscribed next to it.
Whoever spent time there left a mess: dozens of beer cans, paper, plastic, straws, cardboard cartons and hundreds of cigarette butts.
Farther down the road, a tangled rope, fishing nets, chicken wire and tires bar the narrow pathway.
By Ken Ige, Star-Bulletin
Harvey Hoopiaina sits in his wheelchair outside the
7-Eleven in Waimanalo, where he recalls fondly his time in prison.
These roads aren't made for walking -- or wheelchairs, says Harvey Hoopiaina. The ex-con sits in one outside a 7-Eleven in Waimanalo. An acquaintance he identifies only as "The Mexican" wheeled him down before sunrise. Now he's parked next to a trash can, calling out to people going into the store.Hoopiaina says he was in prison from 1962 to 1972. He was released briefly during those years, but committed a crime so he could go back to jail.
"I like prison life," he says. "Eat good, live good."
He's been in the wheelchair since he was hit by a car three years ago, "right there by the bus stop." He stops his story to call out "good morning" to a woman. Later, he asks her for "50 cents to buy coffee." She declines.
"Whoa, the cars today," he continues, unfazed. "I used to live Wahiawa -- too busy. Now this too busy, too. The cars, people."
Dale Conner would agree. He's at the bus stop on Kalanianaole near Humuniki Street. It is an odd bus stop. Instead of the usual shelter and bench, it is furnished with four molded plastic chairs bolted to a metal frame, the kind you see in waiting rooms and airports.
Conner says that soon after the bus stop was moved to this corner, the chairs magically appeared. He likes them.
"I can sit here and wait for the bus and look at the mountains," he says pointing to the Koolaus veiled with clouds.
Conner lived on Kapiolani Boulevard before moving to 'Nalo seven years ago. Now, he says, he hates to go to town.
"But town is coming here," he says. "Won't be long."
Still, remnants of country life remain, even near the Olomana Golf Course where Kalanianaole widens to four lanes.
Dozens of chickens crow in a ruckus of barnyard sounds. They pace small wire cages in a yard where a Hawaiian flag shades a mysterious plaque that reads "Our beloved father George D. Laczi, Sept. 30, 1986, Jan. 5, 1955."
Thoughts of a lost father linger as Olomana's peaks muscle their way into the cloudy sky. From the foot of the hills, the suburbs of Keolu Hills and Enchanted Lake swirl down to the sea.
It is difficult to find the distinctive character of these neighborhoods. However, the residents aren't without it.
Dayton ("like in Ohio," he says) clutches a net as he peers into the water of Ka'elepulu Stream. He grunts with disdain at the schools of tilapia.
"I don't like them. I looking for papio or barracuda," he says. When asked what he does with the fish, he looks confused. "Eat 'em," he replies gruffly. "Me and my grandma -- we eat 'em."
As Enchanted Lake gives way to older sections of Kailua, homes shun the cookie-cutter image.
There, an elderly man on a ladder in front of a well-tended bungalow puts the finishing touches on his Christmas decorations. He plugs in the lights, and even at midday, it is glorious. He smiles with pride. "New ones this year," he says.
