Irving,
TX – Curtis Kaloi is a dahkine police, a working man from the big
island of Hawaii, with kin folks from all through the archipelago.
He makes
his case with tones of wonder. “Did you hear about Lanai?”
Waiting for effect, he says, “Huh?”
One
conjures up images of the little island, clouds and mist enveloping
its steep green slopes, a mountain top protruding from the Pacific,
half forgotten, never visited.
“Some
billionaire bought it. Just bought it. How do you do that? Huh? How
can that be possible?”
But
there is new hope for his people, he explains.
“We
are registering, just like the Native Americans.”
Just
like the tribes of North America, the polynesians are poised to claim
tribal rights not covered by the treaties with the monarchs made by
diplomats from across the waters, men in striped pants with fancy
ties and funny ways.
It's
true, the Kau Inoa movement is purposeful and directed toward a
remembrance of those who came so long ago in outrigger canoes with
lateen sails, from places in paradise that time forgot. Polynesia.
Islands of refuge, plenty. Hope. Respite from the vastness all
around, the sky above the ocean below, and below its surface, a world
unknown, largely unexplored.
Will
there be gambling, like Oklahoma? New York? Washington State?
“I
hope so,” he says, a dream in his eyes.
One
conjures up images of unknown worlds, spotted from the air, from car
windows speeding past on ribbons of concrete and paths of macadam,
tin huts, coconut palms, free range chickens, kids playing in the
surf, women standing, poised on one foot, the other pointing toward
their interlocutor, locked deep in gossip, a child on their hips,
another tugging at the skirt of their garment. One thinks of row upon
row of hotels and condos owned by foreign investors, their coffers
offshore, their income sheltered, untouched by taxes.
It's not
too late, one says. Ever. Never.
So, the
operative question is, what do those local boys think about Captain
Cook – and company?
“Well,
you know, those local boys don't much like haoles, anyhow.” The
look of scorn recedes quickly, leaves the muscle tension around his
eyes, when the roast beef says, “I ain't no haole, man. Not me.
Sailor man.” Pointing to my chest.
Laughter,
all around.
And, then, back to the drill - Urban Shield - a slaughter of innocents in a school for little kids - a place of carnage, of blood and torn flesh caused by the bullets of some mad man bent on the destruction of human life.
Conflict. Terror.
In laughter, roast beef and local boy come away from the conversation with a single dream of no more bad days, a good life built on chance. Fortune.