Spirit of Aloha | Features | May/June 2007

Diversions
By: Christine Thomas

Waikīkī’s Central Market Place

PHOTO ABOVE: MARC SCHECHTER / PHOTO RESOURCE HAWAI‘I PHOTO: DARRELL ISHII

At the anxious age of 15, whenever one of my Kailua friends could borrow a parent’s car, we’d say we were going to the beach or the movies, but usually we’d steal across the Pali Highway to town so we could “cruise Waiks.” This was code for driving up and down Waikīkī, on Kalākaua and Kūhiō avenues, where we could bathe in the soft yellow lights and mottled crowds, reggae vibrating through the seats, then park our car along the Ala Wai Canal so we could strut the sidewalks of what then seemed like a very big city.

If we arrived in the daytime, we’d travel the concrete strips, refusing the strange men handing out tourist flyers, offended that they thought we were visitors who needed coupons for the Polynesian Cultural Center. We’d nervously peruse the laminated folders of tattoos at whichever parlor we happened upon, even though none of us ever sat for the needle. Because we were teenage girls, we’d look for boys, naturally, even if we were too shy to actually talk to them. At night, we might go to one of the three Waikīkī theaters—they’re all gone now—to see a new movie, eat popcorn with mochi crunch, then walk around looking at purveyors of the water trade, and, of course, look for boys.

Day or night, whenever we cruised Waiks, at some point we’d arrive near the balconies of the old Moana Hotel. Then we’d duck across the street and into the shadowy cavern of the In­ter­national Market Place.

Back then, if Waikīkī ap­peared huge, the Market Place was endless; it seemed we could easily get lost in it even though it stretched only one block mauka from the beach. And because we were teenagers, this was most of the fun. We would huddle to­gether like determined geese, then calculate how much we could spend and what bargains we could find. The darkened corners teemed with aggressive cart operators trying to sell us pareus and shell necklaces on the cheap, or hoping we’d choose a clamshell for the chance to win a tiny pearl. It was like a benign Las Vegas, another forbidden world, where we felt as though we were gambling un­der the secluded branches of a 100-year-old banyan tree. Though we couldn’t speak of it then, this was as far as we could travel from home and still be on our own—almost as if we were adults.

Back then, I didn’t know much about the Market Place’s history, certainly not that it was constructed in the 1950s on land that once belonged to Queen Em­ma, wife of King Kamehameha IV (its 4.5 acres are still managed by the Queen Emma Land Co.). Nor was I aware that there was once a vi­brant stream running beneath it, or of its tradition of Hawaiian mu­sic and en­tertainment, or its many bars and mai tais. I didn’t go there for souvenir magnets or co­conut bras (who ever wears them, anyway?), and really, I didn’t see it simply as a place for tour­ist knickknacks.

That’s because, in the early ’90s, we didn’t see Waikīkī as a place for tourists only, the way we do now. Back then, it was still a place where locals went—on purpose. My high school may have been on the east side of O‘ahu, but we al­ways had our proms at the Moana Hotel in Wai­kīkī and other functions on the ubiquitous tour boats that of­fered sunset cruises. My friends and family often went to Waikīkī to see new movies, too, even though they came to Hawai‘i six months after they were released on the Main­land. Often, we’d meet visiting family and friends and go to the beach, or just go out to dinner while the sun kissed the sea.

In my adulthood, the International Market Place has lost some of its old charm. I no longer cruise Waiks; finding a parking place is too hectic and I don’t like to pay. If I want entertainment, I go to the new hot spots that are popping up in Chinatown in downtown Honolulu. On a recent visit to the Market Place, the old maze of alleys and shops and carts felt more claustrophobic than exhilarating. I even found myself feeling older at the entrance, where crowds congregated around street entertainers, metallic living statues, drum kit rappers, jugglers, sax players and the traveling troupe of hangers-on that could have been in any big city. It seems now that the Market Place is simply a site where my visiting relatives want to go to buy things—a time, when announced, that I always make other plans.

Yet, it’s fascinating to me that, no matter how many times my aunts and uncles come back to Hawai‘i, they al­ways want to return to the Inter­na­tion­al Market Place. This is a Honolulu tradition that they love, and that I don’t un­derstand. Is it their peculiar taste? Many repeat visitors to the Market Place like to talk about the fun they’ve had and the bargains they’ve discovered (“Did that suitcase only cost $25?”). Even I have had to admit that there’s something warm and comforting in the notion that this relic of my past still stands amid the encroaching high-end retail stores and entertainment spots that now dominate Waikīkī.

The Pick a Pearl stand is still there, not far from Coach and Prada. T-shirts are still sold in bulk, although now they’re eight for $19.99, and they’re placed next to the trendy exercise shorts that have the word “Aloha” stamped across the ‘okole. While the Inter­na­tional Market Place always seemed to offer what my teenage budget could afford, today it remains an inexpensive oasis for visitors who have spent the bulk of their savings on flights and hotels, and still want to experience Hawaiian entertainment and food.

Fun­ny that for the past 50 years, while Waikīkī has changed be­yond recognition, the International Mar­ket Place, this landscape of memories for me, still looks and acts the same. If I were a visitor, I’d probably want to go, too.

CHRISTINE THOMAS reviews books for the San Francisco Chronicle, The Honolulu Advertiser and other publications. Visit her at literarylotus.blogspot.com.

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